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-Six

Sacrament

Gunn eyed the lobby door wearily. While nothing of consequence could be seen, it still bordered on eerie that nothing had perturbed her sanctuary in the time she spent to herself. As though the ghostlike aura that she had established for herself had spread through the Hyperion to the point of affecting its residents. It was disturbing, and he didn’t like it. The weight of Angel Investigations handed over to one so thoroughly unrelated to them, at least on usual terms.

Right now, though, everything was a go.

He turned to Cordelia, who was hunched over the counter, absently flipping through a magazine and arched his brows. “How long has she been out there?”

“Just short of two hours,” the Seer replied, not looking up.

“Doing…what?”

“Coming to terms.”

Gunn turned to Cordelia fully, flashes of irritation sweeping his face at her casual acceptance. “And, what? We’re supposed to not talk to her? Not approach? After what we went through to get her back?”

“You oughta know out of all people that what she’s going through demands privacy.” The brunette closed her magazine with a sigh and pivoted so that she could lift herself atop the reception desk. “Trust me, compared to the wig fest I was expecting and—to be completely honest—still am, we’re getting the blunt edge of the sword.”

There was no mistaking the undertones in that observation. “She’s gonna take it out on Spike, then?”

“For his sake, I hope not.”

“But you don’t think so?”

Cordelia shrugged. “I don’t know, Gunn. I don’t know what to expect. I know what I would have expected from Buffy, but she hasn’t…she’s just been out there. Not doing anything. And yeah, kinda creepy, but think about it. She knows Spike loves her. I mean, if she doesn’t by now, she’s dumber than a rock.”

“No argument there.”

“But she’s also what she hates the most. Her entire existence has been turned upside down.” A sigh rumbled through her body. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to expect of her anymore. I just…I can’t see anything.”

“Whoa. We are in trouble.”

The brunette shot him a nasty smirk. “Aren’t you going somewhere?”

Gunn nodded, pulling back a bit. “Just waiting for the boss man,” he retorted. “Wes and I are hittin’ Caritas and the usual hangs to dig up the skinny on that girl you saw in your vision.”

“You already checked the library?”

“No one fittin’ her description has worked there for years.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes in aggravation. “Of course. It’s not like we don’t already have our plate full. We’re short one champion, up another with severe antihero issues, have a vamped Slayer on our hands, and—”

“In the meantime are babysitting for your new honey?”

A frown of inherent defense splayed across her lips. “Rosie’s fine.”

“Oh yeah. Rosie’s a peach. It’s that Nikki girl that—”

She quirked a brow of interest. “Gets you hot and bothered?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I am so not into her like that.” Gunn shuddered. “The kid’s got spunk, I admit, but she makes me edgy. Like I’m tainted by association or whatever.”

“Working for a vampire makes you an honorary vampire?”

He nodded. “Or whatever.”

“She hasn’t talked to me much since she got here. She keeps mostly to herself.” Cordelia cocked her head intently. “Though she does seem to come down a lot when you’re around.”

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“Well, if Zack happens to decide to hang around here after all is said and done, I’m sure it’d be better to have some incentive for her. Especially if said incentive came in, oh, say…a nice hunka demon hunting package.”

Gunn held up a hand, studying her incredulously before allowing several short chuckles to escape his lips. “So that’s what this is about?” he demanded. “Tryin’ to find reason to keep Whitey and his little monsters around? Doesn’t he have some kinda unfinished business around here, anyway?”

Cordelia’s eyes darkened as though she had been thoroughly insulted. “No, I’m not trying to keep him here. I’d like it, sure. I’d really, really like it. Zack’s…he’s a special guy. A special guy that I really don’t want to say goodbye to. But I’m not doing anything to try and…I’m not doing anything to convince him to stay. If he wants to, he does. If not, he doesn’t. It’s as simple as that.”

“Why?” The question seemed to surprise her, and he rejoined it with a corresponding laugh. “I don’t get your logic, is all. If it’s going so well, you should try to work it out.”

“There is no it, Gunn.”

“No it? Hell, I know I’m not one to lecture on the science of long-term relationships or…stuff. But I know enough to know that whatever it is you two have definitely qualifies as an it. Zack isn’t a fling guy.” Gunn’s eyes widened wisely. “He chose you because there’s something there. Because you have…whatever it is that you have.”

Cordelia pursed her lips thoughtfully, objection draining from her countenance. “I don’t know.”

There was an unnecessarily heavy pause—things growing more rigid than the man was comfortable with. Both were a little more than grateful when Wesley and Nikki appeared at the head of the stairs.

“Are we going to that demon place?” the girl was asking, her features betraying an interest that was entirely more piqued than anyone had seen since she assumed her residence on the upper levels. “I’d be fine with that, you know. It was amazing. Your friend was so informative. And that’s coming from me. Personal growth and all that whatnot. I was all about the looking past the fact that he’s a green demon and likely has some nasty habit akin to baby eating, and—”

Cordelia held up a hand. “Whoa, whoa. What’s going on here?”

“We made the somewhat colossal mistake of introducing Ms. Wright to Lorne,” Wesley explained dryly. “After convincing her to not chop off his head, we provided evidence of why it’s beneficial to associate with empath demons. She was more than taken with him.”

“Kinda scary,” Gunn verified.

“For the thousandth time, Wes, my last name is not Wright. I’m Amber’s sister, not Zack’s.” Nikki rolled her eyes—appearing more vibrant than Cordelia had seen her since initially making her acquaintance. The urge arose once more to tease Gunn mercilessly but she pushed it aside with grace that would have at one point seemed nonexistent. It was more than obvious that something had influenced her temperament; whether or not said influence came from an interest from a very attractive and very single demon hunter was a different story.

The former Watcher cast a weary gaze to the double doors that led to the portico, worry lines creasing his face. “How is she?”

A sigh rolled across the Seer’s shoulders. Everything was on standstill until Buffy acted. Until she resolved the unhappy disclosure that plagued her with the more resolute reality. “Difficult to say.”

“Has she asked for anything?”

What he meant was had she asked for Spike; Cordelia reflected wryly but not without more of the same. It was amazing how quickly the peroxide vampire’s feelings, thoughts, and concerns had become common apprehension.

“No. She…” The brunette emitted a deep breath, followed his gaze, and quickly recollected her thoughts. “She came downstairs, said she was a vampire, and went outside.”

“She’s been out there ever since,” Gunn confirmed. He turned to the Seer with interest. “Did you see the look in her eyes? So…”

“Empty,” she agreed softly. Her eyes shined with poignancy and concern.

“It was creepy.”

“Not to completely change the subject,” Nikki interjected. “But where’s Zack?”

“Upstairs, trying to get Spike to come down.” Cordelia smiled weakly. “He feels bad…responsible.”

“As well he should,” she agreed. “Turning the Slayer into a vampire isn’t something I’d ever classify as his shining moment. In fact, he hasn’t shown an ounce of good sense since we met up with you people. I mean, even Spike was against her transformation. If that wasn’t an indication to—”

“Nikki,” Gunn intervened warningly.

“I’m just saying.”

“Well, stop saying.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Look, I know that once I came to the hotel, I entered some sort of freaky vamp rehab facility that has seemingly distracted my brother-in-law’s attention from the reason we came to this city in the first place. He’s all with the ‘Spike’s a good guy’ motto, too. That so does not swing with me; I don’t give a shit what any of you say. Watching Zack give up everything to sponsor a bloodsucker and even go out of his way to make a new one? I—”

“Stop,” Cordelia barked dangerously. “You have to know how difficult that decision was for him.”

“And yet, he made it.”

“He made it to spare Spike what he went through when he lost your sister.”

A shadow befell Nikki’s face; dark and dangerous. She stepped forward brazenly, eyes flashing. “You know nothing about that.”

Gunn and Wesley exchanged nervous glances.

The Seer remained respectively calm. “I know what I saw.”

“What? You think since you’ve fucked him that you somehow get some sort of special—”

Gunn grasped the girl by the shoulder. “Stop there before you’re stopped.”

She spared him a nasty snicker, tamer than she would have given Cordelia but without censorship nonetheless. “He made the decision to spare a vampire’s feelings,” she spat contemptuously. “I don’t even know him anymore.”

“Spike’s his friend.” The Seer, ever neutral, stepped forward as though trying to reach through her hostility. “Spike’s our friend. His being a vampire is simple consequence. Angel’s a vampire, too. And yet we’re still here.”

“Angel. You mean the guy that really killed the Slayer.”

“That wasn’t Angel,” Wesley said softly. “That was Angelus. There is a difference, Nikki, and you must respect it.”

“He has fangs, he drinks blood, and he only comes out at night. Not seeing much difference.” She stepped forward again, gaze not wavering from Cordelia. At some point, the civil conversation had transformed into a meeting of powers. The girl was visibly afraid, though of what was happening to her brother-in-law for purposes of his mission or the finality in his moving on after Amber’s death, no one could be certain. It was likely a mixture of all of the above. “Same thing with Spike. He’s no longer helpless. He’ll turn on you.”

“With all due respect,” the former Watcher intervened once again. “If it was Spike’s intention to do so, he would have by now. It is not in his nature to wait.”

“He has to be the most impatient man in the world,” Cordelia agreed.

Nikki shook her head. “Man,” she repeated incredulously.

“That’s enough.”

The interruption at that was full and angry; drawing the attention to the upper veranda where Wright was peering over the rail. His appearance betrayed fatigue; undoubtedly, he had seen better days, but anger for the moment was the dominating sentiment. Cobalt eyes settled ruthlessly on the girl—though it was impossible to tell if he was more disgusted with her for speaking such things, or himself for putting the words there in the first place.

The silence that settled thereafter was thick and more than disconcerting. It was a welcome break when Gunn finally curled his grip around Nikki’s forearm and tugged her to the door.

“Come on,” he said. “Time to go.”

She remained still for an unblinking moment, then slowly nodded her consent. “Yeah,” she said. “Time to go. People to save, and all.”

Wright watched them emotionlessly as they left the hotel. It was distressing; finding herself in a position where she could not read his expression for the first time in days. Cordelia nodded to Wesley with a taut sigh, reading his promise to contact her if anything of consequence occurred and verifying hers to do more of the same.

Then the moment had passed and they were alone.

Zack watched the door for long seconds as though daring Nikki to return and continue her offense. When he was satisfied that they were alone, his eyes darted sympathetically to the Seer and softened with candor that she wasn’t even sure he knew he betrayed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I should’ve taught her better.”

“You taught her as you needed to,” Cordelia replied with a dismissive wave. “It’s her choice to remain this way. I mean, look at you. You’ve grown amazingly accepting these past few…whatever.”

A weak smile drew across his lips. “Don’t think me a saint, or even reformed,” he said.

“Oh, don’t worry.”

He deliberately ignored the teasing note in her tone and pivoted to continue downstairs. “I don’t know if I’ll ever accept what I did.”

There was no need for clarification. Knowledge was a nasty storm, and it hung its purple cloud over the Hyperion, waiting for the first signal to begin the inevitable downpour.

“Does that really matter?” she asked softly. “You did it because you thought it was right.”

“I still do.”

Cordelia frowned. “Then…?”

“I can’t explain it, Cordy. It’s one of those things that I’ll have to come to terms with on my own.” He was beside her, then, emerging from seemingly nowhere with eyes that were redder than she would have liked. Stressed beyond the limitation of stress. And slowly, he spared a glance to the doorway where Buffy still had not emerged. “Any change?”

“None.”

“She’s going to hate me for doing this, isn’t she?”

The Seer smiled and brushed a kiss across his lips. “That’s what Spike said,” she replied. “Only he thinks the blaming is going to be aimed more at him than anyone else.”

“She has no reason to hate him. I did what I did before he could retaliate.”

“Yeah. I know that, you know that, he knows that, but can’t accept it.” She exhaled deeply. “As for Buff…well, we won’t know until we know, you know.”

Wright stared at her for a full minute before allowing a warm smile to spread across his lips. “You’re an amazing woman, Cordelia.”

“Oh, I know.”

“I mean it.”

“What, and I don’t?” She spared him a teasing wink. “Don’t try looking, Zack. The word modest definitely does not find itself across my forehead.”

“I would not have it so,” he replied matter-of-factly. “It’d make you less than Cordelia Chase. And I couldn’t stand for that.”

There had been many times in her life when she found herself at the pleasing end of a compliment. Many, many times. Ever since grade school, she had been accosted by male admirers and those wanting to be male admirers. She had heard absolutely every line in the book and redefined several for her own liking. But never in the length of any courtship had she been floundered with words. Had her…whatever Wright was to her…made her feel what she felt simply by doing what he did. By making her…feel.

It was by all circumstance the most wondrous experience in the whole of her life.

Still, she couldn’t let him know that. Rule #347 in the Guidebook To Men And Dating By Cordelia Chase: never let him know how you feel before you have verification of his own regard. After all, pride was a precious thing. She didn’t want hers wounded.

Her heart was tender as well. Despite whatever she told Gunn earlier, she was wrestling with the temptation to beg him to stay after everything was over. Saying goodbye was not one of her strong suits, especially when she was so attached. More attached than she was willing to admit; even to herself.

“Yeah,” she agreed absently. “You’re just looking to get some tonight. I won’t fall for that, buddy.”

“Pity,” he replied with a rakish grin.

They shared a long look that spoke for more than words could hope, then simultaneously drew their attention back to the porch, where Buffy remained unmoved.

It was unfair that they get this far only to fall short of the finish line. Cordelia sighed heavily. Spike had sacrificed so much for her. It was only right that she try to even the odds a little. Only a little.

“Hey…” she said vaguely. “Zack, could you go heat up some blood? Oh, and sprinkle some Weetabix in and mix it up. Spike’s insisted we keep a handy supply since you two became the resident attendants.”

Wright nodded but arched a suspicious brow. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing much,” Cordelia replied, shrugging dismissively. “Just a peace offering.”

“You look sad.”

The intrusion was so soft, so timid that Spike nearly felt his heart turn over. He had been aware of the scent for several minutes but made no move to acknowledge or discourage the impostor from his asylum. He sat in the chair that had housed him in the long hours waiting for Buffy’s awakening, watching the bed with solemnity so singular that he didn’t reckon it knew a proper name. Unmoving. Silent.

There was such emptiness where there had once been life. In all his years, with all his experience, the peroxide vampire had never truly felt dead. Not until this night. Not until the ghostly expression of imposed horror settled over the Slayer’s face. Entered her eyes with such stormy disposition that he thought himself gone in every sense of the word. Such coldness. He had never known such coldness.

He wondered if he was a beacon for sadness. If that was what prompted Rosalie to disturb his solitude. Either way, it didn’t matter. The disturbance was welcome. Freeing. It kept his mind occupied from the less friendly truth.

“’m fine, Bit,” he returned absently. “Jus’ worried.”

“About your lady friend?”

Despite the circumstances, a small smile tickled his lips. “Yeh,” he replied. “’Bout my lady friend.”

“She’s afraid.”

That prompted a glance. Spike looked at her with mounting concern. “You saw that?”

The girl offered a frighteningly adult smile. “Didn’t have to.”

“Oh, ‘s obvious then?” The vampire sighed heavily. “That’s comfortin’.”

“She’s downstairs with Dad.”

“Yeh.”

“You should go down, too. She wants you there.”

A sardonic grin overwhelmed him; aimed at himself more than anyone else. “Lemme guess,” he drawled. “That’s obvious, too?”

“Yes,” the girl replied. The simplicity behind her voice was more revealing than astonishing. Though his acquaintance with Rosie was at a minimum, he felt he knew her well enough to expect the unexpected. She was a smart kid. Freakishly smart. No child should know the things she knew as intimately as she knew them.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Soft. Companionable.

“She loves you, you know.”

Spike blinked, not attempting to conceal his astonishment. The notion was awe-inspiring. The idea…the conception…the thought… “She what?”

“She loves you. It was her last thought before she died. About how she loves you and she wished she had a chance to tell you.” Rosie offered a smile and neared precariously. “I saw that. Before I told you…before I told you and Dad what…” She trailed of obligingly when he winced his pain. “I saw what she was thinking. She was thinking that she loved you and that she was sorry—”

“Stop!” The word came out a rumbled gasp as he tore himself from his seat, straining visibly to maintain some level of control. In these raw stages, it was so easy to forfeit the entirety of himself. “Please—”

“She’s just afraid,” the girl continued knowingly.

“She—”

“You’re afraid too, aren’t you?”

Spike paused once more, waves of understanding overwhelming him. The child was so gifted. In seconds, she managed to cut through whatever reservations he maintained about himself. She said the same thing that it took others forever to work up the courage to approach. Not many people could accuse him of fear and survive, regardless of age.

Or so it had once been. Forever ago.

It was bizarre; having memories that he knew were real but couldn’t fully recall. Life before loving Buffy, before knowing this insufferable conscience, before everything that tormented his nonsoul—the concept was so entirely out there that he at times had trouble believing that it was him at all. The vampire documented in history was violent, carefree, not the best thinker, and ruthless. He never displayed any form of mercy on anyone. He hunted out little girls—girls younger than Rosie—from coal bins. He had impaled countless wankers with railroad spikes. And even then, his notoriety wasn’t touched. He was William the Bloody, after all. He was reputed for some of the nastiest, vilest kills accredited to vampires. Accredited to history.

And here he was. Sitting in an empty room with people he considered friends, his eyes dry and red from crying, his shattered nonexistence so close to breaking again that the want of oxygen had all but reborn into something else. He couldn’t hold anything for fear of shaking it until it fell. He couldn’t look Rosie in the eye. He couldn’t conceive that anything she said was true. That Buffy loved him. That Buffy had loved him.

The eyes that had traveled to his, haunted by what she hadn’t seen, haunted by something that was supposed to be there but wasn’t…more of the same that screamed plainly that forgiveness was dead and this bland existence was all that was left. She hated him. There was no doubting that. Spike knew hatred. He knew hatred better than he liked to acknowledge. And while he had not sensed her revulsion toward him, he could not conceive the look in her eyes to be anything but.

“Yes,” he replied at last. “’m afraid.”

Speaking the words was treason to himself and his kind, but in a strange way, it felt good. It felt damn good.

“Whenever I’m afraid or sad, Dad plays Barbies with me to cheer me up.”

Spike blinked. That he had not been expecting. Suddenly, his mind was filled with the visage of Wright sitting next to a poncy pink dream house, brushing annoyingly blonde hair and talking to his daughter’s play pals with an amusingly effeminate lisp. The picture was so unexpected, so random, so fucking hilarious that he didn’t realize he had lost control of his laughter until his long dead lungs made an attempt to take a deep breath before conceding defeat all over again.

Rosie was smiling as though she knew what she had done—which, in all fairness—she likely did. “He has his Skipper and Nikki is Teresa, only she changes the name to something like Rachel, I think. But Dad can’t all the time. Sometimes he’s away trying to hunt down some demon or find the lady that murdered my mom.”

The vampire commanded control over himself once more, mirth fading without announcement as the conversation took a radically serious turn with more of the same. It amazed him that she had the ability to do that. To seize command of things like that. It shouldn’t have, after all this time. And yet, he figured that even her father could never grow accustomed to predicting her and finding any measure of success.

“Do you remember your mum, Bit?”

There was a short pause. Rosie slowly shook her head. “Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes I see her…but I think it’s in my mind. That it’s not real.” A trembling sigh coursed through her small frame. The poignancy in her stature was enough to render a stone to rubble. She had such strength at such a young age. It was astounding. “I know that I knew her once. I told Dad what was happening to her.”

He nodded encouragingly. “Did you?”

“Yeah.”

“Like you told me about Buffy?”

“I tried. I tried so hard to see her.” The girl was quivering now—as though overwhelmed with the influence of her power. With emotions she could not feasibly understand and more knowledge than what was deserved of her. No child should go through this. And yet, the Powers had decided to bestow their gift into the heart and soul of one so young. There were reasons for everything. “I was up in my room for a long time trying to see her. I wanted to help you. I wanted to help…”

Spike smiled softly and approached tentatively, delicate fingers running the length of her blonde curls. “You helped, sweetheart,” he reassured her. “More than you can know.”

“I don’t remember my mom, but I remember what it did to Dad.” Her eyes fogged over emotionally. “He’s never been the same. I remember him happy. I do. I really, really do. And I know that was because of Mom. But I can’t see her.”

“That happens, Bit. You were jus’ a li’l tyke, after all.”

“I want to remember her.”

“’Course you do.” He couldn’t help himself; he knew he was turning into a First Class Poof, but the girl’s plight called to him in manners he would never openly acknowledge. Spike leaned forward and kissed her forehead, tucking locks of hair behind her ear. “’S natural. An’ who knows? Maybe you will someday.”

There was a meek edge to her voice. “You think so?”

“’Course. As a matter of fact, I know so.” When incredulity overwhelmed her young features, he fished until finding another option. Suddenly, pleasing the child was as important to him as anything else had ever been. “Tell you what: ‘f those Powers ‘aven’t given you a break in a few years, you come look me up in SunnyD…or wherever I happen to be. I know a few blokes with a bloody lot of power.” He offered a heartfelt smile. “Got someone who could help you out.”

Rosie read into his eyes with a grin. It was slow coming, but there nonetheless. It was all he needed. “Thanks.” She paused when his smile widened in turn. There was hesitance about her countenance, but the girl was visibly afraid of nothing. Things could shake her, intimidate her, but never frighten her. Never truly frighten her. And Spike took solace in that knowledge. “I’m glad…” she began softly. “I’m glad that Dad did what he did. You were hurting. I felt you hurting. He tried to fix it.”


At that, Spike froze considerately.

“He didn’t want you to feel what he felt when he lost Mom,” she continued. “He did it to help you.”

“I know he did, Bit.”

“You should tell him it’s okay.”

A small smile cracked across his face. “Maybe I will,” he replied. “Someday.”

Rosie nodded, not entirely satisfied but resigned that she would get nothing better out of time tonight. And that was that. She bid her farewell, noting once more that he should go down to Buffy because the Slayer loved him. Because the Slayer loved him and needed him now more than ever before. He wanted so badly to believe her.

So badly.

But he wouldn’t go. He couldn’t stomach it. The knowledge of what very rightly remained buried under such brazen appearance. He had seen the look in her eyes. He had seen valleys that once burned with life fall under desolate reparation. The thought that such could be turned on him, that she would regard him as the one that had brought her down, had ruined her, had…

No. He couldn’t. Call it cowardice. Call it irrationality. He couldn’t bring himself to face her yet.

At least with this he lived with the hope of love.

Spike snickered wryly. Over the years, he had discovered hope to be as empty as any of the earth’s other promises. Not much could be countered. Betrayed. Not for what he had to lose.

Everything.

But it was there. In some sense, it was there. And it would carry him through the night. The night until morning. The night until he had to face her.

It was all he had left.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Forgiveness

“Hey, girlie.” Cordelia presumptuously assumed the vacant seat next to her, plopping a mug full of blood into the Slayer’s empty hands. “We gotta talk.”

Buffy was far and away. That much was simple to decipher. Her gaze remained fixated on the cup of warmth that touched her skin, its tempting aroma wafting dangerously near her sensitive nostrils. She knew what it was—there was no denying that. And yet, she couldn’t remember it looking so appealing. She couldn’t remember it emanating such a heavenly scent. The thought was thoroughly disgusting. Blood. The essence of life. Blood was what her body craved.

Blood, because her body had changed. She was a vampire.

A vampire.

“Hey,” the other woman said when her offering gauged no reaction. “It’s okay. Really. I’ve seen Angel do it about a thousand and a half times. Not to mention, Spike’s been a sort of bloodaholic since he got here.”

Buffy pursed her lips, stared at the red temptation a minute later, then raised her gaze to Cordelia. Wondering. Waiting.

“Come on,” the Seer prodded. “You can’t just whither away. Spike would never forgive me if I didn’t take care of you.”

That seemed to reach her on some level. With an absent nod, the Slayer lifted the cup to her lips and indulged a long, hearty taste. It couldn’t end there. Once the crimson goodness hit her tongue, she was guzzling it down with hunger she had never known before. Hunger she didn’t know could exist. Hunger that replaced anything felt on a mediocre human level. As though she had been made for this.

But that wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.

Buffy jerked her head back with a gasp, aware of the sweet-smelling thickness that encased her mouth. “What did you do to this?”

“Nothing! Well, okay. I added some Weetabix and cinnamon. Spike’s always bitching that if you don’t give it flavor, it’s not nearly reaching the potential for maximum whatever. The experience or whatever you wanna call it.” Cordelia smiled sympathetically. “He’s too worried about you to look out for you right now. So I’ve decided to assume the responsibility until he gets off his self-loathing ass and confronts you himself.”

At that, the Slayer frowned. “Confronts?”

“Yeah. It’s this thing where he thinks you hate him. Want some more? We’re stocked up on all the goods. A, B, O—pos or neg. Whatever you want.” She arched her brows invitingly. “Spike’s a lot pickier than Angel when it comes to his blood types. Some mornings, he’s in the mood for a good bag of—”

“Wait. Stop. Please.” Buffy held up a hand. “Back to the part where Spike thinks I hate him?”

“Oh. Right. That. Well, there’s this thing where he made you drink from him to become a vampire. And really, it wasn’t his idea. That was Zack. Zack lost his wife a few years ago to vamps—Darla, actually—and he didn’t want Spike to go through what he went through. They’ve become friends and such. It’s sweet.” Cordelia made a move to get up. “Are you sure you don’t want some more? It’s no big—I’m used to being Ms. Waitress around here.”

Buffy grasped her arm, worry filling her eyes. “He thinks that?”

“He loves you.” She said it so simply. As though it meant nothing. As though it wasn’t revolutionary. The Slayer had known it, of course. She remembered very clearly acknowledging it both to his face and to herself in the minutes before her death. Before she reached a similar revelation about her feelings. And yet, hearing the words spoken aloud by someone who wasn’t her gave her such blissful liberation. It filled her insides with warmth that she had feared lost to her forever.

“He loves me,” she repeated, eyes flooding with tears. “He does? Really?”

Cordelia snickered and settled next to her once more. “Don’t tell me you doubted it.”

Buffy shook her head. “I didn’t know. How could I know? He came for me when he shouldn’t have. When he had no reason to. He made the hurt go away. He told me things that should’ve been impossible. He…” She trailed off in a manner that clearly explained to anyone that had she the ability; she would be flushing right about now. “He made me feel good when it wasn’t possible. I think I wanted…” A powerfully overwhelming breath seized command of her; she pivoted sharply and grasped the Seer by the wrist. “He loves me?”

“More than life itself, honey. Well…he’s a vampire so I don’t know if that terribly overused cliché works in that context, but we’ll just say it does, how ‘bout it?” Cordelia smiled. “Yes, he does. Very much. So you should march your booty up those stairs and tell him that you don’t hate him.”

At that, Buffy’s face fell once more as though remembering something.

“He made me a vampire.”

A sigh coursed through the brunette. Powerful and unwanting. “Yeah, he did. He really did. You hate him for it?”

“No.”

“But you don’t forgive him for it?”

“He…” Buffy trailed off helplessly. “I’m a vampire, Cordy.”

“Yep. Noticed. Lots of people are vamps. They kinda crowd the town.”

The Slayer turned her gaze downward, falling on her hands as she examined herself. The look on her face betrayed some form of morbid curiosity; as though she should be physically transformed more than usual due to her newfound vampirism. “He made me into what I hate.”

“He did it to save you.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t hate him.”

“I can’t hate him,” she replied softly. “I can’t. I…” Her eyes clouded with tears. “I can’t. I promised him. I…” The emotion buried in her gaze finally reached her voice, and she broke without warning, leaning forward as the empty bloodstained mug smashed haphazardly to the concrete. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Cordy,” she sobbed. “These past few days…weeks…however long I was…it felt like forever. It felt like a nightmare. A nightmare. And I was just waiting to wake up. I was waiting for my world to come back. Not real. Not real. None of it was real. It couldn’t be. While I was there. Spike came and he made it real. I thought…I thought he was there to hurt me. But he didn’t. He came and gave me…more than anyone has ever. And I loved him. For that. For everything. For being him. For being someone I had never seen before while…I loved him so much.”

Cordelia nodded her understanding, carefully keeping her tone neutral. “Do you still love him?”

She nodded pitifully, unable to form the words. “I don’t know how or…it doesn’t seem real. I still feel like it’s not real.”

“It is.”

“And when I realize that, when it finally hits home that this is the way things are…will I still love him?” Buffy shook her head. “I hope so. God, I hope so. I promised him things would never go back to the way they were. And they can’t now. Even if I wanted them to…because he made me into what he is. He made me a vampire.”

“Zack made you a vampire. Spike has done nothing but resent him for it since it was done.” Cordelia gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I can’t imagine what you went through, Buff. And frankly, I don’t want to. Angel’s a good friend of mine, and even though he and Angelus are…I just don’t wanna think about it. But Spike…what Spike went through while you were…he made believers of all of us.”

“I love him and that scares me. It scares me so much.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s him. Because it’s me. I’m no good at loving, Cordy. I never have been. I never loved Angel.” She smiled wryly when the Seer reeled in astonishment. “I figured that out, too. And it hurts. The great love of my life wasn’t a love at all. Just a teenage infatuation. I don’t think I know how to love.” A sigh shuddered through her. “And somehow, the love thing scares me more than the vampire thing. I guess I half expected something like this to happen. I thought Angel would kill me, and he did. I didn’t know if he’d turn me or not, but I thought about it. I never thought that hanging there would make me love. And even so, I never thought it’d be…I never thought it would be Spike.”

“Why?”

The Slayer’s smile remained with dry actualization. That seemed to be a favorite question of hers. Just as well. It was the right one for the time being. “Because it has always been him. Somehow it always has. And when that became real…” She broke off, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore. Everything that I did know is coming apart. And nothing can make it right again.”

Cordelia pursed her lips thoughtfully. “That’s not true.”

“It’s not?”

“Maybe not the version of right that you’re used to. But you and Spike…you can make a different kind of right.”

Buffy could not spare herself a small grin. “You sure seem to be pushing this ‘me and Spike’ thing.”

The observation earned a shrug in turn. “I just don’t see where the conflict comes in. You have to get used to the vamp thing, right? You love him, he loves you. Where’s the problem?”

“It’s complicated.”

Cordelia’s gaze widened. “How is it complicated?”

“It just is.” Buffy’s eyes clouded with nameless emotion. As though she couldn’t think or feel for the impact her actions were bound to have on both her and the man upstairs that awaited either amnesty or condemnation. “Love just complicates things. I haven’t…I’ve never felt this way before. Ever. And I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if it’s gratitude or love. It doesn’t feel like gratitude. It feels…”

There was an appropriately lengthened pause. The conclusion was all the same; anyone could tell that. It was merely a matter of getting there. “How?” she asked finally. “How does it feel?”

The Slayer allowed a small, genuine smile to tickle her lips. “Wonderful. Like…like nothing I…” She broke again and shook her head. “I don’t know what I thought. How I thought things might change when I was…but I do remember what I felt when he…when he was with me before. When he came for me. And it hasn’t changed. I feel different. Really different—on levels that go way beyond the not being alive in the most technical sense thing. That’s something I have yet to grasp. One thing at a time. I just…”

“The vampire thing?”

“One harsh reality at a time,” she reiterated with confidence. “And I have a habit of dealing with the big thing first. What happened wasn’t his fault. I know enough to know that. The Spike that…the Spike that came to help me…to save me…”

“He’s the same Spike you knew from before,” Cordelia said, earning a sharp, hopeful glance. “Trust me. He might seem different, but worrying yourself into a second death does that to you. He showed up here the day after you were taken. Or the next morning or something like that. Evidently, he came right after he received word that you were gone and verified the entire plan to Giles and all the others before he left.”

Buffy’s eyes distanced. “Giles…”

“They’re in England, now.”

“I know. I…I just…” She broke off harshly and shook her head, clutching herself with tightness that suggested she expected to be whisked away at any minute into some self-constructed purgatory. It was amazing how similar she and the platinum vampire were in such telling gestures. The Seer reckoned neither would ever know enough of what to look for to recognize it for what it was. “I can’t think about that now,” she decided ultimately. “My multi-tasking skills seem to have been dulled. One thing at a time.”

“That’s understandable,” Cordelia assured her.

The Slayer nodded as though trying to convince herself. “Right. Now…what happened?”

“With what?”

“After Spike got here. What’d he do?”

The brunette grinned and made no move to hide it. Little things like that were very good. “Well,” she began again, “I threatened to stake him.”

Buffy cracked a nostalgic smile.

“Lindsey had sent us a warning about Angel being all evil and whatnot, so we had a friend of ours strengthen the vamp no-invite policy. Spike got here and stood outside screaming his head off until we agreed to invite him in on the condition that the story was okayed by Giles.”

“That must’ve driven him crazy,” she remarked.

Cordelia flashed a conspiratorial grin. “You have no idea. But we worked together well, for what it was worth. It took him a little while to trust us and vice versa, but it’s strange how close we’ve become. I’m not gonna lie to you sister; we’re probably going to put up a fight to keep him here.”

The notion, for whatever reason, seemed to warm the Slayer. The cold confusion behind her eyes thawed—not enough to make a significant difference, but as much as necessary. For now.

“You’ve grown that attached to him?” she asked.

The Seer nodded. “We all have. He’s a part of the gang, whether he wants to admit it or not. I almost can’t remember him not being here, really. He and Zack have gotten really close. It’s kinda cute watching him with his friends.”

Buffy was smiling all out now. Evidently, she found the notion just as adorable. “I’ve never seen him with friends. Really…I guess I never…”

“It’s cute,” Cordelia repeated. “They met after Lorne directed him to someone who could help him get you back. He had to sing at Caritas—it’s this demon bar—in order to be read and get that far, and—”

“Spike sang?” The Slayer blinked. She had a distant memory of him telling her the same, but it seemed so foregone that she had not been sure if the conversation had actually occurred or if the entire event was something her overly active mind conjured. Until now, she had suspected the latter. The idea of Spike singing was…well, it was charming, not to mention sexy as hell, but she hadn’t thought it something he would do for any purpose.

“Hell yeah, he did,” the brunette replied enthusiastically. “And man oh man, does that boy have a gorgeous voice. I swear, there wasn’t—”

“He sang?”

“Yep.”

“In front of people?”

Cordelia nodded, smiling at her bewilderment.

“He sang for me?”

“Honey, you have to move passed this. Yes, he sang for you. Some Rufus Wainwright number, I think. The owner of Caritas—Lorne—is an empath demon that can read you when you sing. Give you your future or destiny or whatever.” She paused briefly. “He did that for you. Because he had to know that you were all right. ‘Course, he didn’t get any of the goods that he was looking for. Lorne could only give him his future, not yours. But it did lead him to Zack, and that was that.”

The Slayer entertained a small grin. “You like him, don’t you? Zack, or whoever.”

“In ways that are very unchristian,” Cordelia agreed with a devious smile. “But, gotta be honest, I’ve never been a Christian person.”

Buffy nodded her acknowledgement. “I can’t imagine you like this,” she observed. “You’re so different from what I remember.”

“I am like this.” The brunette shrugged. “Never imagined it myself, but stuff happens.” She paused considerately, appraising the Slayer with a pensive eye. “So…why’s it complicated?”

There was a long beat of silence; any hint of jollity falling from her eyes without much incentive. “Because if this is it,” she said softly. “If what I feel is real…”

“Do you think it’s real?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation: only knowledge. Despite her shortcomings, she believed it to be real. And in many ways, that was all that mattered.

“Then—”

“It’s the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me.” Buffy expelled a deep, shivering breath. “I don’t know why it would be…but that it’s real…and somehow, that terrifies me. It’s something that’s…” Her eyes were filling with tears again, threatening to spill at any turn. “It just terrifies me. I want it but I’m scared of it, too.”

“Scared of what?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “It’s just too much, Cordy. Too much, too fast.”

“Was it too fast before you were vamped?”

“I didn’t think so. It didn’t feel like it there. I guess it was easier when I was chained up. Not that I would ever, ever go back.” A shudder shimmied down her spine. “But when it wasn’t real yet, I could let myself love him and be loved without being afraid. I’m so scared.” She distanced perceptibly. “I’m scared…I think I’m scared of being hurt. Of putting myself in…of giving myself over completely and…if he drops me, it’ll…”

“Hurt?”

“Among other things. If I never loved Angel and his leaving did to me what it did…what would happen if Spike left me? What—”

“Wait. Whoa. Hold the phone.” Cordelia was staring at her incredulously. “How can you think that you’re not forever to him? Do you have any conceivable idea what he went through to get you out? He’s been tearing himself apart. When he hasn’t been with you, he’s been trying to get back to you. Zack told me he broke down sobbing when he saw you. I don’t even think sobbing’s a strong enough word. What Zack told me was…it broke my heart. And he stayed with you all night. I couldn’t get him to come downstairs for anything.” She shook her head, almost angry. “I’d give anything to have what you two have. Only I wouldn’t be down here moping that the man who worships you is going to hurt you when he’s upstairs, hurting more than…well, hurting a lot. I’d be up there with him. Hell, I’d be in sweaty, naked goodness. I would not be down here thinking about how loving the one person who would never hurt me might hurt me. That’s stupid, Buffy. You’re just setting up barriers for yourself to keep you from being happy. Well, guess what. You don’t have any curse. You don’t have anything holding you back. You have a gorgeous vampire upstairs that’s hurting because he thinks that you hate him. Now, get off your undead booty and march your ass up to him and—”

It was fruitless to continue, though.

Buffy was gone. Halfway through her tangent, she had gotten up and walked out.

She had gone upstairs. To him.

Cordelia entertained a small smile. All the better.

The sight that greeted her when she summoned the courage to face his room was enough to break the strongest of wills and shatter a champion of hearts into a thousand pieces.

Spike was on his knees staring at her abandoned bed. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing, and that bothered her. Despite however strained their acquaintance had been, he had always made the pretense of being alive, whether for her or his benefit was a completely different matter.

For all intents and purposes, he might as well have been a statue. A marbled Greek god reduced to his knees through his distressed worry. It upset her. Whatever else had drawn them apart; Spike’s strength was the one consistency she could always depend on. Even when he was at the severest of disadvantages, he always made light of the situation. He always bluffed his assets. He always made sure that if he went down, it was at the pinnacle of a fight.

That was something she had always respected, despite however different their relationship of the past had been.

She didn’t like seeing him defeated.

Hurt.

Not an inch of his body flickered in recognition. Nothing betrayed his knowledge of her being there; that he was even attune to her.

She knew it was otherwise. It couldn’t help but be otherwise. Not with what they shared. And here they were—connected in the most intimate of fashions. There was nothing stronger than a sire’s pull on his childe. She needed him, but she didn’t. She loved him, but she was afraid. She wanted to calm him, but feared losing whatever of herself was left. With what? Rejection, perhaps. There was nothing to suggest he would ever reject her. But the fear there remained. The fear that he would look her in the eyes and everything that she had experienced while chained at Angelus’s leisure would have truly been something of her imagining.

Looking at him now, she knew it was anything but her own imagining.

It was everything.

Delicately, Buffy leaned to support her weight against the doorframe, her hands falling with near pious relevance in front of her. “Spike?”

The air could not have been heavier. Silence stretched her. Taunted and teased her. He made no move to even acknowledge that he had heard her speak.

She drew in a breath, waited for a minute, then tried again.

“Spike?”

Nothing.

That was it, then. It was all or nothing. She wouldn’t let him get away that simply. With a deep breath designed to support her confidence, she shook her head and set forward. The strain of tension stretched palpably across his shoulders. As though every step she presumed was furthering his agony.

But he didn’t say anything.

Almost blindly, she reached out. Some innate part of her had to touch him. When her hand found his shoulder, she nearly crumpled at the raw strength that coursed beneath her fingertips. With all the power she had ever thought to exercise, she had never assumed that it would take so little to break one man. One vampire. The thought was terrifying.

She had the power to defeat giants.

The thought barely had room for birth. No sooner had her hand grasped his shoulder had his own sought out her fingers. The touch he offered was fiercely delicate. As though nothing but being near her gave him such pleasure. His skin was cold. Colder than a vampire’s. Colder than anything she had ever touched.

Oh God.

“’m so sorry,” he whispered.

Buffy bit her lip, fighting the flood of tears that rose instinctually at the raw pain buried in his voice. It was too much. Everything was an undercurrent of too much.

But she did not pull away. Instead, her hand moved in slow, comforting strokes against his neck, nails scraping lightly at his skin. She felt the ripple of pleasure catch him, heard the forbidden breath he took at her tender attention. She also felt his disbelief. The suspense held there that demanded nothing this congenial came without a definitive price.

She intended to banish that thought away. For long seconds she held fast, her fingers screaming in delight to finally do what her body had been craving for days. She had wanted to touch him so badly. She had wanted to reciprocate his delicate attentions when he caressed her. She had wanted him to know how much he meant to her just by being there, and that she wasn’t using what he gave selfishly. That she would love him just as greatly given any circumstance.

Despite how afraid of love she was.

She loved touching him. She bet she would love tasting him too.

Buffy drew in an unnecessary breath, hardly aware of the moisture clouding her eyes, and knelt forward to brush a kiss over the nape of his neck. The tension wrought through his body tightened rather than released. She realized then that he was every bit as afraid of her as she was of him. The thought sent her reeling over the edge. Cordelia had warned her, of course, but some part of her hadn’t wanted to believe it. Spike was a tower of strength. He, after all, had brought them this far.

“Spike,” she murmured against his skin.

At that, she heard him inhale deeply. “God,” he blabbered. “’m so sorry, sweetheart. I never meant to. I never—”

“Spike—”

“—wanted this for you. God, I was too late. I was too late to save you. Too late to—”

“Spike.” She whispered another kiss across his skin, and this time he nearly sobbed at the release her touch brought. “Look at me. Please.”

There was nothing he could deny her. With a calm, concentrated breath, he rose to his feet and turned to face her at last. The pain behind the raging storm stole want of understanding from her lips. She nearly broke at the sight he presented. What he willingly gave. He might as well have outstretched his arms and invited her to stake him; he looked to want nothing else.

Buffy smiled through her tears. God, he was so beautiful.

“Please,” she whispered, unaware she was speaking until the neediness she had not known herself capable of tainted the tortured air.

“Please what, baby?”

That was a good question. Her mouth quirked at the term of endearment.

He was trembling. He was trembling and she had done that to him.

“Do I scare you?” she heard herself asking, having no idea where the question came from. It was merely there.

Nevertheless, he didn’t question her wording. He was honest with her. “Yes.”

The way he said it—without batting an eye, without pausing for consideration—was one of the most startling revelations that had ever overpowered her. And even though she knew the answer, hearing him admit as much shook her to her core.

“I wonder…” she mused thoughtfully. “You’ve never feared me before. We’ve been through a lot, Spike. Why would you choose now to finally…I just…why?”

Pain swarmed behind his eyes. Pain and the fear of hope. She knew it well enough to identify it anywhere. And even against his will, he found her palm where it was pressed against his cheek, her fingers lightly exploring his softened peroxide locks. His lips sealed a kiss against her skin. “I fear your hatred,” he whispered. “God, Buffy, I don’ think I’ve…I…look at what I’ve done. What I turned you into.” The trembles wracking his form were becoming more pronounced. As though he could not contain himself. “After everythin’ I’ve seen, everythin’ I’ve done…I don’ think I’ve been afraid before. Not before I knew you. An’ even then, the terror I felt tryin’ to get you out of there…God, I don’ think I’ve ever feared anythin’ like I fear your hatred.” His head bowed reverently. “’F you hate me, ‘s all right. ‘S what I deserve. But I don’ know how ‘m gonna be able…I don’ know where to go from here. God help me, Buffy, I don’ know where to go after you.”

There was truth there. Horrible, frightening truth.

Buffy had tasted her fair share of fear over the past few years and she was sick of it. This last fulfillment. Whatever they earned, she needed. She needed to banish fear and not incite it. She needed to give him what none other ever had.

It was the least she could do.

Thus, delicately running her hands up his arms to link behind his neck, she brought his forehead down against hers, rejoicing in the contact. “I don’t hate you,” she whispered. “I could never, ever hate you. You’ve done more for me than anyone I’ve ever known. You—”

He broke away, choking his disbelief. “I turned you into somethin’ you hate!” he protested. “I made you—”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“How can you—”

“Okay. You don’t believe that, obviously. How about this. I don’t blame you. Not at all.”

Spike blinked at her in disbelief. “How…why—”

It was simple enough to go for broke. She couldn’t lie to him if she wanted to. “I don’t know.” The most honest reply she could have possibly given him under these conditions. “I don’t know about anything, Spike. I’m not all right. I’m about as far from all right as anyone could be right now. I haven’t dealt with the vampire thing yet…” She paused briefly when she felt him tense beneath her hands. “It wasn’t as important to me as you are.”

He made no move to disguise the breath that lodged in his throat. Fresh tears were clouding his eyes, each pulling at a different heartstring. “You have no idea,” he said hoarsely, “how much I wanna believe that.”

She offered a touching smile. “You should,” she whispered. “It’s true.”

“I don’ understand—”

“Neither do I. I’ve already given up trying to understand.” Her hands clutched at him desperately and he gave into her willingly, his own arms pulling her closer into his embrace. Cool relief flooded her body. She needed this. Needed this even more urgently than she thought to. “I’m so…everything’s gone wrong. Everything. And I’m not okay. I’m not okay.” She found her head urged to his shoulder when her will broke and the sobs she had been keeping in finally tore through her in endless waves. “I’m not okay. Not okay.”

“Shhhh,” he murmured soothingly. “’S all right, love. Everything’s all right. You jus’ let it out. Let it out. God, ‘m so sorry I did this to you. So—”

He was cut off abruptly; she pulled back and practically attacked his lips with hers. He remained in stunned delirium before her tongue pushed into his hard softness, and then he was all but ravaging her with his mouth. The pent up tension, the longing, the worry, the sadness—so much sadness. Everything imaginable poured into such a simple but desired union. They nibbled and tasted each other. Needing far more than could be given. Needing everything and nothing at all.

With a gasping breath, she pulled back. “Stay,” she begged.

“What?”

“Stay with me tonight.” Buffy saw objection flood his eyes and found the sentiment thoroughly heartwarming, but pressed a finger to his lips before he could vocalize his protest. “Just…I don’t want to be alone. Please. Don’t leave me alone. Could you just…” Her eyes lowered to the floor. “Stay with me.”

It was an amazing thing; watching as boundless love deluged his eyes.

“Are you sure?” His forehead nudged hers amorously. “I don’ wanna…”

“Yes,” she breathed. “I might not be okay…but without you…I don’t wanna think of where I’d be.” She smiled poignantly against a shield of emotion. “Right now, Spike…you’re my line of reason. Please stay with me tonight.”

A long, still beat passed between them. One that spoke for more than anything words hoped to touch. The light shining through his eyes was everything she would ever need. And when he nodded, there was nothing else to reach for. Nothing else to understand. He merely stepped backward, her hand held in his, and gathered her in his arms as she settled against him.

Against him. Where she felt truly safe.

Long into the night, she felt his fingers caressing the contours of her face. Sleep was impossible, but there were no more words. No words. Only silence.

The silence of a sanctuary. There in the purest embrace she had ever known. Against Spike—against the one she loved. It was completion as she had never known before. It was everything. Whole. Fulfilling.

But most of all, it was temporary. Just for the night.

The first night in many where she had known solace. And for one second, one blessed second, the world was gone. The world in all its screaming horror. Her pain was on reserve. Saved for tomorrow. Saved for when she had the strength to face it.

For now, though, she was enjoying a stolen moment with the one she loved.

And it was enough.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Devil in the Belfry

The first thing she was aware of was the warmth that surrounded her entire being upon awakening. It was a bizarre feeling. Despite the lack of substantial heat, the sense of protection that settled without thought was as true as anything she had ever known. While she knew it unfair to persist in the likeness between Spike and Angel, she couldn’t help noting a continuity of difference. Her former lover’s arms had never offered pure comfort. He was always tense. Always afraid of what he might do. Of what she might do. Even in the few select instances when they had found succor in each other’s arms, he had never been wholly at ease. He had never trusted her. They had never trusted each other.

When Buffy awoke late that afternoon entwined in Spike’s embrace, the sensation of security and adoration that besieged her was so ample, so pure, that for the briefest minute, she could imagine everything as perfectly all right. That the cares that burdened her to the earthly vortex were gone forever. Not because Spike was there—she would never force the entirety of her well-being on someone. But together, together, they were infallible.

The Slayer turned to face her sire completely. Her sire. His arms were abound her tightly, hers draped over his chest, curled over his side to draw him even closer into her. The look on his face reflected the same worriless regard that had befallen her upon awaking. Any hint of the previous night’s grief and revelation was temporarily banned from retrospection. He was at peace. For the briefest while, he was at peace.

Buffy smiled faintly. There was still so much to consider. So much to think about. She hadn’t yet allowed her mind to fully embrace the truth about her nature. She was still so very afraid of what would come of it. What it meant for her. The thought that her cells were instinctively drawing away from the light sealed intently from the room bothered her on unfathomable levels. The idea of drinking blood to live had yet to make home within her psyche. And the big one. Immortality. She was here forever. She was bound to the world and her duties until the world finally ended. Until she knew the dust that had clinched the fate of so many before her. She was the hunted. She was a vampire. She was a creature of the night.

It was too much. Too much to wrestle with now.

And still, the idea of love was so much more frightening. It gave her so much more to lose. The steps she was taking now was full into alien territory. Whatever she had experienced before lay by the wayside of her feeling now. Angel. Riley. None had ever gone to the extents for her that this man had. And while it was unfair to assume they wouldn’t have, Spike had gone in on blind faith. He had given her hope when no other could. He had given her everything. Everything.

But that wasn’t why she loved him. There was no why. There was only knowledge. She loved him. His faults, his cockiness, his loyalty, his devotion, how it took crumbling that outer wall to get to the good stuff. How he loved so unconditionally. Even when it was against his nature. When it was against his very being. He had still come for her.

He always would.

Buffy secreted a small smile at that, her eyes traveling the expanse of his body. He hadn’t bothered to undress the night before more than to discard his customary black shirt to the ground. Gunslinger jeans clung approvingly to the sensual curve of his alabaster hip, doing little to hide the small marks and wounds that only centuries of living could bestow. Imprinted knowledge in his skin. Experience. He was a work of beauty. From his fingernails that were coated in chipped black polish to the peroxide locks that draped inelegantly into his face to the scar that distinguished his eyebrow. His imperfection made him perfect.

One hand was curled around hers. It nearly made her flush to consider how well those hands knew her now. So little and so much had passed between them. He had given her comfort with no want for himself. He had given her so much.

Her eyes settled across the length of him again. She wanted to give to him, too. She wanted to try to repay the tremendous debt she owed, even though she knew he would never accept it. The last thing she wanted—the last thing he wanted—was for her to come to him out of gratitude. And while she was grateful, there was a line between thanks and what she felt. A line so definitive she suspected the blind could see it.

Buffy pursed her lips uncertainly. They hadn’t explored their relationship the night before. They hadn’t even defined it. Words, confessions, all of the above remained reserved ad infinitum—to attempt and envisage his mood upon awakening was a tentative endeavor. But she wanted this. She had waited so long to touch him. To deny herself now was nothing short of self-torture. She wanted to touch him. The samplings she had stolen the night before could not hope to compare to what she had dreamt of doing. Small fantasies. Whims to keep her company while she was away. Things that she would have once banished from her mind with graphic astonishment.

She had never done this. She had never fathomed wanting to do it.

She wanted to now.

Carefully, she extracted herself from his arms, dropping a kiss onto his chest. His head quirked a bit at that, but he gave no sign of waking. Buffy cocked her head with a small smile, her heart warming again. It was just so…

Without thought, her hand was wandering across his abdomen. The feel of his skin under her fingers sent cool shivers across her body. And she wanted more. More, more. Always more. Even in his sleep, he was indulging all primitive responses. Small goosebumps sprouted across his stomach and a smile quirked his lips. But he was asleep. She knew it. She could feel his deep slumber. His peace. Wherever his mind was, it was far from consciousness.

But not her. Never from her.

Buffy’s hand dropped to the waistband of his jeans, wedging through the belt loops as she used his weight for leverage to pull herself closer and dropping brief, openmouthed kisses across the skin she explored. A responsive purr reverberated through his body, his hand searching for hers through his sleep and finding solace when his fingers wove into her hair. The touch was gentle and did nothing to jar him to wakefulness. Merely a reassurance that she was there. Some call from the dreamland he currently entertained.

More notably, the strain against his jeans had turned fiercely pronounced. The Slayer was enjoying herself and found no reason to hurry, but she similarly could not resist briefly turning her attention to the demanding bulge. A low moan rumbled through his mouth at the contact; her eyes shot up in time to see him lick his lips and move sensually against her. He remained asleep, but she was willing to bet that his dreams had taken an interesting turn.

“Mmmm…” The Slayer’s hand seemed to have a prerogative of its own; despite its possessor’s will. She found that one sample was hardly enough—her fingers indulged long strokes the suffering denim, a smile tickling her lips when he gasped sharply and arched against her. “Someone’s happy to see me.”

She sneaked a quick peek up. No change. His balance was normal, if not a little excited, and she reveled in the variation of knowledge. It was nothing particularly noteworthy—some vampire sense that she had adopted with the transformation, but it was nice. Over time, she reckoned, she would grow accustomed to just how much it took to get Spike to wake up. How much he could stand without beckoning participation.

It occurred to her that she had just associated herself with a sector of the vampiric lifestyle, and the knowledge was somewhat liberating. It was small, of course, and not nearly enough, but a start nonetheless. That was good—relating herself with the brighter aspects of her transformation before she confronted the whole of the bad.

Buffy shook the thought away as she stripped herself free of clothing. There were too many unknowns floating around out there and she wasn’t ready for that step. She was still so afraid on so many levels. And yet, the prospect of losing herself wasn’t as scary as it had been the night before. Love was a frightening thing. Love was the indirect cause of her conversion. Love had guided Spike to her from the beginning. Were it not for love, she would have died without a blessed second chance. She would have lost herself. She would have been lost without hope.

It was scary. It was so scary. But it was also real.

Her fingers encircled the buttons keeping her from her objective, deftly popping the first open when her patience got the better of her. In seconds he was free to her; his manhood leaping into her willing hands, engulfing her with the feel of him. The long hardness that he gave her, even if he remained unaware of her ministrations. Somehow she knew that the cool steel enjoying her gentle caress was all for her. And the notion warmed her beyond reproach.

It wasn’t enough. She needed more. Always more. Drawing in a deep, excited breath, she shimmied his jeans down passed his knees, leaving him splendidly bare to her exploration.

Buffy turned her eyes upward once more. Without removing her eyes from his face, she crawled upward and delivered a long, lavish lick to his length. This time, his reaction was so enthusiastic that the entirety of his pelvis leapt up, beseeching her for further attention.

A devious smile curled her lips and her tongue snaked over the leaking head of his cock, drawing drops of precum into her mouth. The hint of his taste surprised her—he was delicious. The act in itself had a reputation for degradation that she had always assumed its outcome to be no more pleasurable. Spike, however, had a flavor that stood proudly unique from anything she had ever sampled. Whether or not her love for him had heightened the experience or not was something she doubted she would ever truly know.

In hindsight, she suspected it didn’t matter.

Buffy glanced up again. No change. Her hands curled around the base of his erection, tightening instinctually as her mouth became more boisterous in its explorations. Her tongue took to his quivering underside, fingers careening and caressing the weight of him. With each taste she stole from his skin, the more she wanted for herself. Her confidence gaining momentum, she settled next to him, licking in long, even strokes. Savoring the richness of his skin. The feel of him quivering beneath her touch. His responsiveness, even in his sleep, was incomparable. Every twitch, subconscious moan, every move he made enhanced the opulence of her enjoyment.

It was even more of a rush when she felt him jolt to awareness.

She felt his sweeping confusion as though it were her own. The gasp that tainted the air was one of the most inspiring sounds that had ever touched her ears. Spike attempted to sit up, but once he caught a glance of the attentive blonde between his legs, he collapsed in awe against his pillows, thrusting against her with involuntary urgency.

“Oh God,” he moaned. “My God. Buffy…”

“Mmmm?” she asked rhetorically, sending vibrations through his skin.

Spike whimpered inarticulately. “Christ!”

The Slayer pulled back impishly, eyes sparkling. Everything was worth it if only to savor his reaction. Her lips lingered for a deliciously long moment before leaving him altogether. The agonized groan that tore from his vocals at the loss buzzed every nerve in her being. “Nice way to wake up, huh?”

“Oh God…”

“Want more?”

He thrust against her pleadingly, gaze wide and frantic. “Buffy!”

“I’ll take that as a big yes.”

The surprise faded; Spike leaned invitingly against the mattress, all lazy satin and seduction. It amazed her how quickly he could change seasons; begging one second and in complete control the next. “Very big, luv,” he purred.

“The biggest,” she agreed, granting him a kittenish wink.

“You flatter.” A groan spilled from his lips as her tongue found a particularly sensitive vein, her fingers busy caressing the weight of him. She caressed him for long, agonizing seconds before tracing him again lightly with her teeth. “Feel free to…oh god, don’ stop.”

“Really?”

The peroxide vampire’s eyes widened as though he doubted her ability to think it otherwise. “Please,” he begged. “Feels so bloody good, baby. So…oh…”

Buffy quirked a brow, her mouth moving to sample the texture of his sac. Once more, Spike whimpered and crooned back. His hands, however, had an entirely different route. Almost intuitively, he sought out the sweet wetness from her apex of curls, stroking leisurely to bring her over with him. He attempted to bring her body closer to taste her richness fully, but she was steadfast. This morning rendezvous was for him and him alone.

However, that didn’t stop her from spreading her thighs to allow him access. And the next moans that tickled the air were hers.

Then they were moaning together. Her hips moving sensually against his as their attentions sharpened in wondrous unity. Even still, she remained singularly focused. Every whimper to touch the air was music to her ears—stylish cliché and all. Her focus returned to his cock when his groans reached summit, her grip tightening at the base. Everything else was instinct. Her nibbling tastes as much to her enjoyment as to his, her own excitement drawn more from his responsiveness than anything she thought possible. She took him as far into her mouth as she could, her hands moving back to the fullness of his weight to massage erotically, her strokes moving in direct counterpoint to her lips. Then she was deep-throating him in earnest, drawing him in as far as she could and back again, suckling at his flesh with eagerness that did not know her. The taste of him, his skin against her tongue…she couldn’t get enough of him. When she sensed him fighting the immediacy of his climax, she drew him out completely, smiled as his whimpers of protest colored the air, and swirled her tongue again over the head once, twice, and that was it. With her hips crashing against his fingers and her mouth battling his thrusts for dominance, she grasped his thighs and held determinately when the power of his orgasm flooded her with enthusiasm she couldn’t have anticipated. Wave after wave surged through him—the impact of his fullness drowning into an abyss sweeter than anything he had ever hoped to discover. His own grasp was forced from her womb and replaced at her hips, holding with such fierce severity that he wasn’t sure even her pure and strong femininity was enough to anchor him.

Buffy smiled warmly as his shudders subsided, licking him clean and restoring his hardness. The pants that mingled in the air were naked and colored in disbelief. Reality returning where it had no chance before. For long minutes, he left himself to gather his bearings, detached and nearly unaware of even her presence lingering so near. She rested against his hipbone, drawing artless patterns across his abdomen. The thought struck her with breathtaking revelation as she watched him; there was no way she would ever get enough of this. These leisure mornings of granted solitude. The love she felt swarm within her at every touch. The incredulity and adoration blazing behind his eyes when they finally found her. He looked at her as though he had never seen her before. As though the impact of his feeling was threatening to spill from him, he could not contain it. He unraveled her with a glance. He saw into her with nothing more than a glance.

And he was always surprising her. One minute watching her with calm scrutiny, the next reaching for her with such insistence that she could not deny him. He finally found her hips and dabbled with no pleasantries, no further foreplay. As though the imminence of her release would impact him even greater than her. His tongue plunged into her, searching and nibbling and tasting her hidden cavern as his fingers found her clit and kneaded her in soft, sensual strokes. He searched. He implored. He drank her fully until her waves were crashing over him. Until it was her pants coloring the air. Until they were coiled on the bed, recovering together.

Forever could have happened and neither would have noticed. When she summoned the strength, Buffy turned and crawled up the length of him, curling into his side as though she had been made to fit there. His arms wound around her and held her against him, nuzzling her hair as he slowly returned to himself.

“Buffy…”

She smiled and crooned, suddenly bashful for reasons that were unfathomable to her. “Hey,” she replied, burying her head into his shoulder.

He stared at her blankly, as though the possible weight of her shyness enchanted him. “Hey yourself.”

“Whatcha doin’?”

Spike couldn’t help it; he smiled. “’m tryin’ to fall back from Heaven. You?”

“Getting used to feeling safe,” Buffy retorted. “It’s a funny sensation.”

There was a heavy pause; the hand stroking her back absently coming to a brief pause. “You feel safe?” he asked lowly. “Here? With me?”

She feathered a kiss on his chest. “Yes.”

“With me?”

“Again, yes.” A small smile tickled her face. “So it was okay?”

“Okay? Okay?” Spike’s arms tightened around her. “That was the most amazin’ thing I’ve ever…” His face nuzzled her hair, inhaling the fullness of her essence. “I’ve never felt anythin’ like that. You’re so…god…’m never gonna get enough of you. I never could.”

The smile grew timidly. “I’d never done that before.” Buffy buried her face in his chest to hide her embarrassment. “I’d never wanted to with anyone.”

“You didn’t—”

“I wanted to with you.” She brushed a kiss against his skin, unable to refrain from teasing a nipple with her tongue. The moan she coaxed sent small ripples of pleasure over her skin. “I wanted to share that with you. Just you.”

The peroxide vampire stiffened perceptibly, though it was not from discomfort. The weight of his euphoria, as well as the furthered emphasis on his fear, tainted the atmosphere with a sense of cherished foreboding that could not be embraced nor ignored. Infinitely at a standstill. Continually attempting to find where they stood. To make that foundation secure. “You amaze me,” he breathed a minute later. “You absolutely amaze me.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Why?” he repeated hoarsely. “God…I don’…” He trailed off as his thoughts meandered and lost their footing. “Because you shouldn’t be here. After what I did to you…there’s no reason…” His lips found her temple and lingered reverently. “You shouldn’t even let me touch you. ‘m not worth it. After what I did—”

“I thought we covered this already.”

“I jus’—”

Buffy sat up and moved for his mouth, kissing him with such fervor that he could not mistake her intent. Her meaning. The truth behind her words. Even if he never agreed with them, he would likewise never doubt her sincerity. Her forgiveness. She had given him more than anything he had ever hoped to touch. And here she was. In his bed. Sharing his bed. Her tongue wrestling with his for dominance, sampling the fullness of his essence. He tasted as good as he smelled. Faded cigarettes and liquor, the more present salt of his tears and, more overpoweringly, herself.

Spike moaned into her, finding his own taste and the richness of her mouth. God, she gave him so much. Gave him everything he didn’t deserve. More than what he didn’t deserve.

“I don’t know how it happened,” she said softly when they pulled apart. “But I know that it started before this. It started…I don’t know when it started. Maybe it started the first time I saw you.” She felt him smile at the implication, but continued before he could interrupt. “But this is what I want.”

Spike froze, arms clamping around her. “What is what you want?”

“This.” Buffy’s eyes leveled with his so that he would understand her. So that he would have no reason to doubt. “You. I want you.”

Awe and disbelief flooded his gaze. That and so much love she expected to drown in his ocean. “You want me?”

“Yes.”

“You…” She watched emotion overwhelm him to the point of tears, and feared tumbling after him. The knowledge that she could kill him with words was already more power than she wanted, but the understanding that his love could flounder her elevated her to levels she had never experienced before. “Oh, Buffy, I—”

A sharp knock shattered their solitude, bringing the world outside back to deafening reality.

There was little peace. Cordelia’s voice followed shortly thereafter. “Hey! You two alive in there?”

Buffy felt Spike grow rigid but clamped a hand on his shoulder before he could offer a retort. “Hardy har har, Cordy!”

“I thought it was cute. Anyway, we got a problem.”

The mood in the room automatically dropped. The vampires exchanged troubled glances.

“What is it?” Spike asked.

“You better come down.”

Another beat passed. “We’ll be right there,” the Slayer conceded.

They both sensed her move away. Spike grasped Buffy’s wrist to hold her to him.

“We’re not done here,” he promised huskily. There was something in his tone that made her clench her thighs together in anticipation.

There were a thousand witty things that sprung to mind but she lacked the prosperity to voice any. Thus she opted with the safe ground. “I know.”

A grin tickled his lips but he did not call her on it. Instead, his eyes averted to his legs and a frown creased his face. “Uh…what happened to my trousers?”

“I took them away.”

“Not all the way away.”

“I know. Got kinda frustrated, so I left ‘em.” She shrugged. “We better get going.”

Spike smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. He expressed so much with so little. He gave so much without giving at all. And it was all she needed. “We’re not done here,” he repeated, gaze dropping to her mouth. “We’re not even close to done.”

This time, words did not fail her.

“You better believe it.”

He kissed her and it was everything. More than everything. A place to find that relief. A reasoning behind whatever truth she had ever known.

For this, he had given everything back to her.

And she could never repay it.

The world was not nearly as frightening descending the stairs as it had been on the way up. Spike and Buffy were careful not to look too hopeful, even though their hands were clasped and they couldn’t tear their eyes from each other for more than a few seconds at a time. It was a state of suspended rapture; they didn’t want to exhibit more than they felt a right experiencing while their relationship was still young, not to mention undefined.

A few things were evident right away. The lobby was as packed as it had ever been. Nikki was lounged in one of the middle sofas with Rosie in her lap. Kate Lockley and Lindsey McDonald had propped themselves against the checkout counter; a foul disposition over the former, but everyone was—by now—accustomed to her. Wesley, Wright, and Cordelia were talking quietly near the former Watcher’s office, and Gunn was surveying the weapons display.

“Bugger,” Spike muttered. The Slayer turned to him with wide eyes and he nodded at the icy blonde who had turned to briefly observe something to McDonald. “I don’ even know the bint all that well an’ I know that her bein’ here’s not a good thing.”

“Who is she?”

“Some police officer your ex honey managed to brass off.”

Buffy’s brows arched appraisingly. “I see. So why’s she here?”

Spike nodded at Cordelia, who brightened at their appearance. “Got a feelin’ we’re about to find out.” His eyes averted to Wright and a smile broke across his face. The demon hunter was staring at the Slayer in wide-eyed reverence. He had not seen her since the botched rescue. He had not seen her as she was in normal light; the tension searing across his form was palpable, but the curiosity and noted assessment was even more so. The vampire grinned and tightened his grip on his ladylove’s hand. “But firs’, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

The Slayer followed his gaze. She knew Wesley and Cordelia; the other two were strangers. It was the look in the rugged man’s eyes that betrayed him. The fearful inquisitiveness. The genuine wall of concern.

This was he. This was the man responsible for her vampirism.

There was a rustle from behind. “Excuse me,” the officer began immediately.

Spike tossed a nasty glance over his shoulder. “Hold up,” he growled, tugging Buffy alongside him as he started for the other side of the lobby.

“That wasn’t nice,” she whispered to him.

He shrugged in response. “What can I say, luv? ’m a bad, rude man.”

A smile whispered across her face and she leaned up to brush a kiss over his throat, reveling in the shudders that broke across him. “Yeah, you are,” she agreed. “An awfully sweet one, I might add.”

He gave her a look that was meant to be menacing while secreting the glee that shined behind his eyes. “Hush. You’ll give me away.”

Buffy cuddled self-consciously into his side. “Couldn’t have that. I want you all to myself.” She could have flushed under the smoldering look he gave her at that and instead nodded at the increasingly apprehensive demon hunter. “Think he’s scared of me?”

“Bloody terrified.” Spike flashed a quick grin. “But ‘e’d never admit it.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’m not mad at him, either.” A shudder ran through her. “I’m still…I’m still dazed a little, but I’m not mad. I don’t think…with everything that happened, I don’t think…”

“That’s fine, luv,” he assured her, dropping a kiss on her head. “But ‘m not the one you should be tellin’.” His eyes brightened as they stilled. “Buffy, this is Zangy.” He nodded to Gunn. “An’ that bloke’s Charlie.”

The Slayer’s brows arched expectantly.

“Zack Wright,” the demon hunter clarified, grasping her hand with such overwhelming fervor that it couldn’t help but touch her heart. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I’ve heard about you.”

A warm smile touched her lips. “It’s great to meet you, Zack.” Her eyes averted to the one so lazily brandished as Charlie with wry expectation. “And—”

“Gunn,” he corrected, shooting a hell-freezing gaze that had absolutely no effect in Spike’s direction. “Charles Gunn. Just Gunn, as a matter of fact. Not Charlie.”

“I didn’t think you looked like a Charlie,” she agreed.

“Yeah, well, you might try tellin’ your boyfriend that.”

Again, she felt Spike stiffen. He very notably had no objections to the term itself in reference to her, but he was ever conscious of her reaction. They needed to have that talk soon; while his integrity was as adorable as ever, she wanted him to be certain that she returned his regard in every manner possible.

“What?” Buffy replied with a laugh. “Don’t tell me you guys have been hanging around each other all this time and you still don’t know how stubborn he is?”

“Well, you know guys,” Cordelia said, leaning on Wright’s shoulder. “In one ear and out the other. It’s going to be nice to get some additional feminine influence around here. Other than Wesley, of course.”

“Of course,” the Slayer agreed with a nod.

The Watcher frowned at that. “I beg your pardon.”

The girls exchanged a conspiratorial grin and chuckled quietly together.

“How you feeling?” Cordelia asked a minute later.

“Good,” Buffy replied. “Better. Much, much better. Last night was kinda heavy…I guess this entire thing’s gonna be one of those one-step-at-a-time shindigs.”

“Nah,” Gunn drawled in jest. “Weeks of torture, dyin’…I woulda thought you’d be ready for some real down partyin’ and the whole nine yards. Don’t tell me you’re tired, girl.”

“You’d be surprised at what can do it for you,” the Slayer commented, smiling faintly. “I guess my threshold came when—”

Spike’s hold on her hand tightened. He wasn’t ready to hear about this. Obligingly, she quieted and nodded instead for the discarded pair at the front counter. “Anyway, what’s up?”

“We have vampire trouble,” Wesley simplified, nodding at the blonde officer and McDonald, who started over without hesitation. “Buffy, this is Detective Kate Lockley. I believe you know Lindsey.” She nodded, eyes sullen. “Best we can figure, Angelus is aware that his attempt to murder you was…” A dramatic breath rolled across his shoulders. “He knows that you’ve been brought over.”

Buffy tensed, eyes fluttering closed subconsciously. Her grip on Spike tightened, and she pressed herself against him as though searching for security that she innately did not need. His presence was comforting, and she capitalized on that comfort. The memories that even Angelus’s name brought when spoken aloud were too fresh to explore. As though every part of her that had ever felt pain suddenly screamed to agonizing life.

“How?” she asked softly.

“’S Dru,” the peroxide vampire answered. “She had one of her visions.”

“Most likely,” Wesley agreed. “Lindsey also speculates—”

“There’s a chance they were exposed to the security film,” the lawyer intervened. “I haven’t been there to supervise, therefore I cannot say for certain, but—”

“Whoa. Wait.” Buffy’s eyes went wide. “Security film? As in…cameras?”

Spike’s gaze narrowed dangerously. “You’ve seen everythin’ that—”

“Yes. I know. Bad. But hey, I’m over it.” Lindsey held up a hand diplomatically. “It gets worse.”

The platinum vampire snarled and his eyes blazed a dangerous yellow. “How worse?”

“Worse as in your friends have been tearing apart the town,” Lockley growled, blue gaze blazing with arctic fire. “In a manner that is blatantly obvious. In two days, they’ve hospitalized more than—”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Buffy decided, pulling away from Spike for the first time.

“They’re trying to draw you out,” Lindsey said. “He wants to—”

“What part of ‘don’t wanna hear it’ didn’t you get? If you need, I can go over it again, slowly if you like.”

“With all due respect, Ms. Summers, you have to hear it,” Kate retorted. “Because until you answer, people are going to keep dying.”

“You heartless trollop,” Spike snarled. “You’re askin’ her to—”

“I’m sure that if you have a better idea, you wouldn’t have waited so long to give it to us.”

“This is the firs’ we’ve bloody well heard of it!” The platinum Cockney turned hotly to Wesley, his expression as deadly serious as any had seen it. “You better get her outta here before I take a chunk outta her neck. You have—”

“Spike.” Buffy laid a delicate hand on his arm, her touch sponging his hostility into her with power that was frighteningly potent. “It’s all right.”

His eyes softened, the swarm of emotion grounding her with palatability. “She’s askin’ you to—”

“I know.”

“You can’t. I’m not gonna let him near you again.”

“Hey, I’m not breaking into song over it.” She smiled faintly. “But I’ll be ready. The reason he bested me last time was because I wasn’t ready. This is what I do. I—”

A choking note wormed into his tone, his eyes powerfully emotional. “No. Buffy, please…” He glanced down, shivering in his determination to keep from a more pronounced emotional outburst in front of his colleagues. “I can’t have you out there again. After what I went through…’s too soon.” He turned an accusing eye to the lawyer and his accomplice. “You’re askin’ this too soon!”

“Tell that to eighteen year old Miranda Livingston, whose funeral is arranged for tomorrow afternoon at three,” Lockley snapped, not the least bit moved. “Or how about twenty-three year old graduate student Clark McAlister. He died of severe hemorrhaging as a result of—”

“Stop!” Buffy cried. “I don’t—”

“Yeah, it’s easy for me to stop. Tell that to Angel.” The officer stepped forward intently. “I know it’s asking a lot. It’s asking more than a lot. What you’ve been through…I can’t begin to imagine. But I do know about you, Ms. Summers. Granted, I don’t know everything about Slayers, but I know enough. I know that you had power before and I’m willing to bet that you have even more now. If anyone can put an end to this, it’s—”

“The answer’s no,” the peroxide snarled. “I don’ give two fucks what your sodding reasoning is. ‘S not—”

Buffy’s hand on his arm tightened. “I’m going to have to do it.”

“No.”

“Spike—”

“No. No, I can’t stand for that. Please.” He turned to her violently, eyes large and beseeching. The sheen of tears he was trying to restrain flooded her with grief. If ever she had doubted the trials he had endured with her seizure, every inkling of conviction was before her now. “Please don’…” In desperation, he pivoted to Wright and nodded. “We’ll go. Zangy, Charlie, Wes…we’ll go.”

“I’ll go,” Nikki volunteered.

The peroxide vampire, Wright, and Cordelia flashed her a series of irritated glances with one indisputable decree. “No.”

“But I—”

“No.”

The Slayer pulled Spike back to her. The look in his eyes had not changed, nor had its power over her heart lost any sway in the past few seconds. She felt her will crumpling without forward warning. “I need to do this,” she said softly.

He was shaking his head even before she spoke. “No. No. ‘S too soon, baby. I can’t…you can’t do this to me so soon.”

“Spike—”

“I can handle Peaches,” he promised. “I can.”

“We all can,” Zack agreed with a nod. “Especially with Lockley coming. Right?”

It was a clear challenge. One that she accepted gladly.

“Of course.” Kate’s gaze centered on Buffy. “If this is a problem that you two need to work out, by all means. But I have to agree that a Slayer on our side—”

The platinum vampire growled dangerously, turning with such force that it took her by surprise. “Shut your gob before I rip your tongue from your mouth.”

“Hey,” Lindsey contested. “Calm down. There’s no reason to—”

“No reason? No bloody reason?!” His hand moved to tighten around the Slayer’s subconsciously. “She’s all the reason I need.”

There was no way her heart could withstand that statement without melting.

“We need to stop this before it gets worse,” Lockley said reasonably, reasserting herself with a calm breath. “We need to apprehend Angelus.”

Spike shook his head. “’S too soon. You can’t take…” He exhaled deeply, turning his gaze to Buffy. “’S too soon. I know you’re…you’re brilliant at what you do, sweetheart. There’s none better. But I can’t…’s too soon. I jus’ got you back. Losin’ you was…” His voice broke and he turned away, suddenly self-conscious. “Please don’ ask me to…”

Kate’s eyes narrowed unsympathetically. “You selfish bastard.”

A resonating growl rumbled through the Slayer’s throat that she hardly noticed.

The peroxide vampire appraised her with an adoring look that seared with raw emotion.

“Hey,” Cordelia snapped. “Back off. You’ve been Miss Absentee for the past forever. Spike’s done all the work. He deserves a break. Okay?”

“Because he’s afraid to get his feet wet—”

“I’m not going.”

The entire lobby drew to a defined standstill.

“Ms. Summers…” Lockley began slowly. “I know this has been a trying time for you, especially given recent circumstances, but—”

“I’m not going. Not now.” Buffy emanated a deep, anxious breath. “I’m too…I wouldn’t help. At all. I’m not ready to go against him. With what happened…it was like nothing that’s ever happened to me. It was…” She broke with a shudder, drawing on her sire’s strength subconsciously. “It’s just…not enough time. And I’d be unbalanced, Spike would be unbalanced, and I’d be even more unbalanced worrying about Spike getting caught off guard because of his unbalanceness.” She smiled faintly at the relief that flooded the peroxide vampire’s eyes. “It’s too…I just can’t. Not now.”

There was a long silence and a lot of nasty glances. But not a word. Simple resignation.

Spike’s relief remained steadfast. There was nothing comparable to the way he looked at her now. It was the most overpowering feeling she had ever experienced. In a way that was nothing about power, she was on top of the world.

And it scared her for more than she was worth.

No words. The gratitude in his gaze spoke for more than simple dialogue could contend.

And that was all she needed.

Nothing else.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The Three Great Troubles

God, this was a filthy city.

The night hummed with life in a manner she reckoned she would miss if she ever decided to relocate. While she prided herself in being a day person, it was the night that irrevocably drew her home. The lights. The sounds. The people. The full of the experience. Of course, Lockley's job allotted little room for preference. If she was assigned to a night case, she would be there. And that was the way it was. The way it always had been. The way she had been taught to follow the rules.

She preferred working at daybreak. It left open so many interesting opportunities for when the night fell. That wasn't to say she ever accepted the dark's offer. No; rather, it remained eternally to the side. Her own personalized serpent in a tainted garden, offering her the fruit of her bearings that would provide ample occasion to leave.

Ever since Angel had waltzed into her life, her hours had held nothing but work. If not for cleaning up his messes then definitely for helping him clean up messes that she took pleasure in attributing to his kind.

And even though she had always stood at the ready with an accusation curled on her tongue, the veracity behind his turn was one of the most unsettling truths she had ever endured. She reckoned she still hadn't coped adequately; Angel's absence left a disquieting unbalance in her life. She had no one to turn to when she sported a really hot lead; despite her words, she didn't trust those who worked for him nearly as much as she trusted the man himself. Even with the appearance of another vampire to temporarily fill his shoes, even with the anthologies and text the faithful staff had at their disposal, she knew none of them like she knew Angel.

But Angel was gone. Angel was out there right now, ripping the throat out of another unsuspecting victim whose face would be forgotten within a week.

The thought made her sick.

Enough had passed that Lockley felt comfortable in asserting her position as an authority in vampirism. She had completed all the research that could possibly wield a hand in the opposition they were facing. It was a grizzly task, but she had pulled through admirably. The negatives that were reported back to the station of each victim post mortem were different enough not to warrant a connection—currently—but similarly connected in a way that clearly told her that Angel, Darla, and Drusilla were behind them.

She even felt she could even pinpoint who had killed whom, a talent she neither liked nor wanted. And yet, it was all for the job. In the heartland of the job. It was all in the execution and presentation. Darla was customarily behind the quick ones. Those reported back to have lasted no longer than seven minutes. These were typically clean: a bite to the throat, a snap of the neck, no artistry. Simple pleasure in what she indulged. There was likewise no consistency in pattern from where she selected her kills. They were sporadic at best. Several reports had even reached their attention from suburbs that were a good distance from the city itself. If anything, the vampire enjoyed employing curiosity.

Drusilla was a different story. While she took no time to thoroughly think through those who accumulated on her list each night, there was a certain certified sloppiness in each life she took. As though the death itself was by accident; killed before she was ready to bid them farewell. Lockley suspected that the vampire had long since adapted the impatience Spike displayed so frequently. Her selections were typically vagrants—those to coddle and coo and make time with before she tired of her game and moved on to the next conquest. She had a hunting ground and had yet to extend its boundaries. While this seemingly handed the LAPD the advantage, Kate knew well that Drusilla would only allow herself to be captured if she could turn it into a game. Or, rather, if she knew Angelus would not object.

And Angel. Angel.

Angelus.

Angelus was teasing them. Calling out to them. Tempting fate wherever he went. His kills were dynamic and overstated. It was as though some horror novel she had long ago committed to memory had suddenly leapt off the pages. He loved the drama of it all. A simple murder was made into a media circus with a few strings, and suddenly Joe Nobody had more publicity than he ever enjoyed in life. It was his calling card. He wanted her to know exactly where he was at all times. He wanted Buffy to know where he was. He wanted them to come after him.

Buffy had refused his offer. While Lockley understood that anyone that had suffered through what she had suffered through deserved their measure of peace—and notably more, all things considered—that didn't excuse the understanding that innocents were losing their lives.

It bothered the Slayer—that much was evident. Asking her to assist tonight was too much, but similarly not enough. This was what she was made for. Everything Lockley had ever read noted as much. And while what had happened was beyond tragic, that did not excuse those who would not return home tonight.

Personally, she blamed Spike. The overprotective lover. How fucking classic.

Kate shook her head. Considering the steps they could have taken to prevent such atrocity was futile now. On some primal level, she knew it was unfair to expect anything of a recently released torture victim—especially one that had suffered as much as Buffy had suffered. No matter if said torture victim was stronger than any one person she had ever met.

It was the plight of innocents that drove Lockley's conviction. People walking the streets that knew nothing of the subhuman existence that thrived in the city. Logically, she knew it was impossible to always be there to save everyone. She couldn't demand as much from herself any more than she could ask her colleagues to give her what she needed. One must have aspirations, and in the year and a half that she had known him, Lockley had made Angel and all his endeavors her business.

If only she had killed him when she had the chance...

This was different. She knew it was. Her previous prejudice was unjustified, even if she would never admit it. What he was now counteracted every truth she had experienced firsthand. Angel, despite the great sin of immortality, had been a reliable associate and—if she wanted to be entirely honest—a good friend as well. Perhaps it was that knowledge that had blinded her. She didn't know anymore. It was so difficult to judge.

They had split the designated hunting grounds in accordance with personal association. Wesley and Gunn were patrolling the areas that claimed most of Drusilla's haunts. Neither one of them were eager to add their previous friend and employer to their list of conquests, despite inevitably. The former Watcher was as educated as any in Drusilla's killing patterns, thus the selection was appropriate. At first, the men had seemed slightly apprehensive of Spike's reaction in the likelihood of his former's death, but he vocally didn't give a damn. Not when she had hurt Buffy. Not when she had helped hurt Buffy.

It was amazing. Lockley had never seen anything like it; she never would have expected such blind devotion from a vampire. Even in the short time she had witnessed between them, his love, concern, and wealth of gratitude had failed to vacate his eyes. If there was another woman in the room—let alone the world—he did not know it.

Amazing. And Spike's only motivation for leaving her was the promise of repaying Angelus the full of what he stole. What he ripped away from her. Thus he was here. Hunting somewhere. Following his scent with the hopes of being led to his grandsire. Lockley wondered briefly if Lindsey was with him, or if the lawyer had wandered in another direction. For his sake, she hoped not. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that the man could take care of himself, but Angelus was not to be underestimated. She knew that from reading alone and had a feeling that there was much Spike had not shared. Much Cordelia and—most intimately—Buffy knew better than they wanted to remember, much less confess.

That left Zack Wright searching alone for Darla, which was more than fine by him. While nothing was methodically explained, there was palpably an unresolved vendetta between the demon hunter and his malevolent target that cancelled any reservations he might have in facing such a powerful foe by himself. And though he never said anything, Lockley had sensed Spike's anxiety in allowing his friend to track her by himself. The man had notably trailed plenty of vamps and other various nasties prior to their acquaintance, thus it wasn't as though he couldn't take care of himself.

And here they were. Three teams of self-proclaimed experts searching the slums of Los Angeles with the aspiration of stopping the deadliest trio to strike the undead world in documented history.

It was more than intimidating. But Lockley would not be swayed.

She had endured this long enough.

When committing herself to the job, Kate found it utterly imperative to disassociate herself on a personal level from her surroundings. She would utilize whatever came under her care if it could be wielded to her advantage. Her travels tonight had led her to a wide alley where the stench of death and blood thickened the air like molasses. It wasn't entirely different from her previous exploits; the setup, however, had too much of Angelus's personality for her liking.

Lockley knew her limitations. She was not a woman to see something because she wanted to rather than familiarizing herself with its tangibility. She wanted to see Angelus dust. She wanted this to come to an end more than anything. Such to the point that she wasn't sure if her eyes were loyalists or conjuring truths out of something that wasn't really there.

The past year—and especially—the last few weeks had reengaged her acquaintance with the depth of Angelus's meticulousness and—more precisely—the intimacy of his victims. The centuries had seen so many. A chambermaid doing her best to protect her child. A lowly British deserter trying to find refuge from the invading French army. Some text documented that he had met and dined with Napoleon Bonaparte, feeding him several strategies that would have ultimately led the army to victory had his advice been heeded. The demon had feasted on more of history's dead than she cared to consider. All of mankind was classified as beneath him, thus he took no shame when he killed. A babe, a kindly old man, a widowed mother struggling to keep food on the table during times of need. It simply didn't matter to him.

Blood was, after all, blood.

Therefore, Lockley knew better than to blink when she found herself gazing at the countenance of a girl—a child—looking back at her in motionless horror. The gash at her throat bore relatively fresh marks, the skin beneath her fingernails ample enough evidence of her will to fight for herself; undoubtedly the casual negligence of being raised under the roof of Los Angeles's smog-filled sky. Her face was young but dirty. Her eyes dead, but wizened with knowledge that should not have known her. She was one of the city's many casualties. Another homeless body that no one would claim, much less miss.

Even still, despite her bout with professionalism, Lockley felt her eyes well with tears. She hated revealing herself so, but when responsibility fell harshly on her shoulders, she had nowhere else to turn. A girl was dead and no one would care. No one. If anything else, she deserved someone to cry for her. Tonight, as she had most feared, it would be Lockley. To cry for her. To mourn the passing of someone she didn't know. To reap her killer his justice.

Not two feet from the girl lay another. A boy. And another. Two, then, three, and four and five.

He was here. And he was trying to get someone's attention.

No. That wasn't right. He was trying to get Buffy's attention. And he didn't care how long it took him.

Kate raised her head, expression stony. Her tears were gone in the namesake of something more important. More familiar. She never cried, even when it was expected of her, and she would not give him the satisfaction of prolonging her grief now. "I know you're here," she announced. Breaking protocol, of course, but there was no sense in attempting to remain stealthy. Angelus was well aware of her presence; she knew it. "And I'm the only one coming."

The silence that fell dead after her invitation had the power to grasp the most of either of his reactions. Full out quietude or an answer that would certainly leave her more than dead. Lockley stilled to near flawlessness, gun coiled in grasp so tightly it might as well lease claim as an additional appendage. She used its authority with much more frequency than her hands, it seemed. It was the only part of her anyone deemed reasonable to adhere.

There was nothing. Nothing.

Such could mean a number of things, and she wouldn't allow herself to feel any relief until she had an idea pertaining to his location. Even if it did not present her with the advantage. Kate hated being surprised; she just needed a place to shoot.

After all, happiness was a warm gun.

Lockley's eyes narrowed through the smog-laced darkness. While her perception was unquestionable, there were truths to abide the laws of vampirism that far outshone her limitations. And yet, nothing. A calm, controlled breath rolled through her lips, and she indulged a few more quiet steps forward.

Tonight was the last. She felt it. No more children would find their blood on her hands. Not again. Not from this vampire. One of them was going to die before the evening was over.

And damned if she didn't do her best to make sure it wasn't her.

Lockley expelled another breath, walking forward with cautious ease.

"Angel," she said again slowly. "It's over. All of it. Your girls are being hunted, and I have it on good authority that Wolfram and Hart has disclosed their position to remove your association from their list of...special projects." That much was a lie; she was going on blind faith that Lindsey's former colleague—Lilah Morgan—would have it in her to see that their failed experiment be accurately disposed of. "If Darla and Drusilla are not stopped tonight by your ex-best friends, then surely—"

An eerie pierce through the deafening silence that surrounded her. The lazy drawl of his voice was enough to freeze her blood in her veins. "I tell you, Katie," he said from nowhere. Nowhere and everywhere. Lockley whirled, eyes imploring desperately. There was nothing. Nothing. "For someone who talks as much as you do, you really have nothing to say."

The blonde gnawed thoughtfully on her lower lip. "I see. You don't care. Well, can't say that surprises. But—"

"But nothing. You're out here chasing me with your little gun. I had really, really hoped you knew better than that." Something crashed behind her and the voice changed directions. And still nothing. The thundering of her heart was becoming louder with every second, but she would not admit herself to fear. Fear was for the weak, and she was never weak. "It's kinda cute, when you think about it," Angelus continued from his post of Nowhere. "Hero's Incorporated has divvied into teams. I suppose Spike's hunting down Drusilla...or no. No. Take that back, Katie, I've changed my mind. You see, Spike could never bring himself to stick it to a girl he once fucked. You should appreciate that. Guess that means the boy's coming after me, too. Well, whaddya say? The more the fucking merrier, right?" He paused again thoughtfully, moving again too quickly and silently for her senses to keep up. "How many are out tonight, hmmm? Let's see. They got you—the wannabe Slayer. Spike, the fucker of Slayers. Wesley, who doesn't know how to keep a Slayer. Gunn, who wouldn't know a Slayer from his dead sister. And the demon hunter. The male Slayer." Another pause and he seemed closer. Lockley jumped and turned but there was nothing to answer her—nothing but the mocking ring of his endless chuckles. "But where, sweetheart, do you think the real Slayer is? Hmmm? Really, after all we shared; I thought she'd be keen on giving me messages herself instead of sending lackeys. Is that what you are, Katie? A lackey? I gotta tell you, you're not a very good one. I mean—come on—a gun? Scary business there. A gun." Closer still. God, she could almost feel his breath on her throat. "Whaddya gonna do, Officer? Arrest me? I'm sure that'll fly downtown. The boys'll take one look at you and the scrapings of your former career and kick you out before letting you clean out your desk. You've been waiting to pin something on me for over a year, and you haven't been very quiet about it. This to me rings as a little...oh say..."

Something suddenly leapt from the darkness, grasping her wrist and twisting her arm until she was chest-to-chest with an anchor of steel, losing herself in endless, soulless eyes that knew no mercy. Her gun fell haphazardly to the ground and he kicked it away before the thought could even encourage her to retrieve it. His smile was thin and nasty. And she knew without having to know anything at all that she had lost.

She had lost.

She had lost without even putting up a fight. Without seeing. Without thinking. Without being able to save the girl he would murder next.

Because it was her.

"Desperate," he breathed into her ear.

And again to the victor goes the spoils. Twice she had felt Angel's fangs pierce her throat. Twice she had mentally slapped herself for lack of foresight. Twice she had wanted to scream and writhe and put up something of a struggle. To go down as she was meant to go down. To not be another face that he added to his list of kills.

The first time had been to save her.

This time was to watch her die.

There would be no leeway for clemency. None.

Without ever having started, Lockley fell to the pavement, and it was over.

The scent of blood coated the air so thick that Spike thought even he might choke from the weight of it. He had not thought himself too far behind the officer, but her scent had a means of scattering to its content when he allowed his guard to drop. It was more than evident that she had spent a great deal of time out here. Wandering these alleyways and garbage heaps in search of her personal sanctuary. She wanted Angel dead as much as he did—and despite the growing threat of Darla and Drusilla—he reckoned it was his blood she craved above all others.

No small wonder why. From what he gathered, Angel had made her trust him before revealing what he was. That was liable to do it in any circumstance.

Truthfully, the platinum vampire had not intended to follow Lockley this far. As per their agreement, he would ascertain the condition of a segment of Angelus's hunting grounds. He had—well, sort of. He had walked through, noted instantly that his grandsire was nowhere within proximity, and left immediately thereafter to seek out the irate blonde that he had grown to loath beyond compare since coming into her acquaintance. If Angelus realized that Buffy was not a part of their outing, he would likely focus on the next best thing.

Namely a lovely blonde with strength, determination, and an attitude.

Lockley was walking around with a proverbial 'Come Bite Me' stamp on her forehead.

Evidently, Lindsey McDonald agreed, for he picked up his scent within seconds of finding the man himself. He had also wandered from his designated patrolling area, and while they eyed each other wearily; they made no move to challenge the other's status or burden of concern. It was more than evident without that much.

"Is he near?" the lawyer asked.

Spike inhaled deeply and nodded. "Oh yeah," he said. "Very close. So's the bird."

"There's blood."

"Quite a bit. 'S not all the same though, mate."

"Meaning...?"

"Meanin' Peaches seems to have spurned himself a collection." There was no doubt of that; the vampire was picking up too many varieties in blood to all be accredited to the same person. He wasn't sure he could identify Kate's scent on such a brief acquaintance, and for her sake, he hoped not. But there was so much. Blood spilt to lure them here. Angelus had known they were coming.

"Angel's developed a serial killer syndrome?" Lindsey arched a skeptical brow. "Collecting trophies, alluring his victims to his lair? That doesn't sound like him."

Precisely what he had been thinking, but he didn't reveal as much through more than simple words.

"I don' think so, either." Spike paused thoughtfully. "'S not like him. Peaches doesn' change habit. His style might alter a li'l over the passin' decades, but 'e's in essence the same ponce he was the day after he was sired. No...'f he's keepin' his goodies after he drains 'em...'s to make sure that someone like—oh say—us, knows where to come lookin'."

More precisely, Buffy.

Angel was trying to entice Buffy out of her asylum.

The thought made him raw with hatred.

"You think she's out here?" McDonald asked softly.

Spike's head reeled up. "Buffy?"

"No. Detective Lockley." The lawyer rolled his eyes, though the shade behind him was dancing with almost mischievous respect, if such a thing could exist. "Firstly, I think by now you and Buffy are likely tied enough to know when the other sneezes, let alone goes on missions like this. Secondly—"

"Vamps don' sneeze."

Lindsey frowned. "Really?"

There was a moment of contemplation. "Don' reckon so." He allowed an obligatory pause before waving him onward. "Secondly...?"

"Oh. Right. Secondly, do you ever stop thinking about her?"

Spike shook his head longingly. "Can't afford to, mate. Not now."

A long beat passed between them—the air hanging in anticipation of the inevitable break. They were walking leisurely, if not cautiously. Every step drew them closer to an area of reason neither particularly wished to explore. The peroxide vampire was on the hunt for his grandsire, no doubt, but if he could avoid further casualties, all the better.

Not that he gave two licks about Kate Lockley, but he knew Buffy did.

Buffy did.

"Without pissing you off," Lindsey said a minute later, "can I tell you how impressed I am?"

The Cockney arched a brow in his direction but said nothing.

"I know that you and yours aren't thrilled with the prospect of having been captured on tape when you weren't at your best. And yes, while I did make a good study of what the cameras caught, I didn't mean it out of perversion or anything that could be remotely construed as threatening." McDonald heaved a sigh, the look in his eyes betraying a desire to finish his thought while conflicting with the almost instant regret that he had brought the topic up in the first place. "When Buffy was first brought to Wolfram and Hart, I was unsure of my place. I knew I didn't like what we had done. There toward the end, I didn't like much of anything."

"'Cept Darla," Spike obligingly observed.

"Yes. Except Darla." Lindsey's gaze darkened. "Not anymore."

The vampire entertained a wry grin, reaching for his cigarettes and lighting up without thought. "Bird found your off button, eh?"

"Something like that." The lawyer shook his head wearily. "I don't know what it was. I was enamored with her in the beginning. I can't see why now. She's a monster."

"Bloody right."

An uncomfortable silence settled for an indeterminable amount of time. The span between a few seconds and forever was on the indefinite redefinition list—every now and then, it changed meaning altogether. "Anyway," Lindsey continued. "What I was getting at...the way you were with her when she was their prisoner. That impressed me. You have more stamina than I would've thought, just reading your history."

There was a cold pause. "'F you're referrin' to what I think—"

"No. No! God, no. I...that was different." McDonald's hands came up in semblance of peace. "I'm not some creepy old man that sits and gets off by watching you get your girlfriend—"

"Finish that sentence, an' I'll shove your still-beatin' heart down your throat."

"You're not the easiest man to pay compliment to, you know that?"

"Yeh, well, you bloody suck at givin' 'em."

There was no contesting that. In his line of business, Lindsey was as accustomed to delivering heartfelt sentiment as he was receiving it. Pitiable excuse, of course, but some things were more valuable than others.

"I'm just saying," he continued a minute later, "that I think you did good. As good as could be expected. And I'm...I'm sorry for not helping before I did."

Spike glanced up, malice abandoning his eyes. The men shared a long look of reason before acquiescing their similar positions with a nod. There was nothing else to put on the table. But oddly, that was enough.

And that was it for several seconds. Several long, tension filled seconds. Until the peroxide vampire caught a whiff of what he had been waiting for and shot an arm up to keep the lawyer from indulging one more step. He paused for what seemed like an eternity to analyze the difference in scents—then his eyes widened with the worst form of understanding.

"'S Kate."

They found her on her back, eyes closed and a hand draped over her stomach. The twin puncture marks in her throat left little to the imagination. With near reverence, Spike and Lindsey knelt beside her, studying her with veneration that commanded them, despite their better senses. The peroxide vampire would have liked to made claim in regretting every ill word that had happened between them, but he could not. But it wasn't right: looking at her like that. Despite her human frailty, she was a tower of strength where it mattered the most.

The look flooding McDonald's eyes read more of the same. "How long has she been here?" he asked, almost hoarse.

Spike shook his head. "A few minutes. The place reeks of Peaches. 'E's still here somewhere." He tossed a glance over his shoulder, biting back a grimace. "An' 'e has quite a build-up of take-out."

Lindsey followed his gaze briefly, turning his attention back to Lockley in seconds. With instinctual need, his hand found her throat, absently searching for where her pulse should be. He felt his fingers dampen in the steady flow of blood from her moistened flesh, but distinctly under the punctuated rhythm of her death, a very faint detection of a pulse thrummed through her body.

Spike must have realized at virtually the same time, for their eyes met with anticipation.

"She's not dead."

"Not yet, anyway," the vampire agreed. "You better toddle off to a hospital or what all. Get her a blood transfusion. Peaches took enough to kill her; we jus' got here in time."

"Two for two, eh?"

Spike gave him a look.

"Right. Bad time for jokes."

"Bad joke altogether, mate."

"That too." Lindsey delicately lifted Kate into his arms, fishing out his cell to secure an ambulance in their perimeter as soon as possible. "I'm gonna have to get to a crowded area," he said once finished, tossing the vampire the phone. "You all right by yourself?"

"Gettin' to a crowded area doesn' matter one bloody bit to Angel."

"I know." He was already walking away. "But it matters to me."

Spike watched him disappear into the shadows and reemerge in a mainstream of traffic and noise. He suspected he should be annoyed at the thoughtless abandonment—that was the vampire thing to do. Grumble his dissatisfaction at displays of humanitarianism and do his best to bollix up the various good deeds he fell witness to. And yet, he couldn't bear the thought. One step after another. Buffy had brought him this far; everything else was of his own doing.

He wanted to believe that it was a side effect of working with Angel Investigations more intimately than he had intended upon arrival. But the truth was, given the degrees of separation between what he had once been and what he had become, he found himself favoring what he used to hate. And while that spurned more than its fair share of conflicting emotions concerning his questionable status in life, he feared he wouldn't change anything.

To go back to what he had once been meant to forfeit everything being the other had given him. Acceptance. Love. Respect. Friendship.

Buffy. His kinship with Zack Wright and Cordelia. His adoration, however secreted, for Rosalie. Everything.

God, he was such a wanker.

For now, though, his attentions could not afford to be divided. Angelus was still out here. His intrusive presence pressed upon every raw nerve it could hope to touch. So much had passed that Spike reckoned attributing his manifest hatred toward his grandsire to anything had long tempered his senses. Now there was nothing. Abhorrence so raw that it surpassed anything and everything he had once thought possible.

Every time he allowed his thoughts to travel along the wayside of his blood ties, he saw Buffy's pain-filled eyes. He felt the abrasions that laced her skin. He heard her desperation in her plea not to be left alone. He tasted her blood in his mouth and felt her tears against his cheek. He smelled the fragrant of wilted vanilla in her dirtied hair. And there was nothing surmountable to that. No plateau to reach.

And Angelus was the reason.

Spike puffed furiously at his cigarette before stamping it out. He turned in the direction that reeked of the concentrated essence attributed to his grandsire and sneered, "There's no use tryin' to sneak up on me, Peaches. Unless you're not man enough to come out 'ere an' get what you've got comin' to you."

As he suspected, that was all it took. They had always been above the dealings of cat-and-mouse. Such was the way with family.

"If what's coming to me arrives in the package of a small, blonde, and slightly dead Slayer, well then, sign me up."

There he was. Basking in shadows. Enjoying his stereotype. Light from a nearby streetlamp reflected luminously off his countenance. His eyes were dancing with dangerous humor, but the smile that so itched his lips was refused admittance. Beneath the calm façade, Spike read fury that could only match his own. The full contempt of Angelus; everything that marked the full of his patience. What either vampire had been waiting to do for over a century.

The Cockney smiled ironically. "Well, we thought we'd try to make it a fair fight, mate. You know as well as any that she'd kick your sorry ass back to bloody Timbuktu 'f she took you on herself."

"I gotta say, I do like your definition of 'fair fight.'" The other cocked his head pensively. "After all, the last time you bested me was...oh right...never."

Spike shrugged, thoroughly unworried. "I was jus' goin' easy on you."

"I'm sure."

"Let's jus' say, 'm not the one that's bloody left two of your intendeds somethin' a li'l less than dead." His brows perked showily. "Not that 'm complainin'. 'F you're slippin' up, mate, all the better for me. I jus' won' get to enjoy killin' you as long as I had anticipated."

The elder vampire's eyes sparkled. "Hmmm. Yes. That was rather sloppy of me, wasn't it?" His smile became nasty with easy seconds. "You'd think maybe I had something planned."

"You'd also think you were bluffin'."

He offered a lazy shrug. "Perhaps. Though really, I gotta say, for a childe of ours, Buffy isn't living up to par, is she? I really thought she'd've staked you good and dead for turning her into what you turned her into. Talk about disappointing." He stepped forward perilously. "Whaddya think? Think I softened her up well enough for you?"

That was it. The proverbial breaking point. Spike's eyes flared and his body had lunged forward before his brain could stamp the impulse with a warranty of approval. In a tumble, he sent them both to the ground. His eyes were clouded with rage, his fists and fangs helpless servants to quench an undying thirst that knew no control. It lasted only seconds, but it felt like forever. Hands grasping and clawing at whatever flesh he could find. His bumpies had surfaced and he was snarling beyond the realm of his self-made perseverance. There was nothing if he couldn't end it now. Nothing.

The peroxide Cockney didn't realize his attack had ceased fully until he felt his back slam against a brick siding. Then Angelus was advancing, all amusement drawn from his expression. Unlike his grandchilde, the elder vampire had refrained from emerging into full demonhood. His human features remained perfectly in tact—a tactic he had employed more since his return as an active killer for the full of effect. He wanted to make it known to everyone that as far as he was considered, demon and man were one of a kind. It was lame poetic notion, but the thought was not wasted on Spike. Instead, he felt another incursion of vehemence and made to lash out again, but found himself pinned to the wall before any such move could be executed.

"See, that's where you were always lacking," Angelus berated softly, shaking his head. "Never thinking before acting. I swear, there are times I doubt my paternity. There's no way you could have ever survived as one of mine."

"Yeh, well..." Spike roared and shoved him away, whirling into the open as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "You never made a good Yoda."

Angelus chuckled humorlessly, moving to circle him. "So, what is it you're looking to do? Hmmm? Honestly, boy, if you're looking for a fight, I can't say you've come to the wrong place. I seem to recall you once complaining about choosing brawls you knew you could win. Well, good for you. Practicing what you preach. Gotta admire spunk. Very romantic, and all the nauseating sentiment that comes with it." His head slanted a fraction, eyes twinkling. "But here's the thing, Spikey... Buffy can't stand being coddled. And she doesn't particularly like submissive partners. From the way you were bellowing when you thought she was dead...really, it was moving. Darla and I had a good laugh at that. Can't say Dru was too happy, but really, when is she ever?"

The younger vampire was staunch and glaring. There was nothing to say.

"You think Buffy'll be as responsive to you as she was for me?" The darker one continued. "I gotta tell yeah, I can't imagine touching her dead. She was interesting enough when she was warm and had something of value to lose. Seems you can't help but take my hand-me-downs. I used up all her goodies. Her virginity, her innocence, and her life. And what do you get? The sniveling runt that's left over. Used, abused, and desperate. Just the way you like 'em. But, as memory serves, you also have a problem with sharing." He leered forward nastily. "Just keep that in mind when you touch her, okay? She screamed for me."

There was no such thing as fury. No such thing as hatred. No such thing as any pure emotion anyone had ever claimed right to experience. In a blink, Spike rewrote them all. Never before had he felt something replace him whole and leave nothing but a shell of action in his boots. He had moved passed casual acceptance and was now bent on unadulterated retribution. As though the spirit of the devil could arise fully within one individual. It wasn't vampire or man that attacked then; it was a force that had never before shown face on earth. He felt nothing but the rage encouraging him forward. Felt not the skin beneath his fingernails, the flesh at his fangs, the force of the body that so presumptuously blocked his from ridding the world once and for all of such a creature. He didn't even feel the force of the foundation behind him or the influence of the hand at his throat. He was still struggling. Still snarling and clawing. Removed from himself to a degree of bordering the line of self-recognition to a point of threatening his own existence.

Clarity then. Something pointy was pressing into his chest. In a sweeping wave, reality settled around him.

"...face it, boy," Angelus was saying. The scent of the elder's blood flavored the air. That was enough, Spike reckoned. If he was going to die, he damn well would die at the pinnacle of battle. "You never were or ever could be half the vampire I am."

Something warm touched the pit of cold that had swarmed his insides and his skin rippled with recognition. Her scent hit him a second too late, and before he knew what was happening, the intrusive presence against him was forced away. He caught a glimpse of shimmering blonde hair and the most beautiful pair of determined green eyes he had ever had the privilege to see.

"He's a thousand times the man you are," Buffy was saying indignantly, swinging a roundhouse kick to her favor. Spike watched, dumbfound, as Angelus was sent clear to the opposite end of the alley, collapsing without clemency.

He watched her with admiration and love that knew no other force.

Then the world came sweeping back. And he remembered his status, and her promise.

"What the soddin' hell are you doin'?"

Buffy tossed him a wry glance. "Saving your ass, do you mind?"

There was something so wholly familiar about that statement. It warmed his insides until he reminded himself that he was angry with her and her presumptions. "I don' bloody believe this..."

A frown graced her beautiful face and she shrugged. "Well, yeah, the pun was lame, but I'm recently undead girl. Cut me some slack."

He stared at her for a long, dumbfound moment. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

"I thought we just covered that." She turned her attention around, back to Angelus. "If you'll excuse me."

Oh no. She wasn't about to get away that easily.

And hell if he let Angelus near her again.

"Well, well," the elder demon drawled. "Look what we have here. I knew Spikey couldn't keep you cooped up for long. I mean, come on, Buff. After everything we've shared? It was only a matter of time before you came running home to Daddy."

That was all it took. For the first time since her convergence, the platinum vampire witnessed the Slayer's full grasp of her demonhood as the game face that condemned all of their kind to the wrong end of a stake burst through with unmistakable clarity. Then she was off, running at her killer in artistic detail of every bit of the rage he had felt only minutes before. He watched Angelus's arms clasp around her and felt his own fury spark to life again.

When he approached, however, the sight he bore witness to was too gratifying to interrupt, even for the namesake of his own ire. Buffy had straddled the elder vampire at the waist and was delivering a series of sobbing punches to his face. Battering him nearly unrecognizable as her own walls crumbled and she delivered back every hurt, every pain, every tear in ways that would never repay the debt caused against him. It was satisfaction beyond satisfaction. It was what she was owed. What Angelus deserved.

But there was something else. Something waiting under the pain.

If she continued like this, she would end up destroying herself along with him. Spike didn't know how he knew it, but he did. He did. It was scrupulously obvious with every barren smack that filled the never-silent Los Angeles night. Thus, he did what he had to. He mounted her from behind, encasing her small, lithe form in his embrace as he dragged her back to herself. The sobs wracking her body had the power to kill him. Completely, wholly, without judgment. He battled her for dominance and knew she was not herself when she granted it, twisting in his arms to bury her face in his shoulder. He held her to him as she released what she had to, as she sobbed her bearings and gave him the weight of her burden.

And yet, while he consoled her, Spike kept his gaze steadfast on Angelus, watching in contempt as he weakly stumbled to his feet. A basking glow of defeated humiliation. There were bruises, cuts, and blood. Never had he seen his grandsire wear a look of that regard, and he couldn't help but savor what fate had dealt him.

But he couldn't finish him off now. Not now. Buffy was his priority, and she was hurting. He wouldn't leave her for anything.

"Leave," he said lowly. "Scamper off before I set her loose on you again, an' we both finish you off."

The words made his stomach clench. He hated the thought of letting Angelus walk. But it was temporary. Only temporary. A leading clause to follow to the point where he would ultimately know dust.

Facing him now was foolish. Too soon.

After satisfied that they were alone, Spike turned his attention fully to Buffy, lifting her face to his. She had melted back into her human features—the existence she knew but could not return to, and the sight of her breakdown pulled him rightly apart.

And yet, despite everything, he couldn't allow himself to forget that he was angry with her.

"You promised me," he whispered.

Buffy gazed at him with tear-filled eyes, large and puzzled. "What?"

"You promised me you wouldn't come after 'im." He hated it that his emotion reached his voice with such simplicity, but in these matters, he couldn't help himself. She was stronger now than she had ever been before, and he had never been more afraid for her. "I could've...God, I could've lost you."

Little by little, her gaze was clearing. Signs of her return to herself. He felt his courage growing along with it. "Spike—"

"Why?"

"Why...?"

"Why would you..." He broke off. "I could've—"

"Cordy..." She was panting harshly against him, clutching at his shoulders as though seeking her own stability. "Cordy had a vision. She saw you. She saw you and I had to come."

He stared at her. "Cordelia...had a vision."

"She does that, apparently."

"I bloody well know she does that." That was it. Something primitive snapped. Whatever hold she claimed released him with more of the same, and he allowed his worry and grief to intermingle with the more fallible anger. Anger was good. He knew anger. He had lived with anger for a good, long time. He knew how to deal with it. "But you promised me you wouldn't do this. You bloody well promised me! You coulda been killed!"

Buffy's eyes widened, the look of indignation wide enough to replace any hint of grief that had been so palpable a minute before. "Oh, and what," she retorted. "You couldn't? Because when I came up here, it kinda looked like you were about to bite the dust."

He snickered dismissively, turning away from her. "I can handle myself."

"You don't—"

In a second, he had whirled back to her, eyes blazing. "You have any sodding idea what I went through?" he barked. "Every day, worryin' that I wasn' goin' fast enough. That you wouldn't be there when I came for you. That I'd be too fucking late an' you...that I'd lose you without...without gettin' to even tell..." He trailed off helplessly, the anger in his face losing to the more strenuous heartache. Everything experienced over a full of so many weeks. "You can't bloody well feed me empty promises, pet. I can't stand it."
"Don't."

The word came out with such brunt force that it shook him to a second awakening. "What?"

"Don't even, you fucking presumptuous bastard."

"I—"

"Or actually, do it. Come on. I wanna hear it. I want to hear you say that you wouldn't have done the exact same thing, promises be damned!" She took a step forward boldly, eyes flaring. "I want you to tell me you wouldn't have bolted out of the lobby with Hell at your heels. Come on, Spike. Tell me. Tell me you wouldn't have come for me. Go on. Tell me I was wrong in worrying about you. I want to fucking hear it!"

He stared at her for a long, incredulous minute, unknowing what to say.

Finally, he resorted with a weak, "That's different."

"Oh really? How?"

"'Cause I'd cross Hell for you an' back. I've already made it with the bloody Rubicon. Wha's a li'l Hell in the face of that?"

"And you think I wouldn't?"

"No."

Her eyes widened. "What? Why not? What makes you so fucking above it all?"

Horrified, he blurted the first thing that came to mind. "What? I love you, that's what."

As if it held grounds above what they were arguing over. Their argument that was anything but an argument. Voices raised out of fear and understanding. All cards on the table. No going back from here.

Buffy could have tripped over herself, but she didn't. Instead, she nodded her assent. "Oh yeah?" she retorted. "Well, get a load of this. I love you, too."

There it was; the one thing that could render him speechless. Spike stared at her with wondrous awe, unknowing whether or not it was appropriate enough to plead her words were the truth. She looked truthful. She looked wonderful. Full, frustrated eyes that were still wracking the realities of her existence. His Buffy. The epitome of strength.

She loved him.

"So there," she was saying hotly. "You see, we're even. We're—"

But she didn't finish. Couldn't.

Spike had her pressed against the nearest wall in seconds, mouth ravaging at hers. Where the tears had come from, he knew not. Only that they had worked themselves into a frenzy of sobs and kisses. He tasted her fully, openly, giving no want for restraint. His hands explored her body with liberation that knew no master. And then she was battling him. Warring with his tongue for dominance that neither truly wanted nor claimed. He felt her hands pulling at his shoulders, combing through his hair, searing his skin with the touch of her own. The taste of her had him drunk, but he had not indulged nearly enough.

He pulled away; panting, resting his forehead against hers, anger having vanished. "I can't," he whimpered.

Buffy's eyes widened in protest. "Can't?"

"Tell you. Tell you that I wouldn't have come." He leaned forward to taste her lips, nibbling lightly and coaxing a moan into his mouth. "I'll always—"

"I know."

She attacked his mouth again, pulling him as tightly into her as possible. Her hands explored the coarse stability of him, legs entwining around his waist, allowing him to press her as far into the wall as any mortal limitations would allow. She would have thought it raining for the moisture on her face. Tears produced out of revelation; not fear, not anxiety, but the sheer bliss of being. His lips finally abandoned hers, taking chart down her neck, nibbling wantonly at her tender skin, his own hands rubbing encouraging circles into her thighs.

"Oh God," she heard herself whimper.

A calming chuckle sounded at her throat. "You have no bloody idea."

Buffy offered him a tender smile, even if he wasn't looking, and thrust herself against the hardness that sought her center. A resounding growl answered her call, and then they were rubbing together. Denim against denim. She wondered if her jeans were soaked thorough and reckoned it better to relieve his tension before he ruined his own trousers. And yet, the molding of their bodies together, clothes be damned, was too delicious to interrupt.

His hands were becoming much more bold. One hand found her breast and was exciting a nipple through layers of separation. The other had her grasped from behind, arching her into his movements so she could feel the fullness of him, unashamed. His mouth was working up her throat again, seizing her lips without mercy.

That was it. No more Miss Nice Slayer. Buffy slid her own attentions to his fly. Zip-ups today. How many variations in trousers did he enjoy? She brushed the thought aside for its futility and yanked the zipper down, taking his erection into her hold and pumping him once, twice, and—

He took her wrist in his own hand, coaxing her attentions away. He spoke only one word, but it was the only word he needed to say.

"No."

Buffy gasped her protest, astonishment and the smacking bite of rejection filling her eyes. It only lasted a second; she caught his gaze, caught the unguarded craving there. The desire that he had attempted to keep from her with little success now shone for all its agonizing veracity. If ever there were any doubt on how much he wanted her, she would look no further than the brightness of his regard.

But Spike had caught her digression, and remorse inevitably followed.

"Look at me," he demanded, jolting her chin upward. She hadn't even realized that she had averted her eyes until she felt herself pierced with an ocean of compassionate blue. "You have no idea how much I want you. How long I've wanted you. Since the firs' time I saw you, I think. Too bloody stupid to admit it at the time, but it was there. An' the craving's only gotten worse over the years. I want you so much I can't fuckin' see straight. 'S a bloody miracle I haven't gone cross-eyed."

The Slayer worried a lip, sensing a 'but.' So, she provided it for him. "But...?"

"But nothin'." He offered a lopsided grin. "I jus' love you too much to take you in some alley. Like this. 'S not right. Not right for you. I might not be above it, Buffy, but you are. You deserve so much more than what I—"

The notion that he had stopped to even care touched her heart. Where cold had once resided, warmth flooded, kicking the cold out for good. With a tender smile, she cupped his cheek and guided his mouth to hers. This kiss was leisured intimacy. Tasting nibbles that promised a world for tomorrow.

"You're above it, Spike."

He returned her smile poignantly. "'m glad you think so."

"I know so." With a sigh she leaned forward, disengaging her legs from abound his waist and watching with flustered embarrassment as he tucked himself back into his jeans.
There was nothing for a long, disquieting moment.

Buffy hazarded a glance back to him. "So...you wanna go back to the hotel?"

"God, I thought you'd never ask."

It was a miracle they made it back as quickly as they did. Night or day, Los Angeles was a city that did not allot for easy travel. And given newfound liberation, Spike found it very difficult to school his hands to obedience. As though he feared she would melt away and everything would be a dream. That her pledge of love be found nothing more than a wistful aspiration of wanting.

However, despite his more primal desires, he did not pet her. Did not corner her. When he touched her, it was to stroke her cheek in subtle hint of his affection. To kiss her temple or take her hand into his own. He refused to barrage her with the fullness of his desire. Her vow of love was more than he ever thought he would receive, but he knew—he knew—that the words could not begin to express the depth of his own regard. He feared frightening her with the wealth of every inexpressible feeling that coursed through his system, and that he would not allow.

When they were before the Hyperion, it was her hand that sought his. Her smile that drove them onward.

She gave him so much.

Neither could have anticipated what awaited them at the door.

In truth, it had bordered simplicity on how quickly memories of the past were dismissed. Even the more recent past, the same lurking behind every doorway that they had not yet explored. And yet, despite reason or readiness, there she was. A figure looming from the ever-persistent shadow of home. Standing staunch in the center of the lobby with a notably perplexed and even untrusting Cordelia at her side. Golden hair and a face unforgettable, despite however cleanly they had discharged her memory. How cleanly they had discharged everyone's memory.

But it was there. All there. Her eyes lit up when she saw the Slayer in the doorway, and the smile that pressed against her features could not be denied in meaning.

Spike was ready when Buffy gripped his hand tighter. On some basic level, he had always known it was only a matter of time.

And yet. Now. Not now. Not when everything was on the way of getting so good.

Reality came back now.

"Buffy," Cordelia said uncertainly. "Hey. I didn't know what to do. She claims to be a friend of yours. Is—"

"It's fine," replied the Slayer. Then her eyes leveled with warmth and she allowed the breath she had been holding to pass. "Hello, Tara."

Chapter Forty

Deliverance 

A long, unsettling silence filled the lobby, and Tara found herself bombarded with an ocean of incredulous stares. She offered a nervous smile when the tension failed to wane and shifted uncomfortably, casting a shy glance to the ground. "Was it something I said?"

In minutes, the population of the lobby had nearly doubled. A frustrated Zack Wright had piled inward just seconds following the two vampires with Gunn and Wesley not far behind. While the demon hunter had enjoyed absolutely no success, the other men appeared a little worse for the wear. They related a brief account of finding Drusilla feeding on some co-ed and though they had successfully intervened, the crazed vampiress had averted whatever they threw at her before seemingly leaping into the night without a trace.

Spike had shrugged. "That sounds like Dru. She has about a thousand an' a half tricks up her sleeve that she never shared with me. 'S one of the only ways we got out of Prague not deader than usual."

Whatever had occurred, though, fell short to the relatively unknown guest that stood apprehensively in the heart of the lobby. They had suffered through several excruciating introductions that, naturally, entailed detailing the revelation in Willow's life following Oz's departure. (Everyone decided to ignore Cordelia's observant, "I always knew there was something weird about that girl...aside the witch thing, and all.")

Then Tara had related while she was with them and not in England, and everyone fell to a depressingly deep silence.

"Could you..." Buffy began, hand commanding Spike's in a death grip that she wasn't aware of. It didn't matter; he hardly tried to pull away. "Could you...go over that again?"

The nervous blonde shrugged helplessly. "Th-there's really n-not much to go over," she explained uncertainly. "W-Willow told me how to do it. We w-went over it several times. She even told me how t-to pr-pronounce some of the h-harder words."

"Why now?" Cordelia asked softly. "Why not when this first started? Why not anytime before now?"

"Glory," Tara replied with a weak smile. "We were afraid... oh, she hasn't found us." The Witch cast a quick glance to the Slayer, who relaxed visibly at the reassurance. "B-but if she did, Willow's the one who could w-ward her off. Well, she'd...she'd be better than m-me. S-she's really...she's..." In desperation, she turned to Buffy fully. "She told me I could do this. She said I was...she just said I could do it."

There was nothing but a numb nod. "I know you can. Wills did it before she had any practice."

"Just for clarification," Wright interrupted sharply, "what exactly are we talking about? Considering? Because as of right now, not really liking what I'm hearing."

Spike drew in a tight breath and cast his friend a skeptical glance. "Don' you get it?" he retorted, embitterment flashing within his eyes. "They want Peaches back. An' now Glinda has a way. Innit neat? Got everythin' right worked out, they do."

The edge in his voice drew Buffy's immediate attention, and she pivoted to him with sharp knowledge of his assumption. "Spike—"

"No, no. 'S fine. I mean, who wouldn't want the prat back? He jus' tortured the livin' life outta you. Real keeper, that one. Such a prince. My bloody hero." The peroxide vampire turned away with disgust, his hold on her breaking without forethought. "Oh, but I forgot, 's not really him at all, is it? Really, with all the bloody bouncin' he does, 's no small wonder I get myself all turned around. I mean—"

"You're not really considering this, are you?" Wright demanded, glancing sharply to Buffy.

And at that, there was no means to reply. Nothing but a slackjawed façade of unquestionable confusion. "I...I..." She looked helplessly at Spike, her heart breaking at the expression firing his beautifully agonized features. "I..."

"Angel is our friend," Wesley offered softly.

"Was our friend," Gunn added, tone neutral. "Really, after all that's happened, I'm not sure what—"

Cordelia tossed him a sharp glance. "Angel's our friend," she reiterated. "And if there's a way to get him back, we'll take it. Haven't we said this is what we want from the beginning?"

Spike raised his hand with a sardonic smile. "I haven't."

"Neither have I," Wright agreed, face contorted in a contemptuous sneer.

The Seer sighed heavily, shaking her head. "It's not like it's that simple, all right? We're not picking lotto numbers, here. He's our—"

"Friend. Yeah. I get it." Zack cast her a dirty look. "Sorry if I still fail to see where it's not simple. Angelus is a killer. End of story."

"Yeah," Gunn agreed, nodding rhetorically. "And, last time I checked, so's that myelin-deprived whitey." He clinched the thought with a broad gesture to Spike, whose brows arched appraisingly. "As a matter of fact, that one doesn't have a soul. Hell, he doesn't even have a chip anymore."

Buffy blinked, turning to him with wide eyes. "You don't?"

"No," he growled. "I don'. Lindsey an' the wankers at Wolfram an' Hart took it out when I was actin' like the Order's bitch. Couldn't rightly hunt with a bug-zapper in my noggin, now could I?" His gaze implored hers hotly for several long seconds, the look on her face hardly passing for encouraging. When she failed to summon words in retaliation, he bristled and turned away. "Bloody typical."

The blank expression clouding Tara's features hardly rang as heartening, either. She took an exaggerated step away, nibbling on her lip in astonished concern. "Y-you...your ch-chip is out?"

Spike favored her with a particularly menacing glare. He had always had a soft spot for the Witch but such fell to the wayside of consideration if she actually thought he was a danger anymore. He should have been, of course. There was no true reason to believe he wasn't except for the guarantee of good faith that he had tacitly undertaken since leaving everything behind to rescue the Slayer. "Yeh, 's out," he retorted bitterly. "'m free to be a bad boy. Reign as much pain an' terror as I bloody well choose. William the Bloody, back in action. Hey, I got an idea. Want a number of how many blokes I've killed since it was yanked? Zero. Oh, an' even better. Want a number of how many blokes I plan to? You'll never guess this. Zero. Where's the soddin' trust?" He stopped and held up a hand for clarification. "Oh, I forget. I'm a vampire. What else do you want?"

"That doesn't change anything," Buffy remarked softly.

His eyes widened. "I—"

"It changes nothing." Without anything else, she grasped his wrist so that he would turn to her fully. "It's...I told you that I trust you. That I feel safe...and earlier in the alley...I meant that, too. The chip...in all honesty, I'd forgotten about it. And the soulless thing. And everything else. In the end, I guess, you're just you." She smiled weakly. "Everything else is just detail work."

Though it had happened several times in the last two days, Spike felt himself overwhelmed with such a powerful incursion of emotion that he was genuinely surprised the wave didn't knock him to the ground. Every time he looked at her, he suffered the same from the takings of his own revelations. She was amazing. She blew him away. With everything that had happened, everything she had seen, everything she had experienced, she still gazed upon him with love, admiration, and acceptance. Things he had never fathomed receiving from anyone, least of all her. Things no one had given him.

He had given her every reason to walk away, but she was still by his side. And that astounded him.

With a small smile that did little to convey the depth of his feeling, he clasped her hand and offered a choked nod. "Thank you."

It was a weak thing to say, and yet he could offer no more. Not now.

A still moment spread through the lobby.

"Ummm..." Tara mused with a confused frown. "Did I m-miss something? Since when did...Buffy? You and Spike? You're..."

"They're a thing," Gunn explained, shrugging casually. "I take it that's not the norm where you come from. It's cool—I never thought I'd be workin' for a vampire. And here I am."

"Wow," Cordelia remarked appraisingly, regarding the Slayer as though seeing her for the first time. "That was very...unBuffy of you, Buffy."

The observation earned a weak smile. "You'd be surprised what being tortured for weeks can do to your outlook."

She nodded. "Touché."

"Here, here," Gunn added with a grin. "You got some major stones in you, girl. I'm impressed."

The Witch was unsatisfied. Trouble marred her brow, and her eyes were filled with concern. "B-Buffy. Is this b-because of the...of the saving thing? I mean, it's great...what he did...but—"

"It's because of a lot of things," the Slayer replied, studiously avoiding her friend's gaze. At first, Spike thought to balk in insult, but he realized quickly that her reasoning was far from the choices she made, and the revelations she had released about herself. She was squeezing his hand tightly—such that were he anything less than human, she likely would have ground his bones to dust. "A thousand things."

"I don't h-have a problem w-with it." Unlikely. The peroxide vampire knew Tara well enough to know that her stuttering problem only surfaced nowadays when she was uncomfortable or frightened. The present situation had undoubtedly unnerved her, and the showiness behind their relationship—something none of the Scoobies could have been prepared for—likely wasn't helping matters. "I j-just don't know h-h-how the others w-will—"

"Later," Buffy said, still avoiding her eyes. "We'll deal with it later."

"Right now, there are more important things," Wesley agreed. "Like deciding what to do about Angelus."

"I still don't see what's wrong with the old fashioned stake through the heart," Wright muttered contemptuously.

"Back to this again? How many times do I have to say it?" Cordelia rolled her eyes. "He's our friend!"

"He also killed your other friend."

"Who?" Tara demanded with a frown.

"Me," Buffy said softly. "And Cordy and I really aren't friends."

"Gee, thanks Buff. Glad to know you care."

"Well, really—"

"Wait, wait, wait." The Witch held up a hand. "Could you go over that 'he killed me' part again? I really...I-I d-don't get it."

Again, Buffy averted her gaze, but nodded just the same. "I was turned."

"Angel—"

"It wasn' Angel." Spike glanced up with the expected wealth of self-remorse to replace whatever earlier jollity his lady's revelations had granted. The unhappy reality loomed around every corner. His shame was a palpable ripple that touched every part of him that could be touched; spreading throughout the streams of the Hyperion with such force that everyone felt its influence. "It was me."

"No," Wright objected sharply. "It was me."

"You're a vampire?" Tara demanded with a frown.

"No. But I'm responsible."

"It was neither one of you," Wesley confirmed softly. "Tara was right from the beginning. It was Angelus. He killed—"

"Yeh," Spike agreed, notably unmoved. "But I sired."

Zack arched a brow. "I made you sire."

"I have no opinion on this," Gunn observed with a shrug, crossing his arms.

Cordelia nodded her agreement. "Neither do I. Well, I sort've think it's more Angel's fault. After all—"

"What matters is that I don't blame Spike or Zangy—Zack." Buffy frowned. "Sorry."

The demon hunter shrugged. "It's okay. I'm used to it by now."

"That's fine," the Seer returned. "But we still have to—"

"Hey, I got an idea." Wright turned to the group and offered a cynical smile. "Let's put it to a vote. All those in favor of killing Angelus, say aye."

He earned a positive response from Spike and Gunn, the latter of whom answered Wesley and Cordelia's identical looks of inquisition with a shrug. "Doesn't really matter to me," he explained. "I like Angel. I do—"

"All of us have our faults," the peroxide vampire mused.

"—but he warned us that the day might come when he'd have to be taken out. Right? He warned us repeatedly. Hell, he even commended our willingness to do it. If he knew there was a chance of reensouling his ass and he didn't tell us to take it, what makes any of you think he'd want this for himself?"

"Angel's a champion," Cordelia replied. "He deserves to make amends."

Buffy bit her lip unsurely. "Since when?"

"Buffy!"

Her sire looked at her in surprise; hesitant to express the glee those two words brought him.

"The last time Angel went nuts, you and Xander did some heavy lobbying to make sure he bit the literal dust."

"An' suddenly," Spike murmured, "my respect for Harris raises a notch."

Tara shrugged. "He still wants you dead."

"An' 's dropped again."

"A lot has changed," Cordelia was saying, not at all deterred from the side observations that seemed determined to throw her off track. "I work with him now. I understand him. I—"

"God, why don't you marry the guy?" Wright growled.

"What?" the Seer snapped. "Are you seven, or something?"

"I have a small child," he retorted, as though it made a justifiable point. "Therefore, I can act like a small child."

"He does play with Barbies," Spike observed.

Zack whipped back to him in astonishment. "How the hell do you know that?"

"A li'l birdie told me. And, if I may stress, don' say stuff like that around a witch." The peroxide vampire nodded to Tara, who immediately ducked her gaze to avoid the spotlight. "Li'l things like that have a wonky way of comin' true."

Cordelia was staring at the demon hunter incredulously. "You play with Barbies?"

"I have a little girl. Girls like Barbies. You do the math."

"Man," Gunn remarked, shaking his head. "All your cool points have been deducted based on this alone."

"That hurts, Charlie. It really does."

"Everyone, please. There is still much to discuss, and bickering amongst ourselves over Barbies, of all the idiotic things, isn't going to get anything accomplished. We have to consider this from Angel's perspective." Wesley took a dramatic breath, intervening with his calm logic that seemed to drive everyone a little further off the boundary of aggravation. "What he has been through, especially given the affair with Buffy. With how he feels about her, how will he ever forgive himself for—"

"What?" Cordelia spat indignantly. "And we're not even gonna give him the chance? He's a grown up vampire, Wes. He knows that he and Angelus aren't one in the same."

"'E also knows that they're not not one in the bloody same," Spike snarled. "Why don' we take a poll 'ere from someone who—unlike the lot of you—has seen both bloody sides of him back an' front. How about—"

"Oh, and you're not the least bit bias, I suppose?" the Seer demanded.

His eyes widened comically. "'m sorry, I couldn't hear you over your Pro-Angel Party Of One over there."

"Well, I might not have been around for a hundred years, but I don't think we should accredit who knows Angel best based on seniority. Especially from someone who's never liked him."

"Maybe I don' like the wanker because I do know him better than you."

"Or maybe, it's because you're a jealous, self-centered son of a bitch!"

"That's enough," Wright snapped, stepping forward with furious intent. "Honestly, Cordy—"

Her eyes widened incredulously. "Oh, come on. You're willing to play best pal to Mr. Soulless but give a vamp who's on a real mission for good, and that brings out the hunter in you? Puhlease. Spike's killed a whole helluva lot. And—hey—that was him! I'm not judging!" She tossed an incensed glare over Zack's shoulder. "Much. Angel hasn't killed. He's—"

"Wrong, pet."

"What?"

"Your precious bloody Angel has killed." Spike prowled forward darkly. "Durin' the Boxer Rebellion when 'e was crawlin' on his hands an' knees so dear ole Darla would take his sorry arse back to bed. He also told me he once din't stop a local boy from gettin' knocked off 'cause it provided a tasty source of human-flavored blood for him to down. So you see, precious, he's not some bloody saint. Right? Now lay off."

She arched her brows skeptically. "When did he ever tell—"

"Back in SunnyD when he was that soulless wanker firs' time around. An', before you say anythin', he had no reason to lie to me an' Dru, then." The platinum vampire smiled when her skepticism melted away to the deeper understanding of actuality. "An' I'm willin' to bet that he's done in a few of your Wolfram an' Hart lackeys."

"Those guys are from Hell Incorporated," Gunn observed. "They don't count."

"They're human, aren' they?"

"If I may," Wesley said. "Everyone here has brought up valid points—"

"Some more valid than others," Cordelia grumbled.

"—but I believe the only sporting thing to do is leave the decision in Buffy's hands."

With that, all eyes fell on the Slayer.

Buffy blinked nervously, recoiling when she again found herself in the spotlight. "Me?"

There was a beat of consideration. Spike stepped forward and gently caressed her arm, fervor from angered verbosity with the Seer vanishing without hindrance. "You're the one he hurt," he reasoned, though he obviously didn't like it. "The one he...Wes's right. It should be up to you."

As he spoke, the vampire felt something very flagrant clutch his nonbeating heart with the promise of her answer. Her decision, whether she knew it yet or not, combed every inch of her. Her eyes. The way her face fell with the threat of imminence and the knowledge of buried resolution. Angel. It was always Angel. Even after everything that had occurred, she always chose Angel.

Angel had ripped her to shreds, but not enough to save himself from his own salvation.

It was there. Despite recognition, it was there. And even as she voiced her indecision, he felt the boulder of defeat blockade whatever happiness had ever presumed to know him.

As all things, one simple break was too much to ask for.

The shrill of the phone sounded through the near-vacant lobby, startling Buffy out of her reverie. She waited for a minute before rising to her feet to near the front desk and was just rarely beaten out by Wright as he bounded from Wesley's office to snatch up the call with such poise that he could have passed for the genuine article. There weren't many things that she knew about the demon hunter, but given what Cordelia and Spike had related, he was a newcomer to the scene and the speculation remained that he would be on his way once all was said and done.

The way he answered the phone, though, gave her a slightly different opinion.

"Angel Investigations," he drawled, "we let you get away with murder." When he caught her dubious gaze, he mouthed, "Cordy taught me how to answer," then turned his attention back to the caller. "Oh. Right. I see. No, it's all right. You stay there. Trust me, we're not getting anything that could even remotely considered productive done. Yeah. Well, that and Frosty the Snow-Bitch needs someone there when she wakes up. Oh, fuck off; I'll call her that if I want to, all right? Fine. Whatever. Bye."

The angry stomp that clinched the transaction left little to the imagination. Buffy smiled wryly and stepped forward. "Friend of yours?"

"It was Lindsey. He wanted to let us know that Kate's been out of danger for about an hour and her condition is stabilized." A sigh rippled through him. "Though she's sustained enough damage that she might be out for a while."

"Coma?"

"No. Just an 'out for a while' clause."

"Ah." Buffy exerted a deep breath and heaved herself onto the counter, crossing her legs Indian-style while whirling to face him. "You think after she's released that I should suggest we go find Angel? After all, there are people out there dying and whatnot because of him."

He offered a weak grin. "Turnabout's fair play."

"It is at that."

A short, somewhat uncomfortable silence settled between them.

"So," Wright began a minute later. "What are you doing down here? I thought you and Spike..."

"He went to sleep."

The demon hunter frowned. "Isn't it a little early? Hell, I know it's a little early. It's early for me, and I'm human."

"Well, he's probably not really asleep...just pretending to be so he can avoid me. He's upset." Buffy sighed deeply, steepling her hands against her chin with pensive digression. "I can see why."

"Can you?"

"I hurt him today. Earlier. With the yelling and the...I hurt him."

"I hurt Cordy. Going to need to do some groveling before the night is over." He stiffened rigidly. "Even if I'm right."

"You really think so? You think that...you think that we should...?"

The unspoken question needed no elaboration. The hunter had no trouble reading between the lines.

Wright shrugged as if it were of no consequence. "He went through a lot to get you back. I'm guessing killing Angel's the only kind of solace he can accept now that the rest is over with. I get that. I really get that."

"I should hope so. Aside Spike, you were the one rallying the most for Angel's story to have a dusty-ending."

An ironic smile tickled the man's lips. "He's too much like me for his own good."

"Angel?"

"Spike. In my mixed up logic, he's me. He's me, Angel's Darla, and you're the wife I couldn't save. It doesn't work like that, though. I know he's killed people before. I know it. I know he's probably done something so horrible that...that what happened to me doesn't even begin to compare. Well..." He stopped in consideration. "No. I don't think so. Never mind. What I know of Spike...he's too impatient to have taken the time to do what Darla did to me. But he has killed people. He's taken husbands away from wives and mothers away from children. He's separated people for over a century and if you ask him right now, he probably wouldn't be able to feel anything aside surface remorse. I know that. And once upon a time, that would've been enough."

Buffy pursed her lips. "To what?"

"To kill him. That's what I do. I'm a demon hunter."

"It's what I do, too. I'm the Slayer. It's my job."

"What changed for you?"

She offered a small smile. "I was tortured. And reality didn't matter anymore. Titles didn't matter anymore. I wasn't the Slayer then. He wasn't a vampire. He wasn't my enemy. I saw him, and he was there for me, and he was Spike. Just Spike." Her gaze focused intently on some unmoving spot on the floor, expression hardened with a loss of her surroundings. And she was talking. Just talking. Talking to no one in particular. To anyone who would listen. "I thought about him before he was there. Hell, I even had a Slayer dream about him. I think it was...yeah, it had to be."

Wright frowned. "Slayer dream?"

"Prophetic dreams," she explained. "I've had them before. Always come true. And he did. He really came for me. And he was there to save me. He was...it made him real. Spike's always been just...Spike. Before this. But what he did...that made him real. It made him something more. I didn't see him as a vampire anymore." She toughened. "I hadn't seen a real vampire until Angelus. Darla was right about that."

Zack swallowed hard at the mention of his mission's objective, but did his best to remain attuned to her needs. "Spike's become a friend," he said softly. "I don't know how it happened, but he has. I don't...I don't want to see him hurt."

"Neither do I." Buffy glanced at him quizzically until she understood the subtext of meaning, and her eyes went wide. "Oh! Oh, that. I...what I feel for him isn't gratitude. I realized that...well, after Cordy gave me her little inspirational talk. I was worried. Very worried. I wanted it to be real. And it is." A sigh waved through her body and she allowed her head to fall into her hands. "No, Zack. It's real. It's very, very real. So real that it scares me."

He nodded understandingly. "I get that."

"It's just...now..." She shook her head heavily, her eyes clouding with tears that could not be helped. "Now, everything else is real, too."

Wright frowned. "I...?"

"This thing with Angel...Tara showing up. Everything is becoming real. I've been..." He waited obligingly as she gathered her thoughts. "Being here...being with...with Spike like this. With Wes and Cordy and...everyone...it's sort've surreal. And it's been easy to forget that I don't have a life somewhere else. That I have to...go home. And that things will still be there. My house. My sister. Glory. School. Oh god, school. Giles. He's going to be so...disappointed in me—"

"What happened wasn't your fault."

"I'm a vampire!"

The demon hunter tensed. "...that wasn't your fault."

"I know. I know. But it's real. God, it's so real. My life stopped being real the minute I woke up in Lindsey's office, do you get that?" He nodded numbly, but made no move to interrupt. "And since then, I've been hopping from one nonreality to the next. If I go back...and it..."

"Are you afraid things between you and Spike will go back to the way they were?"

Buffy's eyes widened. "No. No! God, no. That can't happen. Ever. I don't care what they think. I would've, once upon a time...but the nonreality changed that. The nonreality changed everything. He's keeping me grounded. He's what kept me from losing my mind when I could've. He saved me, Zack. He—"

"You don't have to convince me, Princess. I was there, remember?"

But the Slayer wasn't convinced. The fear flashing behind her eyes attested to that. "Do you...is that what you think he thinks?"

"Well..."

"Because of the Angel thing?"

"Angel tortured you. I'd want him dead."

"It wasn't—"

"I wouldn't care. He tortured you. Fuck, he killed you. He did things to you that make Spike flinch at the suggestion. And Spike's seen a lot. You don't have to be a demon hunter to suss that out. The guy's got a strong stomach. I don't even wanna begin to know what that bastard put you through." Wright shook his head with conviction. "Do you really think that you can look him in the eye and forgive him for what he did to you, regardless of which face he's wearing? 'Cause despite the mechanics, Buff, it's gonna look the same in hindsight."

A trembling sigh escaped her lips, and she shook her head heavily in the face of newfound uncertainty. For all the world, she remained one lost girl. It was a difficult weight for one so strong to carry. "I don't know what to do."

"Your realities are coming tumbling down." He shrugged. "They're gonna break. You've had your refuge. Everything else is human nature."

"I'm not human."

"Sure you are. Being a vampire doesn't make you anything less." Wright sighed heavily. "And may I just say, bravo me for seeing that. You're a good girl, Buffy. I don't know you that well, but I know that. And if you want help facing your demons, I might suggest holding the hand of someone who's been there."

"I need to talk to him."

"Well, yeah, but I was referring to myself."

A weak smile spread across her face, endless in its poignancy and even more striking in gratitude. "Thank you."

Wright shrugged. "That's what friends of friends are for."

She shrugged. "Logic?"

"Works for me."

Buffy nodded, wiping her eyes to rid herself of the tears she had tried so hard to keep from expressing. He was a good friend—if nothing else, he was a good, loyal friend. She suspected that his good opinion once lost was lost forever. And similarly, once formed outlasted a lifetime. Zachary Wright was a good man. A good, complex man working hard to rid himself of his own demons.

He was a strong ally as well. She liked him. She liked him very much.

"Good luck with Cordy," she said, whirling on the counter to hop back onto the floor.

"Oh," he replied, wide-eyed. "Trust me. I'll need more than luck."

A dry, however understanding chuckle reached her throat. There was certainly no doubting that.

And that was it. The Slayer emitted a long sigh, then turned to head upstairs.

At this point, it was fruitless to force herself to conclusion. With fatigue stretching at every reasonable aspect of her being, she stopped wearily in the doorway of the bedroom she was slowly coming to accept as hers and Spike's. The picture that welcomed her warmed her unbeating heart; her sire, doused in worry-induced exhaustion, was fast asleep. He evidently exhibited enough foresight to remove his shirt before reclining, though he had once more refrained from disrobing his jeans; his thumb was caught in one of the loops, his other hand cast above his head against the pillow. And even though he was lost to the world, she could hear the faint rhythm of the few breaths his body decided to indulge.

A faint smile drew upon her lips.

If nothing else, he was a work of beauty.

And he would likely resent the hell out of her for thinking so.

Buffy made short work of her own attire. While she wasn't sure whether or not she was welcome in his bed after the spectacle downstairs, she reckoned he would have little ground to contest her when she told him what needed to be heard. And even so, nothing that had driven them this far had seen light to objection. He loved her. He had told her so. More importantly, she had felt it beneath her hands. She had read it in his eyes. She had tasted it in his kiss.

This was nothing. This business with Angel.

It was nothing.

Or would soon be nothing. She had to give him that. She had to ease his worry.

She had to adjust herself before making her decision.

A sigh clamored her throat as she climbed into bed. She nuzzled delicately into his side, reveled a bit when an arm instinctively came around her, but enjoyed no success in waking him. Even as his fingers intuitively sought across her skin, as his tongue wet his lips, as he rumbled lightly in eluded content and snuggled into her with more of the same.

Nothing like that to face tonight. All saved for the morrow.

Buffy leaned upward to graze his temple with a kiss before losing herself completely in his embrace. "I love you," she whispered.

The words escaped her with such casualness that she only lent herself pause when she thought of how he would react when they awoke. She had hurt him. She would fix it. Because she loved him.

So this was what love felt like. For the first time, she understood. She felt it and understood.

Wonderful. Terrifying.

She knew. With everything else that remained hidden in the balance, she reached one truth that managed to strike fear into a hardened façade. One truth to lead her through all the others.

She couldn't lose this. Ever.

If she did, she would never recover.

Buffy shuddered and snuggled into him as best she could, but the thought remained with her far after she had fallen asleep.

Forever was a long time to suffer for the misgivings of one mistake.

She had to make it right. Come morning, she would make everything all right.