Rating: R
Timeline: Post Season 6 with no reference to Season 7
Summary: Spike, struggling with his soul and his love for Buffy, is offered redemption from a very surprising source. However, when signs of an uprising evil begin to appear, he must face his fear and guilt and return to the place it all began for him—Sunnydale.

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] [Epilogue]

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Chapter Sixteen

A blonde head strayed a safe distance away from the vampire and the Slayer trailing behind him—the self-imposed detachment doing little to alleviate the manifest awkwardness. Again, night had fallen with alarming rapidity, and an air of disconcertion fell over the otherwise still terrain.

The evening was heavy with the sense of straining apprehension. Buffy felt her insides tightening with the need for further release, but she dared not speak up here. Now. Not with Angel by her side. Not with the discomfiture searing between herself and the platinum vampire ahead. Though their revelations were only a day old, the silence between them was already stretching beyond the boundaries of the longstanding unease linking herself and her other former demon lover.

A tangle of warring emotions. William intently stalked leagues ahead of them, clearly craving no conversation or suggestion of motivation. The closeness they shared in spurts—the loving gazes, the touches, the sharp intakes of breath—were becoming short-lived and similarly difficult to pull away from. Buffy’s conflicted esteem squirmed in agony. Beside Angel she walked, though she wished him miles away. There were things she had yet to share with his childe. Discarded confessions and wary conclusions—a need to know where they stood. What she had shared the previous night had yet to be rebuked. The longer he stayed, the harder it would be to say goodbye.

The shared emotion that touched his eyes every time he looked in her direction painfully reassured her that her suffering was nothing compared to his.

At last, the hurrying vampire subsided in haste, coming to a halt not too far from the gravesite they had talked over the previous night. She knew he would not go further. Drawing in a breath, Buffy took seat atop a headstone, hoping Angel would understand the unvoiced need for distance.

The night cocooned around them with all its wondrous strain. William was leaning reverently against a crypt door, trying hard not to look at her. His sire occupied himself, trading glances between the Slayer and the conspicuously darkened night sky.

It could not last long. Releasing his restraint, the bleached vampire chortled humorlessly and shook his head. “What a walloping load of fun this is,” he drawled, reaching for his cigarettes. He was well aware of the eyes watching him as he lit up, drawing a deep drag and emanating a string of smoke. “Peaches? Wanna fag?”

Everyone knew Angel never smoked. It was difficult to miss the telltale tremors running through the other vampire’s body. With a sigh of concession, he began, “Spike—”

“Just tryin’ to keep the conversation rollin’.” William shrugged and tucked his smokes away, eyes darting wearily to Buffy and back again. “Would offer one to you, pet,” he murmured, “but everyone keeps tellin’ me these things’ll kill yeh.”

“Spike.” The sound of his sire’s voice rang with stress. “We don’t like this anymore than you do.”

“Yeh. You should be over ‘ere.” His feet shuffled with the preemptory need to pace. Somehow he managed to remain grounded. “I’m out with the two people who should hate me more than anyone in the world. Just how I fancied spendin’ my evening.”

Angel frowned, tossing a brief glance to the Slayer. “We don’t—”

“I know you bloody don’t,” he retorted, almost bitterly. With a cynical grin, he shook his head and turned his eyes to the heavens. “What does it take to get a good staking around ‘ere? I’m still shocked that I ‘aven’t been reduced to dust. Really thought if one of you didn’t do it that Harris would ‘ave a jolly hay day.”

“I wouldn’t let him,” Buffy said softly, eliciting a brief, compassionate glance from his gauche being.

A look made him soften. She wanted to go to him but forced herself to sit still. William smiled sadly. “Shouldn’t, luv. Oh bloody well. S’pose there’s not much use of extra dusty particles around ‘ere. ‘Sides, Ripper would’ve been brassed.” And that was it. Without warning, he receded back into his protective cave, surrounded with structures of never-ending guilt and regularity. He would not willingly emerge. Even if he saw it hurt, he would never bring himself to cross those barriers.

Discomfort seared behind his words. Buffy bit her lip and tossed a weary glance to Angel. Perhaps he was the key. As long as he was near, there was no hope the other vampire would open up to her. They had so much to discuss. Whatever kindness had spawned between the two was on wobbly ground, trusted but not quite enough.

A sigh coursed through her body and she forced herself to look at the larger picture. Perhaps there was nothing left to discuss. Perhaps they had said all there was to say the night before. She desperately craved conversation with him, reassurance, faith, anything that would bring the loathsome struggling of her conscious to a final rest. But even then, that hardly seemed fair. In the past few days, she had played witness to a vampire she didn’t know, a vampire created by something that wasn’t supposed to feel compassion or remorse. And it was only in the revelations made the evening before that she allowed herself to see it. That she admitted there was something to see.

She had told him she loved him but she hardly knew him anymore. And the more she saw of this man, this person wearing Spike’s clothing and speaking in Spike’s voice, the more she wanted to know. The closer she wanted to get. If this was the man Spike had given to her, she wanted to absorb everything there was to know was about him.

She wanted to know how closely linked William and Spike were in actuality. Giles assured her their similarities were astonishingly connected, but she couldn’t attempt to fool herself. Not with her confession tainting the air. They were not the same. They might have the same components, the same characteristics, the same ability to love and the same fire for her burning deep in their breast, but they were not the same.

Just as she never forgot that Spike didn’t have a soul, she could never forget that William did.

“Irony,” Buffy murmured to herself, though knowing that both her vampiric colleagues could hear. “Irony is one lousy bitch.”

“’S that, pet?” William asked softly, but she didn’t answer. And he didn’t repeat.

A sigh heaved off her chest and she cast her eyes downward, studying the ridges on her shoes, wishing herself away, anywhere. Angel backed up a few paces, and they temperamentally waited out the silence.

An hour had passed before she realized he would not speak to her. Whatever this was, they were beyond words. Solitude would not open the gateway to comfort—Angel’s presence was likely the only thing keeping him from falling apart. They were beyond talking out their problems and waiting for the mysterious answer. He wasn’t going to let her in—not more than he had already. Not to be burned.

“You know,” she said, rising to her feet. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“What?” Angel’s voice. William needed no assurance.

“This…us working together. He was right.” Buffy exhaled and gestured broadly to the other vampire. “You two can take patrol tonight, can’t you?”

“And ‘ave you walk home by yourself?” The platinum blonde arched a perfect brow. “Don’t think so.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh please. Don’t be ridiculous. If anything attacks me, it’ll be in more danger than I am.”

“Not if you’re attacked by a bloody lot of vamps.” William pointed to Angel. “Peaches, walk with the lady.”

This time, it was she who balked, blinking disbelievingly. The caution admittedly would have escaped her notice had he not brought it up, but now that it was in the open; it was nice to have something to throw back at him. All more besides, she wasn’t about to leave him now. Not with the memory of her Slayer dream stinging in hot recollection. “What? And have you sit out here by yourself?”

He bristled with a disengaging snort. “I can take care of myself, Slayer.”

“So can I. You don’t die twice and not come back the wiser. But that seemed to escape your notice.”

“You two are impossible,” Angel decided with a grunt, pacing away. “I’ll go.”

Buffy frowned. “But what about—”

“No arguments,” he retorted, not pausing in stride. “I know I’m not wanted here, and it’s obvious you have your issues to resolve. All these stupid excuses.” He shook his head incredulously, paces becoming more pronounced the further away he got.

When it sank in that he was not coming back, William met Buffy’s gaze hesitantly, then tore himself away with a huff of unneeded air. “Blast that bloody poof,” he growled through his teeth.

Any form of a reply lodged ineffectually in her throat. Dumbly, she stared at the place Angel had vacated, berating him for his irritating insight.

The vampire tore his eyes away from her, looking down and shooting for a raw attempt at humor. “If I knew it was that easy to get Peaches to sod off, I would’ve tried a long time ago.” Neither laughed. There was emptiness behind his tone, a dry loss for the once-held safe hold. A quick glance in her direction unveiled his anxiety. Releasing a deep breath, he finally pushed himself off the tomb and succumbed to the desire to pace.

“He left us for a reason,” Buffy observed. It was the first coherent thought to pass through her mind. She was absorbed with the idea that Angel would willingly entrust her with his childe. More than astonishment filled her veins. Change was coming in masses, thick and overwhelming. Though she knew she should be used to the altered perception of her peers, it surprised her still to see such a difference in attitude wittingly reflected.

“I know, pet.” William stopped, devastatingly near. “Poofter thinks he’s doin’ me a favor. Or you. But we’ve covered all this already. Talkin’ more’s not goin’ to make anyone happy.”

Wearily, she nodded. “I know that and it doesn’t matter. You came here, so you’ll have to put up with me.” The Slayer rose to her feet heavily. “Oh boy. This isn’t going to be easy. I said some things last night that I shouldn’t have.”

“Buf—”

“No. I need to do this. I…what I said hurt you, and it didn’t even apply.” Visibly, he flinched. “Despite what you say, or what Giles says, I’ve seen both sides of this before. You’re not…him…I have to remember that. But despite everything, I still want to know you, William.” There was a sharp intake of breath as he looked up; hands perched at his gunslinger hips. The use of his given name, unbidden, with no sense of struggle perceptibly affected every nerve in his being.

The war of the eyes stretched, teasing and tautening. Immeasurable silence followed, perturbed only by substantial breaths and the thick atmosphere searing with anticipation. Slowly, he licked his lips and conceded. It was all there was left to do. Fighting was useless and avoiding the issue was out of the question. They always circled to the point of origination. To the continuous battle of why and because. “What do you want to know?” he finally choked.

What did she want to know? There were so many things! From a thousand options, only a few articulately survived the tidal wave of forthcoming knowledge, the need to know and devour every inch of him. Things she had never thought to ask Angel. Did it physically feel different? What was his reaction to pain? Did he still feed regularly? Did he eat Weetabix as often as before? Was he slacking on his nicotine addiction?—(she had only seen him light up a time or two). What was his favorite color? Did he have any unpublished poetry she could read? How did the words come to him so effortlessly? If he was stranded on a desert island (assuming the sun had no affect on him), what three—

A menacing grunt disturbed the air as she finally thought to open her mouth and voice one or a thousand of these inquiries aloud. Before either could gather what was occurring, she was thrown to the ground, held by something putrid and heavy. It took only that to register her tinglies were going haywire, and a cold rush of panic shot through every limb in affect.

The next instant, she was freed—jerked to her feet and protectively near William. Demonic features had replaced his human face. They were encircled. A grouping of uncharacteristically patient vampires moving in the lines, baring fangs and daring either to do something stupid.

Obviously, whoever organized this raid didn’t realize exactly what type of party to crash. Spike was notorious for his willingness to thrust himself into danger, often hasty and without thought. She could only hope it was a trait shared by his soulful counterpart.

The answer was shortcoming. With a possessive growl, she was pushed behind him, safely out of way as the first attacker lost his sense of fortitude and moved for strike. That was all it took.

The rest was poetry—pure and simple. Buffy managed to break free of the remaining circle, consequentially separating from her vampiric companion. It was hard to tell how many were following her, or how many there were altogether. William warded three in his direction, but for every one he killed, another took its place. Misaims sent black essence across the darkened ground, and cold seemed to engulf her from every angle in reproach.

However, her tinglies were remaining particularly singular. She didn’t sense the presentation of the new Master this evening.

“Where are they all bloody comin’ from?” William screamed, but she didn’t answer. She couldn’t let her thoughts divide between kill and dialogue. However, her eyes disobeyed and wandered worriedly in his direction in between blocks and jabs. The distraction was minimal but enough. Buffy denied herself concern with his welfare. It would only get in the way.

She looked away before she could see the vamp come at him from behind and smack him unconscious with a detached tree limb.

The Slayer flipped to a stance atop a headstone, warring off those who came for her with little difficulty, almost blind with air thickened by dust. Those vampires previously occupied with William dove for her in unsighted fury. It was then that she saw the discarded bleached blonde, and while warning bells sounded, she did not have time to change her objective.

That did not stop the scream from tearing at her vocals. “SPIKE!” But he did not move.

The abundance of vampires seemingly stopped loading in supply, the remaining encompassing the gravestone on which she was perched. They were all hisses and snarls—at least eight still standing. Buffy realized William wasn’t going to move anytime soon and a breath lodged tightly in her throat. There wasn’t time to formulate a defensive strategy. It was instinct from here on out.

The Slayer leaped forward with an intended drop kick to the vampire nearest to her, but was intervened in mid-air by something heavy and metallic streaking an angry slash into her backside. There wasn’t time to react—no time to scream. Hungry smacking filled the space in place of her painful grunt, and Buffy reflectively fell in the opposite direction, leg snagging over the stone edge of the tomb. She landed roughly on her back and flinched her pain; aware of the amounting danger she was in. Slayer blood poured freely onto the grass behind her, and any decent vampire could smell it a mile away.

And they were everywhere—hovering, hissing, and snapping. She attempted to roll over, but the cut at her backside sent her back again, reeling in another outcry. Second time lucky, Buffy fought free of pawing hands, kicking on in the face and twisting to trip another. With a grunt, she heaved herself to her feet, swaggering slightly with a limp. Still faster than her attackers, the Slayer spun, prepared, stake materializing out of nowhere and no sooner thrust into an advancing opponent. The remaining seven were packing and she was desperately lacking in options. She wasn’t about to hobble out with her life and leave William to fend for himself.

It was only then that she could hazard a glance in his direction, but the bleached vampire had vanished. A rush of panic seized abrupt control of her functions, eyes darting in every which direction. He was simply gone.

“Spike!” she yelled. Left, right, left. No. He was gone. And the remaining vamps were racing for her. Buffy clamped her teeth on the inside of her cheek to wan away an interference of unneeded emotion. Tears defiantly welled in her eyes, threatening to blur her vision if she didn’t act soon.

A bulge suddenly flashed passed her and two of her attackers exploded into dust. Angel’s voice, ringing with frightened authority: “Get down!” as he busied himself with another. However, Buffy wasn’t listening. She barely registered his presence. All she knew was William—

Was over there.

From where he appeared, she had not the faintest. A group of three had surrounded him, and despite injury, he was managing with relative ease. Two gone in seconds. To her left, Angel dusted another. Three left. Buffy sprinted for the first she saw, grasping the branch of a tree overhead, and swinging her body forward. The wood snapped and provided a piece of pointy limb into her tight, irritated grasp. She ignored the splinters that found haven in her palms, ignored everything until the improvised stake was nestled into the cavity of the nearest.

Angel rushed to her side and took another with him. By the time William joined them—panting for unneeded breath—the last was dust. And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the attack was over, and silence settled in once more. Heavy and awkward, all except the gulps of air heaving from overactive lungs.

The sudden stillness hung in extended unease, as though expecting a recapitulation with each passing second. When a full minute had ticked by, Buffy met William’s eyes and lunged, throwing her arms around his neck and clutching him to her tightly, seeking comfort and assurance. “Oh God!” she gasped. “I thought…”

The vampire looked helplessly to Angel before drawing his arms around her. “Shh, pet. ‘S all right. Everyone here’s still non-staked. I…” His nostrils flared just as his hand fingered the growing damp spot against her clothing. Immediately, his hold retracted. “You’re bleedin’, Slayer.”

The words triggered the numbing sores on her worn body, and a sharp pain stretched instantaneously across her back, another attacking her leg. Buffy flinched and wobbled forward, latching onto his shoulder for support. “Ow,” she murmured as though it were an afterthought. Her pain-stricken face told a different story. “Vamps got me with something sharp.”

Angel took hold of her free arm features, taut with concern. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

Buffy huffed a breath and nodded. “Didn’t even feel it until…” She frowned, fully acknowledging his presence for the first time. “When did you get back?”

“I ran into a group of vamps on the way out,” Angel explained. “Enough to keep me occupied till I could get to you.” Sharply, he looked to William. “Your place near here?”

It took the vampire a minute to realize he had been addressed—still engaged with sustaining the Slayer’s balance. “Not too far,” he replied with a general nod in a random direction. Then he grew suspicious. “Why?”

“You should take her there for tonight.” Buffy felt William tense against her, the strong arm holding her upward going rigid. Angel read his disposition immediately and rolled his eyes. “Listen, whatever this is, you’re going to have to get over it. You won’t do any good if you get like this every time we need help.”

The Slayer’s brow furrowed in agitation. “Wow. Overprotective much? I think I can get home just fine.”

“Not if we’re attacked again. And I thought we established that you’re staying in Xander’s basement for a few days. That’s further away, if memory serves.” Angel tossed another gaze to William. “Do you have a place for her at the crypt?”

“There’s room enough for both of us.” A sort of painful understanding had manifestly washed over him. “I can get her there.”

This was maddening. There was nothing Buffy hated more than being belittled. With an angry gesture, she fought out of William’s embrace and hobbled forward. “Don’t talk as though I haven’t taken worse. Walking corpse, hello!”

The vampires shot her identical incredulous glances. There was a breath of reproach. “Fine,” she conceded. “We’re all walking corpses. But—”

“Spike’s hurt,” Angel said suddenly. “We can’t risk another attack.”

Instantly, her anger dissolved into concern. Buffy turned back to the bleached vampire, unable to stop prowling hands from searching for injury. “Are you all right? Where—”

“Just a bump on the head,” he assured her, visibly pained by her anxiety. “Don’t worry luv, I’ve survived worse.” He twitched in discomfort, and she shared his sentiments. Neither was used to such blatant displays of worry and affection, and yet she couldn’t help herself. Over-compensation for so much neglect. With a half-smile, he attempted, “Certain someone I remember once dropped a bloody organ on me. Still standin’ ‘ere to tell the tale.”

Buffy’s eyes flared but she could conjure nothing but a sad smile. The moment was brief, her attentions otherwise occupied within seconds. She flashed angrily back to Angel. “What about you?” she demanded. “You could get me home—”

“I could, but it’s too risky. You’re bleeding, Buffy. A walking vampire beacon. You two need to just…get over it for tonight. If you think I’m enjoying this, then you’re wrong. I’m just capable of being rational when there are no other options.” With finale, he looked back to William. “Get her out of here, now.”

The next few seconds passed all too quickly for Buffy to calculate what was happening until it was over. One minute she was firm on the ground, glaring at Angel, and the next she had been lifted off her feet, and scenery was flashing by in a blur. A long, bumpy trek to the other side of the graveyard. William was moving with speed she had forgotten he possessed, seemingly not hampered by the woman curled in his arms.

When thoughts started to untwine, she managed to grunt a falsely exasperated, “I can walk, you know,” as she tightened her arms around his neck.

“No, you can limp,” he retorted. “I can run.”

How they arrived at the crypt so fast, she would never know, but for the pains that shot up her back and shoulders, she was grateful. She was sure he had not intended to use her as a human hammer to get the door open. With delicate ease, he set her on a sarcophagus before busying himself creating an adequate barricade. The job was probably over within seconds, but William spent several minutes occupied finding different objects to blockade the entry. It was an unsuccessful attempt to war off the patent tension that settled whenever they were alone together.

When the air became uncomfortably quiet, William drew in a firm breath and sighed. “There,” he said, pretending to admire his work. “Bloody buggers will ‘ave a helluva time gettin’ through that door.” She didn’t reply, coaxing him with silence to finally turn to her. Their gaze held fiery for seconds before he could find his voice again. “You all right, pet?”

“All right,” Buffy repeated, though not really hearing the question. Her eyes glazed over as she studied him, the absence of Angel making it easier for her to admit her uneasiness. Though she hated being wrong, she absolutely despised being wrong in front of him. Finally, William’s gaze coaxed her back to herself, and she took her head with makeshift repose. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just…hurts.”

“Lemme see.” As though the request were the simplest thing in the world. His words were a stunning echo of Angel’s once upon a time. The night her life had invariably changed.

It was so long ago it might as well have been a dream. She couldn’t imagine ever having been that young. That naïve.

Looking into William’s eyes now, she was reassured with fervor that the demon of the past had no place near the demon of the present. Her relationship with the peroxide vampire was beyond description, beyond angst. Pangs of regret could not help but shoot through her to her core every time she met his gaze. She wanted so much to make things right.

Perhaps that in itself lent to saying goodbye.

“Do you have any…ummm…” She looked around the crypt, disseminating herself with her surroundings. Despite the discussion they had the other night, she hadn’t taken the time to familiarize the change of scenery. “Towels or that sort of thing?”

“Just the stuff I brought with me,” William retorted, moving passed her. “And whatever Red brought by last night in that bag.” He indicated the unopened sack beside her feet. “I think Ripper’s been makin’ her bring me goodies. Third bloody night she dropped by.” A pause in afterthought. “She sure as hell better not try tonight. I’ll kill Red if she goes and does something stupid that makes her dead.”

Buffy chortled favorably, earning a grin in reply. Then he disappeared in shadows, emerging a few minutes later with a worn sheet and pillow. When she arched a brow, he stopped and grinned, almost impishly. The sight made her coil with warmth. It was so Spike. “Hey, just cause it looks like a sodding crypt doesn’t mean I can’t pretend I’m not at some fancy hotel.” He nodded to the sarcophagus. “Know it’s uncomfortable, luv, but lie down on your stomach. I’m gonna try to clean you up.”

Skillfully, as though preparing for a massage, William spread the sheet across the slab of stone and stepped back, allowing her room to pass. The air was thick and she knew he could hear her heart pounding. Then he was out of her line of perception, though she could feel his eyes on her, peeling away layers of skin—seeing her to the utmost exposure. Buffy closed her eyes and pursed her lips, waiting breathlessly until she heard him near. The step was heavy and pronounced. He purposefully alerted her to his intentions, allowing time to wiggle away, even if it was against her own good.

He was afraid to touch her.

Hands at the hem of her shirt and an audible gulp. Another pause before he stretched the fabric and tugged it upward, inhaling deeply as the wound was exposed.

“Oh, luv,” he said finally, hand caressing her back absently. “Hold tight. I’ll be right back.”

Then he was gone, leaving her cold and alone. The tomb fell deathly silent with his absence. Eerie and frightening. Buffy closed her eyes again and exhaled, silently cursing Angel for being so damned logical. Sure, coming here was probably in her best interest, but if they managed to survive the night without suffering a series of emotional breakdowns, it would be too soon.

When he returned, she didn’t know. In the afterglow of their fight, she thought she had dozed off for a few seconds. She stirred violently to the present when something moist collided with the angry spot on her back, and she nearly bucked in surprise. A hand was at her shoulder immediately, calming her. Buffy tensed, then relaxed, and he spoke as he dipped the washcloth into the basin once more.

“Shh, pet. ‘S all right.” Water dribbled down her sides. Sensations soared and collided. She had never thought something so simple could give such pleasure.

When he finished, William delicately straightened her shirt, inhaled and stood. How he could remain so composed was beyond her. Buffy swallowed hard, aching with need.

“You’re going to have to take your trousers off,” he said, voice shaking. “Need to see that cut.”

With a weary nod, the Slayer pushed herself up. She drew in a breath and turned over, hands going to her waist and sliding her jeans down her legs. Victoriously, she watched William’s eyes flutter closed with an appreciative huff of air. When the job was done and he looked at her again, a shiver of recognition shimmied up her spine. She knew that look well. It was held with restraint but no less existent. Eyes glossy—lids heavy with desire.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Turn around.”

Buffy nodded and lay back on her stomach, twitching as he neared again. A considerable pause and he did not touch her, though the heavy, unneeded breaths heaving from his chest did not stop. Over and over again.

“It’s getting to you, isn’t it?” she asked softly.

A beat. “Huh’s that?”

“The blood. It’s getting to you.”

Another brief interlude. “No, luv. It’s fine. It’s—”

“Go ahead.” Boisterously, Buffy lifted her leg in the direction she assumed was near his mouth, only to be pushed away harshly.

“No.”

“William.” A sharp intake of breath and he emitted a coo of pleasure, however inhibited. “Please.”

This time there was no refusal. There was nothing. The vampire exhaled deeply, as though his unlife depended on it. Then the touch came, softly, as though afraid she would retract the request voiced at her own lips. When she did not, he finally growled a deep acknowledgement of sweet surrender, lowering his head to catch the blood escaping the wound with his tongue. Buffy could not help but moan. His touch was feather-light, cautious, loving, and fearful. And sinfully erotic.

Then the taste got to him, overpowering gentlemanly reserve and drawing out long repressed primal instincts. She felt his ridges emerge, fangs delicately pricking her skin. Her failure to retreat pushed him over some final threshold, and he clamped down on her leg, not biting, but suckling as much of her essence into his mouth as possible. Rumbles of approval scratched at his throat, lips and tongue tasting greedily, hand coming to rest on her thigh until he could draw no more. Finally, he released her, licking the wound closed before moving up her body and raising her shirt to give the other abrasion the same treatment.

And she couldn’t take it anymore. With a strangled cry, Buffy twisted in his grasp, straddled his lap and brought his lips to hers—not allowing him even enough time for reconsideration to slip from game face. There was no restraint in his response: he kissed her eagerly, hungrily, his mouth devouring hers. The swell that had been accumulating in her chest finally triggered and exploded. Her teeth scraped his lips and tongue, teasing the jagged points of his fangs mercilessly. An inward roar of triumph as William moaned into her, unable to stop his hands from exploring her, holding her face to his. All the sweet richness of a first kiss combined with the agonized frustration of being separated so long soared with liberated ecstasy. She felt him unquestionably harden against her, and whimpered her compliance as she reached to draw his shirt over his head.

The action alone sent him flying back from the pivotal edge, and he tore his mouth away, panting as he captured her wrists to sharply halt the advance. William closed his eyes, composing himself, shaking his head with a stifled sob. “No,” he said softly. “I can’t, luv. I—”

“It’s all right,” she assured him. “I want to.” With a cautious breath, she reached uncertainly to grasp him, and was stopped with authority.

“I don’t,” he returned, unable to maintain hold on her eyes. “Please…”

Buffy’s lip quivered. “You don’t want me?”

“Oh, pet. It’s not that. You know it’s not.” Tentatively, he used the grip on her wrist to guide her where she needed no further verification, but drew away when the sensation became too overwhelming. He edged away from her and made a futile attempt to stop breathing. “See? It’s not that. But we can’t. We can’t, and you know we can’t.”

Tears clouded her eyes as she nodded her reluctant understanding, scooting further away to allow him space. “I know,” she replied raucously. “But I’m so tired of doing what I’m supposed to! I want…I want—”

He put a finger to her lips with a sad smile and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Won’t fix anything,” he rationalized. “It’d make things worse when this bloody mess is over with and Ripper and I go back to the old country.” The vampire sighed. “Sex doesn’t solve problems, pet, especially ones like ours. If anything, it’d just make a whole walloping bunch of new achies to deal with.”

There was no way this person had ever been Spike. The words sent Buffy down a labyrinth of still balancing error and confusion. Stunned, she shook her head. “Wow. You’re really not him. Every time I think I’ve got it, you go and blow me clear out of the water.”

William chuckled. “I know. Never thought I’d pass up a good shag, either. But soul’s got me all responsible-like. Gotta think.”

Buffy smiled dejectedly. “And smart.” A quaking breath shuddered through her. “You’re right, of course. We can’t. Not after…” When pain crossed his features and his eyes darted downward, she reached for his chin and forced him to meet her gaze. “Not that. I’m over…well…yeah, I guess. I’ll never be completely over it, but right now, I’m as close as I’ve ever been.”

William nodded without conviction and fought to look down. “You’re much stronger than me,” he whispered. “You astound me.”

A reverent though brief grin crossed her lips. “I’m not,” she retorted. “I just pretend to be. One way or another, this will end up tearing me apart.”

The vampire nodded again and sighed. “It’ll take both of us with it,” he returned. With a slightly uncomfortable fidget, he reached and handed her the discarded pants on the floor. “Best to slide back into these.”

Buffy coiled the material in her grasp and blinked in surprise as he turned his back to allow her privacy. As if he hadn’t seen her a thousand times before. As if minutes earlier they hadn’t been making out like freshman, feeling each other up and seconds away from forfeiting all control. She was touched beyond approach, and more confused than ever.

When she was ready, she touched his shoulder and edged forward to lie down again. He did not shrink back when she reached for him, bringing him to lie behind her. Body to body, his chest against her back. It was only when she guided his arm across her stomach that he began to struggle.

“Don’t,” she pleaded, her voice rendering his body helpless to do anything but warm up to her. “Just…lie here with me.”

There was nothing for a minute, then a sigh of relaxation fanned her ear, arm around her middle constricting with the reassurance of her presence. A few more minutes before his fingers started to play against her skin. Soft, feathery touches that made her ache with ungratified need.

“Are you real?” the vampire asked softly, running his hand through her hair, down her cheek and back again.

“I don’t know,” Buffy whimpered. Fatigue settled in to claim her, and she fought it. Sleep had no right to rob her of these sensations. Not when the moments shared now would be the last forever. However, she could not help the droop of her eyes, the blinks that became harder to recover from. “Who is anymore?”

There was no reply. Nothing for her to focus on to remain awake. When William ran his hand over her eyes, she succumbed to exhaustion and fell promptly asleep.

Chapter Seventeen

“Spi…William?”

“Mmm, pet?”

“You asleep?”

“Would I be talkin’ if I was asleep?” An amused grumble and protective squeeze. “Couldn’t sleep if I tried. Coffee hasn’t got anything against Slayer blood.”

“What time is it?”

“Dunno. But I’d wager you’ve been out for a couple hours.”

“That’s the disadvantage of dozing off on stone.” Buffy chuckled and stretched. Their position surprisingly hadn’t altered since falling asleep, nor had William’s delicate exploration of her face, hair—pretty much whatever he could reach without stirring her. “Wake up too easily.”

“Yeah. Prolly doesn’t help much that I’m not much use as a bed warmer.” The vampire rumbled in dry amusement. “You’d think I’d be used to this after a century, but I’m not. Close to four years in a comfy bed and I’m bloody well housetrained.”

“Then why aren’t you in a motel?”

“Ripper tried but I said no. Doesn’t work that way. ‘Course, I came ‘ere thinkin’ I could pull off the whole Big Bad thing pretty well. Didn’t figure everyone and their cousin would know before the first week was over.”

A week. Had it only been a week? It seemed lifetimes had passed since Dawn stormed into the Magic Box and announced the platinum vampire was back in town. Never had she suspected she could go from pretending to hate him to snuggling beside his undead body in a matter of days. Every conversation they had seemed to stretch a thousand years.

She had to fight to remember the person that held her was more or less a stranger in so many regards, but she reached a point where that failed to matter. Whoever he was, she liked him. Loved him? Maybe. The notion wasn’t impossible.

Drawing in a breath, Buffy reached her hand to cover his where it lay across her stomach. “Do you regret coming back?”

The man behind her shuffled uncomfortably. “Mmm, now isn’t that a loaded question? Don’t rightly know, pet. If you’d asked me that last night, I woulda said yes in a heartbeat.” He paused to reflect the irony of the statement, but not for long. “I s’pose now, though, that everythin’ ‘ere’s been for the best. No matter how much it hurts.”

“Do you miss London?”

“Yeh. Well, not so much as I’ve missed…” William trailed off, unable to complete the obvious, and she correspondingly gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “But that’s mostly ‘cause I know I’ll see it again.”

The words were a well-aimed barb and struck rightly in the heart, however unintentional. She didn’t let it throw her off course, though, and countered with another inquiry. “What was your favorite thing to do there?”

“Depended on the mood, luv,” he replied. “Though most nights, or those I wasn’t spendin’ in that blasted library researchin’ demony mumbo jumbo, I went down to this café with my notebook. People fascinate me, pet. Even more than before. I’d go there and watch them live out whatever lie they were caught in, waitin’ for the one that’d inspire me to open my book and jot down a few verses.” He chuckled dryly. “Though more often than not, I’d end up writin’ you. I’ve written you every way from Thursday and still you come to me—a faithful muse—begging for more poetry.”

Buffy felt heat rising to her cheeks, and knew he sensed it as well. The thought that she could instigate such fervor shook her beyond words.

“What’s with the twenty questions?” William asked when she didn’t respond.

“I told you in the graveyard that I wanted to know you,” she replied. “If I get annoying, you have permission to thwap me.”

There was a warm pause. “Not annoying, luv,” he retorted, voice throaty. “What else do you want to know?”

“What was the first poem you wrote?”

A hangdog grin tackled his boyish features. She found the humbled manifestation thoroughly adorable. “It was a sonnet. Or rather, an attempt at a sonnet. Maybe the only thing in the bleedin’ book that wasn’t about you.”

“Which one? Do you have it memorized?”

William nodded against her and settled before realizing the question implied she expected a recitation. “Oh,” he said, composing himself. “You’ve read it, if Red’s speakin’ the truth. Not my favorite work, but Ripper seemed to think it was all right.

‘The day begins when night has set the sun
And vanished have noon’s hours empty crowds
Rays of sunshine wither until they’re gone
Setting the stars adjust behind the clouds

The taste of blood runs old against the tongue
Heartstrings pull tightly on a blackened soul
My deadened spirit never really won
And pulls me back into a restless lull

Of course the light will once again prevail
To chase the dark before it breaks the dawn
Unto my mind this light will doth impale
Until the dark returns to claim its spawn

Thus trapped forever here I will remain
To find some sanction from this endless pain’

“Like I said, luv. ‘S all right for a beginner, but—”

A muffled sob tore his voice in two, rendering him to a startled speechlessness. With an ache of desperation, Buffy twisted in his arms so she was facing him, pulling him down for a chaste, comforting embrace.

“You liked it, then?” William asked, struggling. The hands that held her trembled, caressing her softly, as though she was liable to break at any minute.

“That one always made me cry.” There were tears in her eyes. Good tears, however painful to reflect. “I just…knew, or felt…just…every time I read that…”

“Cor, luv,” he replied, awkwardly. “’S really not—”

“It speaks to me.”

An emotional silence settled over them, encompassing with empty comfort. They were twisted inelegantly—William’s arm now trapped under her torso from her spontaneous change of position, but he didn’t seem to mind. His free hand had finally ceased the gentle caresses to her face. It was harder when he looked at her. When he could see that she was real.

Buffy tentatively placed a hand on his forehead, reveling when he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

“So am I.” The deep tenor of his voice sent shivers up her spine. There was no offer of elaboration. It didn’t seem to matter anymore.

“I had a dream that the Master killed you.”

William’s eyes edged open, revealing no sense of alarm. “Won’t happen,” he said softly. “I’m a tough git.”

“Yeah, and he’s a Master. The Master killed me, and I’m reasonably tough. Hell, I kick ass. I don’t think being tough has anything to do with it.”

“Not the same bloke,” he retorted. “An’ that won’t happen, either. Not while I’m bloody standin’.” A pause as he reflected his words and the anxious beat that skipped in turn. He offered a grin of compensation. “Guess then that he’ll get neither of us. I won’t let him get you.” His hold on her tightened. “Even if I hafta die to ensure that…but I won’t.”

The Slayer shook her head. “You can’t promise me that, so don’t try.”

“Just did.” William leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “An’ I always keep my promises.” At her skeptical look, he sighed with a slight smile. “’Sides, you’ve had Slayer dreams that ‘aven’t amounted to diddly, ‘aven’t you?”

“Yeah, but they’ve…most of them come true in one way or another.”

The vampire tugged his arm free from beneath her, propping his head against his fist. “Right, then. What happened?”

Buffy bit her lip. “Ummm…it started in the bathroom.” He winced, and she did too, in affect. “I…ummm, well, you know what happened. Only there was someone else there. It was…you. Like two you’s. This was before I knew that you had…umm, a soul, so I think that was trying to tell me…that. You attacked yourself, or you attacked Spike and beat him to a pulp. Then it all went away back to Acathla, and my sword fight with Angel. Only it was you, and not Angel. I was about to kill you, but I…couldn’t. I kissed you instead. Then the Master killed you, bit me…you said something like ‘Make me what I was.’ I can’t remember everything, but that much is vivid.”

A long pause followed before William could tear himself away, breathlessly, eyes darting as he struggled to find his voice. “’S what I said to that demon in Africa. After I passed the last test. Asked him to make me what I was. Well, not quite what I was, but close enough.” His evasiveness made her scowl, but when he finally granted her his eyes, the manifest concern wiped aggravation away. “I’m more worried about that last part. But it won’t happen. Not while I’m here. An’ the only way you’ll get rid of me is if Harris decides to box me up an’ ship me back to England.”

“Don’t make jokes,” she warned. “I haven’t had reason to worry like this since I dreamt that Drusilla killed Angel.”

The admission left her lips so thoughtlessly that it sent a gasp of surprise through her system. She covered her mouth with exceeding astonishment, drinking in the similar storm that thundered behind his eyes in impossible recognition. Tears came, however unwanted. The additional accompaniment of forgiveness and love. However impossible this all was. How painful.

“But,” William choked a minute later. “He’s ‘ere. All Peaches to share his bloody logic. So you see…nothin’ to worry about.”

“That was right before he lost his soul.”

“Don’t worry about that, either,” he said sharply. “I made Ripper bring along insurance. Fought for this bloody soul, an’ I aim to keep it.”

“What?” Buffy blinked.

“I know you Scoobies ‘ave the curse locked away somewhere. You ‘ave to. Can’t risk Peaches gettin’ a happy and goin’ all wonky again. Figure you all could curse me, if this chap has a way of stealin’ what’s mine.”

The Slayer drew in a sharp breath. “But it took Willow to do that. Curse you? None of us have that kind of power. I—”

“Red does.”

“No. She—”

“She’s been workin’ mojo ever since she got back from London,” William said, and she felt a sudden rush of heated anxiety. “Oh no. Don’t worry. She works it in moderation. Worked it to keep me from runnin’ for the sodding hills when I saw her the other night. She’s not evil, my Red. But she can’t stop bein’ a witch any more than I can stop bein’ a demon.”

Buffy shook her head, not in denial as much as surprise. Betrayal? No, she couldn’t feel that, either. “Why didn’t she tell us?”

“What? An’ ‘ave you watch her back like she’s some bleeding time bomb? Everything’s been rosy, hasn’t it? When was the last time you really worried about her?”

“It’s been a while,” the Slayer conceded. “She’s Willow.”

“Red,” he agreed. “Anyway, I didn’t know that till I got back, but I figured if she couldn’t do it then Ripper could. Or someone else in this bloody town. On the Hellmouth, there has to be more than one witch in the neighborhood.”

“You think you would just do it all over again?” Buffy asked softly. “Willingly?”

William sighed and shrugged. “I sure as hell hope so, pet. You’ve gone all out and told me you loved ‘im. An’ I know he wouldn’t pass up a good toss an’ tumble. If he knows what’s good for you, he’d go to Ripper an’ ‘ave someone work the curse.”

It was weird to hear him refer to himself in the third person. Similarly, it was disconcerting not to know what she preferred. Colliding feelings for William confused the love she felt for Spike. Could she give the soulless vampire up again if it came down to it? Would she want to? Cradled now in William’s embrace, she began to have her doubts, and a rush of guilt soared in repose.

Giles’s reassurance calmed her warring conscious. They were so alike, yet so different. Where did Spike end and his counterpart begin?

“Tell me something no one else knows,” Buffy whispered, running her forefinger across his lip.

William closed his eyes at the tenderness and turned his face downward, hand moving to capture hers. His thumb unconsciously drew small, feather-light patterns on her palm. Something heavy had landed on him. “About two years ago,” he said seriously, “I contacted the Council. It was after one of your phone chatties with Ripper. I had taken a walk earlier, just after sunset. Saw a girl that looked…I thought it was you for a minute. I was so broken then. Can’t say much ‘as improved, but Ripper used to not be able to even say your name, else I’d get upset. I don’t know what but…it hit me extra hard that night. I asked the Council to send me some of that…dunno what it’s called. Killer of the dead poison.”

A sharp pain ran up Buffy’s spine, and she closed her eyes tightly. In a flash, she saw Angel falling to the ground, arrow run through his chest. The scar on her neck throbbed in effect. “Oh God,” she gasped. “You—”

“Couldn’t take it anymore, luv.” William sighed and shook his head. “Council was more than willin’ to oblige me. Never had them send me somethin’ so fast. I took what they gave me to the roof of the library an’ stood there for what felt like forever. Just lookin’ at the stars. An’ I knew you were out there. Somewhere. Under the same sky, maybe seein’ the same constellations I was. Maybe lookin’ at the moon. Maybe fightin’ a vamp or takin’ your sister to some school thing. An’ then I knew that killin’ myself was the coward’s way out. For everything. What I did…what I almost…I deserved to live in a world with you in it. With you livin’ happy without me there, mucking it up.” Absently, he pressed his lips to her hand, still clutched tightly in his. “If I killed myself, it would’ve made the whole thing in vain. An’ I deserve everythin’ I’ve got. I deserve more than what I’ve got.” He sighed again. “Threw the stuff over the side of the library, an’ went to work the next day like nothin’ had happened. Ripper never knew.” Buffy didn’t realize she was crying until he released her hand to wipe the tears away. “I didn’t tell you that to make you sad, pet,” he said a minute later. “Or to…I just wanted to let you know that nothin’ll prevent me from doin’ what I came ‘ere to do.”

“I still don’t understand,” she sobbed, tears running freely down her cheeks, despite his efforts.

“What?”

“Everything! I don’t understand any of it, and I can’t. I’m so sorry, William. Spike. Whoever you are. I—”

The tenderness of his touch was retracted with a fiery growl, as though her pain stung his skin. “Don’t be sorry,” he snapped. “Don’t ever be sorry.”

“I can’t help it! I see what I made you—”

He tugged viciously at her wrist, pulling her off her side so he was looking down at her, eyes flashing with intent and lasting heartache. “I did it. No one made me. I wouldn’t take it back for anything. Understand, luv? I’m ‘ere now by choice. ‘Cause I want to be.”

“Can’t I be sorry?” she fired back. “I’ve never said you weren’t wrong. You were. But God, so was I. I was so wrong for everything.”

There was no way they would ever reach an agreement on the matter. William looked away, hand subconsciously returning to her face, drawing renegade strands of hair from her eyes. “That year wasn’t made for people to be right,” he concluded. “I blundered up so bloody much…took you a long with me to a place you should never ‘ave seen. I did wrong by you, Slayer.”

Buffy suddenly grasped his wrist and his eyes shot back to her. “You didn’t do anything that I didn’t let you,” she whispered, hushing him with a look before he could object. “And at the end, you reacted to all the abuse I gave you. Stringing you along like…I was so wrong. Can’t you see that?”

At that, he grew angry, sitting up with a start, teeth bared menacingly at her. Though they knew the threat was nonexistent, it startled her still. “Don’t you dare!” he growled. “Don’t you dare say you were to blame for that. I attacked you, Buffy! When I think about what I coulda done—”

“But you didn’t,” she returned. There was a familiar edge to her voice. “You didn’t—”

“I could have. And then where would we be? Certainly not here. Not ‘aving this bleedin’ conversation. You would’ve staked me good and proper a thousand times over, an’ if you ‘aden’t, I sure as hell would have. I can’t stand to think of…if I ‘aden’t left that night, I woulda done something drastic.” William pushed himself off the ledge and hopped to the floor, beginning another characteristic pace.

The continuous avoidance of this issue effectively wore her down to her last nerve. “Will you stop it? I’m so tired of having the same discussion with you. Get over it, Sp—William.” The ferocity behind his eyes blared briefly even as her storm began to calm. “William,” she said softly, stepping forward. “I can understand why you don’t want to get involved. Trust me, it hurts but I know it’s for the best. We can’t…but you can’t keep blaming yourself for something you didn’t do.”

“But what if I had?” he growled, though there was no venom behind it. “What—”

“I don’t care about what could have happened,” Buffy whispered, taking another step forward. “We’ll never know, okay? All I know is that you’re punishing yourself over and over for something you can’t be held credible for. And even so, I forgave Spike. I forgave the demon. I love the goddamn demon. It’s gross and disgusting and wrong but no less true. I fell for a monster. A monster that hurt me and killed hundreds, if not thousands of others. He gave you to me because of what he did, not what you did.” The final step forward brought them a hair apart. “Not you.”

A moment froze between them, leaving the air stinging of accusations and trades, self-remorse and loss. Mingled breaths hung soundlessly, eyes daring the other to look away. But they remained connected: locked in a moment of reluctant complacency. A pivotal stage filled with a cast that forgot the lines. Two battling souls struggling to find the pathway to some sort of personal fulfillment.

It was William who growled first, a sweet ring of his surrender as he grasped her shoulders and brought her fiercely to meet his mouth. The kiss was cautious and daring, brutal and tender. A gateway opened with a flood of relinquished anxieties—and they tasted each other with trepidation. And just as he initiated it, the vampire pulled back, breathing harshly, bringing his hand to stroke her cheek, but not to push her away.

“You’ve been talkin’ with Ripper, haven’t you?” he asked with mirth.

Surprise had not vacated her cheeks. The intensity he exhibited revealed more than he would have liked. Shared more than he was ready to disclose, and she knew it. “A bit.” Buffy’s tongue darting out to lick her lower lip.

Likewise, whatever she saw he picked up without hindrance. Damn him and his bothersome prudence. William smiled sadly, shaking his head, berating himself. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, hands retracting to her shoulders, caressing her skin with his thumbs. “Sorry.”

“No, I—”

“We better get some rest. The faster morning comes, the better.” The vampire sighed emphatically. “This is making me crazy.”

“Me, too.” With reluctance, she took a step backward.

“If things were different—”

“But they’re not. I get that. I told you.” Heaving a breath, Buffy paced around him and reclaimed their cooling spots on the sarcophagus. “But for tonight, can we just pretend the world doesn’t exist outside this crypt? Just…I need…”

His eyes met her with understanding before he looked down and offered a small nod. And without needing any sense of verification, William moved toward her, taking the proffered space beside her. When he was relaxed, he lifted an arm and invited her head to his shoulder. She felt him jitter beneath her when soft tears meshed his skin through his shirt. It was inevitable—she couldn’t hold them back, just as he couldn’t refrain from caressing her with empty consolation. They snuggled: a sort of painful comfort. A moment not likely to repeat itself.

For the second time that night, she fell into deep sleep.

Chapter Eighteen

First attempt unsuccessful. Second attempt aggravating. The hastily constructed barricade held well against single blows, but the force of an angry vampire could not be denied long. Within minutes, the crypt door flung open violently, motion charged with angst. It was ardent and unmistakable; the signal to warn whatever resided inside that company had arrived. There was no stirring of acknowledgement—the two occupants far and away in deep, resounding slumber. When no one answered the call, three figures pushed through the entry, peering forward with lingering trepidation.

“They’re in here,” Angel decided almost instantly. There was no way he could know based solely on visual verification. The crypt was dark, lacking in windows, and the nonexistent light from behind did little to help. For the first time since leaving earlier that evening, he regretted not bringing a flashlight. His words, however, were the only confirmation his colleagues required. Without awaiting invitation, Willow and Giles piled inward, squinting through the darkness.

“Here,” the Watcher offered, striking a match. “There should be something to your right…an oil lamp or—”

“Found it.” No sooner had he spoken did the crypt illuminate, revealing the absentee Slayer and bleached vampire yards behind its warmth. They were perched on a sarcophagus, sleeping peacefully in one another’s embrace. Buffy had claimed William more or less as her personal pillow, mostly draped over him and secured there by a protective arm across the small of her back. They looked serene together—enjoying the quiet even through the subconscious.

“Aww,” Willow appreciatively cooed. “How cute!” She turned to jab Giles with her elbow. “And you were all worried. I told you he’d look after her.”

“Excuse me, I believe it was you that awoke me at three this morning in hysterics because you had not yet heard from her.” The Watcher indicated the sleeping pair with a nod, face indistinguishable, but it he looked mostly pleased, if not relieved. “I-I figured she and William were together. He wouldn’t let her get too far away.” The soaring relief flying behind his eyes contradicted his words, and he cleared his throat disdainfully. “Besides, I am the Watcher. I am allowed to be concerned.”

“What? And as the best friend, I don’t have that luxury? Well fine, Mr. Antsy Pants. And for the record, I believe you are the former Watcher.”

Neither looked to Angel.

As if sensing their presence, William’s eyes opened. It was not a prolonged awakening; once stirred, he was as alert as one could hope. He fought a yawn, attempted to stretch and realized that he was fastened securely in place by most of the dozing Slayer. A smile flickered across his lips, and he ran a hand through her hair before thinking to turn to the audience stationed in the middle of the crypt. He reflected no surprise at their attendance, rather regarded them with a sleepy nod. “Mornin’ all.” He turned and lightly tapped Buffy on the shoulder. “Rise ‘n shine, luv. We’ve got company.”

“Do you have any conceivable idea what time it is?” Angel demanded with dry irritation as the Slayer began to awake.

“Quarter after ‘I don’t give a bloody crap’? No clock in ‘ere, mate. But I’m getting some rumblies in the stomach region.”

The other vampire would have replied had the woman lying across William’s chest not finally sat up, yawned, and realized she was on display. A sweeping look of recollection claimed her features, but the best she could offer was an impish grin. “Hey guys,” she said sleepily. “When did you get here?”

“A few minutes ago,” Giles replied. The air of discomfort didn’t lift until Buffy pulled back the sheet to reveal they were still fully clothed. “We were concerned.”

“Some of us were,” Willow agreed. “Others thought you two were just fine.”

The Slayer blinked. “Worried? Wait…what time is it?”

“Close to 6:30,” Angel replied.

“No wonder I’m so tired.”

However, William had caught his grandsire’s fiery gaze—the one that wasn’t as much angry as relieved, not as much hurt as discomfited. And without seeking the obvious, he understood. “I think he means at night, pet.”

Her eyes widened. “No way. Really?”

“Yeah, we didn’t know where you were,” Willow retorted, glancing briefly to Giles. “Then Angel dropped by and told us what happened last night. Are you two all right?”

Buffy nodded, throwing her legs over the side of the sarcophagus. “Yeah. I got a little cut up, but no big. Same old same old. I must’ve been sleepier than I thought.” It was then she paused, that moment that remaining slumber wore off and left with it all the memories of the day before. Something powerful took command of her, and she glanced sharply to William with newfound enlightenment. It was a look impossible for bystanders to read.

And all at once, the atmosphere was uncomfortable—tight and confining. Buffy tore her eyes away, looking to Willow with new insistence. “Is it all right to leave now?” There was desperation in her tone that might have been mistaken for a need of fresh air had she not immediately darted a glance in the blond vampire’s direction and looked away when she saw he was studying her. It was direct counterpoint to the moment of tenderness they had seemingly interrupted. New sheepishness mingled. Something had obviously passed during the night hours.

“Yeah, I’d say it’s all right to leave,” Angel offered. “We didn’t run into any trouble on the way here.”

“Hate to burst your bubble, but I was leaving whether or not you gave me the go.” Buffy smirked at him and flexed impressively. “Slayer strength. Where is everyone?”

“Dawn’s with Xander and Anya.” Willow looked impish for a minute. “She just got back from Brazil. You know…vengeancy stuff and all. Oh! But Dawnie aced her English exam. Very cool.”

William arched a brow. “Oh, so that’s where Demon Girl has been. I was wonderin’—”

“It was just last night,” the Witch corrected with a shrug. “Anya doesn’t really hang out with us that much anymore, but Giles thought she should help because of the…you know…the thing.”

The platinum vampire chuckled dryly. “Just don’t let ‘er help Little Bit with history,” he cautioned. “Old professors don’t fancy the history that really happened.”

An odd look of complacency beset Angel’s face, and he grinned his concurrence. “It’s called a cover-up for a reason.”

“All right, can we get out of here?” Buffy stepped forward with recharged haste. “This place is starting to give me the willies. And I’m sure Dawn and Xander don’t want to miss the explanation about how President Lincoln was in fact a Mahayle demon or whatever.” Without awaiting agreement, she flung Spike’s duster over her shoulders and paraded out the door, followed wearily by four.

Willow leaned into Giles and whispered, “What’s a Mahayle demon?”

There was a fond smile on his face. “A Buffyism. I haven’t the faintest.”

A manifestly concerned Xander threw open the door and tackled Buffy in the most powerful bear hug she had ever experienced. “Oh thank God!” he cried. “We were so worried!”

Bewildered, the Slayer reassuringly pat his back, looking to Willow for help. “I’ve been getting that a lot. Glad to see you, too. You know, I don’t know why everyone’s wigging out. I was with Spike the entire time.”

“Yeah. Precisely why I’m wigging out.” His eyes darkened when he caught sight of the three men following her. “Oh. Great. Speak of the Evil Undead…”

“Oh sod off, you bloody ponce,” William growled, pushing passed the Slayer and into the basement. Another invitation that had yet to be revoked, but the surprise and emotional release failed to strike with any impact. “She was safer with me than she ever woulda been here.” He snickered and looked around, his expression softening. “Must say the decorating’s improved.”

Harris heaved an exaggerated breath and pivoted hotly to Buffy. “Remind me again why he’s here?”

“So you finally stop saying ‘I told you so’,” she retorted. “It gets old. I was fine. I just…got really tired when we got back to the crypt.” Demonstratively, she flexed still-sore muscles. “Needed a place to rest. Besides, it was Angel’s idea.”

By then, everyone had crowded uncomfortably in the basement. Dawn was dozing on the couch—Anya coming down the stairs and stopping shortly when she saw the population had multiplied. “Oh good,” she drawled disingenuously. “Everyone’s here.”

William squinted at her, though he really could reflect no surprise. The demon’s ever-changing hair color was currently bright red—punkish though with odd style. She snickered when she saw him. “And I do mean everyone.”

“Evenin’ luv,” he returned, though with disinterest. It would take Harris a while to accept his altered nature, and he didn’t particularly want to relive all the reasons the ponce hated him so much.

It didn’t take long. The next instant, Anya’s eyes widened and she rushed down the staircase, staring at him in awe.

“My God!” she exclaimed, thoroughly impressed. “That’s amazing!”

“What?”

Willow chuckled and placed a hand on his arm. “Spike, you might wanna…you have a little soul showing…right…” She thwapped his chest lightly, “about there.”

The Slayer stood aside, regarding the private moment the two enjoyed with growing jealousy. Despite everything, it was clear the Witch shared something with William that she would never be able to touch. An understanding—a need for concrete forgiveness. There was love there. Love that would never amount to anything beyond a shoulder to cry on and someone to share ideals. Love that many didn’t get to experience. Love that didn’t hurt him to accept.

It would be hard for him to stay away from love like that. A part of her thrived with hope that similarly shared no likelihood. With everything they had confessed in the past forty-eight hours, there was no way he could will it so.

“So everyone here knows, then,” Anya decided, moving grudgingly. “Well, that makes it no fun.”

The Watcher was attempting to push through the doorway, Angel standing aside. Behind him, the sky was uncannily dark. Further signs of an awakening Buffy did not want to consider. “Ummm, Will?”

In one priceless minute, both William and Willow turned to answer him, voices mingling as one. “Yes?” They paused to regard each other before mirth inevitably emerged the victor. The vampire’s laugh was deep and authentic—not the half-crazed, half-ego drawn tenor of previous days. Similarly, the Witch was relaxed and unwound. A picture of her prior to the stress she went through with Tara. Willow as she had been and still was, deep inside.

As they attempted to overcome their humor, Xander turned wide-eyed to Buffy. “Am I the only one who found that disturbing?”

Giles was still in freeze-frame, waiting the two to return attention to him. “—iam,” he clarified. “William, Angel and I are adjourning to the public library for some research. Care to join us?”

To see those ocean blue eyes light up at the prospect of willful study was perhaps one of the more surprising characteristics he had yet revealed. Even more so than the discovery of his poetry book. Spike had always had a respect for words—it was foreseeable that he might one day write them down; if the telly broke or he was stuck in a room for several hours with nothing but counting cracks on the ceiling as the alternative. William needed no such condition to react with delight. “Bloody right!” he agreed enthusiastically, moving forward until Buffy placed a hand on his forearm.

“Don’t go,” she asked softly. “Just tonight. I’m sure…”

The vampire paused, his face falling, new emotion rendering him vulnerable and exposed. And just like that, the previously lifted tension spread across the room again—ardent and manifest. “Luv, I—”

“Never mind, Will,” Giles decided for him, striding toward the door alongside Angel. “Three’s a crowd.”

In that, William realized what had happened and swore under his breath, tearing away from the Slayer and stalking over to join them. “Yeah, but I’m the usual half of the original two.”

“All the more reason to take the blasted night off,” the Watcher retorted. “You had a busy night last night, from the sound of it, and deserve a break. So have at it. We’ll see you all in the morning.” And that was that. They were out of sight, and beyond reach before another word could be expressed.

Exasperated, William wheeled back to Buffy. Rare irritation flashed behind his eyes, and she understood. She had used her hold over him to her advantage, and while it was too late to retract her feelings on the matter, such acknowledgement still made her edgy. Neither wanted to know the true reason of motivation. It was too painful. “Listen, luv,” he growled. “I know—”

The invention came quickly—an excuse, a reason, a method to her madness. Valid in so many ways, but an excuse nonetheless. A reason to want him near her. She stepped forward apologetically. “My dream.” It was amazing how rapidly his frustration diminished. “I know you promised me, but…”

He saw, of course, but the weight behind her eyes did him in. With a sigh, he sealed the space between them, taking her in his arms—innocent and soothing. How they neared so quickly, she didn’t know. And it didn’t matter. All she cared about was the calming feel of his shoulder under her head, wiping all sense of anxiety away at the smallest touch.

He was trembling against her, and she understood. There, in front of her friends, she was allowing him to hold her, stroke her hair with selfless tenderness. Before the eyes of God and everyone.

Xander twitched. “I am never going to get this.” His words coaxed them apart, and he took back a step, hands coming up in emphatic neutrality. “And I don’t want to. You know my opinion but obviously don’t care. No matter what happens as a result of your boinking the undead, you never seem to—”

“Xander. Chill.” Buffy grudgingly put a few feet between her and the vampire, exhaling deeply. “Sp…Will and I are not—”

“And that’s another thing.” He pointed at the Witch. “She’s Will. He’s Spike. Don’t need anymore weird twilight-zone worthy moments tonight.”

“No, she’s Red,” William replied, flashing her a grin. “Listen, mate, I really don’t give a bloody rip if you like me or not. Kind of expected it, actually, given everything I’ve done these past nine years. Know you ‘ave a hard time accepting things. Well, accept this. I ‘ave a soul. ‘S not an excuse, an’ I don’t try to make it one. I didn’t come ‘ere lookin’ for forgiveness. Didn’t want to come ‘ere at all. So get off my back, all right? For reasons beyond me, the lady wants me ‘ere, so I’ll stay until she asks me to leave.”

A voice from behind stole whatever Xander was going to say off his lips. “Buffy? Spike? When did you guys get here?” Dawn sat up tiredly and rubbed her eyes.

“A few minutes ago,” the Slayer replied, relieved for the distraction. “Hey, I hear big yay for a certain sister of mine acing her English exam?”

The younger Summers brightened and nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah! In the bag, baby!” She grinned proudly and nodded at the vengeance demon. “And Anya’s been helping me with history. Hey! Did you know that Abraham Lincoln was actually a Mahayle demon?”

Willow and William blinked slowly and looked to Buffy, wide-eyed.

“What?” she balked. “Just a lucky guess.”

“So what’s the plan for tonight?” Dawn jumped up excitedly. “Do we get to Bronze-it in celebration of the coolness of me and my stunning academics?”

“No,” the vampire replied sternly. “We can’t afford to…does no one remember what I said last night?”

“I’m still in phase one: trying to break that habit of daydreaming when you talk.” Xander snickered. “Not working so well.”

Dawn slumped and pouted at William, though he remained unmoved. “Has anyone told you what a party-pooper you’ve become since you got your soul?” She wisely ignored the looks of blunt shock she received in affect, sighing and reaching for her backpack. “I guess we could watch Streetcar Named Desire, then. Lousy play I have to read. My Gestapo English teacher wants an essay in by tomorrow. Just to keep the students in line.”

The Slayer arched a cynical eyebrow and smiled sweetly. “So why aren’t you reading? Though they’ve made stunning advances, technology simply hasn’t come up with a visual book. I doubt watching the flick counts.”

Another pout. Dawn frowned. “It was Xander’s idea. And please! Like you were the model student. The assignment’s bogus, anyway. Besides, ya’ll have any other suggestions?”

“If you’re going to watch a boring movie, I’m going home,” Anya announced, moving for the door before awaiting a reply. “Think about doing that for your history essay, Dawn. But stay clear of mating rituals. You don’t want to be near a Mahayle orgasm.” Everyone stared at her blankly. “Have a great night!”

“Did anyone else just go to a bad place?” Xander asked when he found words, consequentially comforted by a series of nods.

Willow bit her lip in frustration. “I still wanna know what a Mahayle demon is!”

Dawn didn’t react—she had located the film from the recesses of her backpack. “So,” she said, holding it up. “Streetcar, anyone?”

Revisiting a reading requirement from the climactic senior year was the last thing on anyone’s priority list, but the night was desperately lacking in things to do. Reluctant acceptance stingily followed. Xander nodded as he snatched the video away. “Why not?” he drawled, popping it into the VCR. “Who would rather be Bronzing it when we have a good healthy helping of Southern hospitality?”

Buffy plopped down on the sofa, wiggling over enough room for William to join her. It was second nature already, just as comforting as the arm he draped over her shoulder, drawing her closer to his chest. If anyone thought to question the sudden chumminess between them, they wisely refrained.

“I don’t remember what this play’s about,” the Slayer admitted sheepishly.

“That’s because you decided you had no third block senior year,” Willow observed, earning a sharp glare. “What? It’s the truth!”

“Let’s not credit any of that to world saveage,” she returned with a snicker. “Forget the Mayor and Faith were having a hay-day plotting the big darkness.”

Dawn gasped in mock horror. “You let that get in the way of Tennessee Williams? Shame on you!”

The Slayer poked her tongue out at her sister and sighed contentedly against William’s protective embrace. Wisely, they ignored the uncomfortable shifting of Xander, who looked more confused than offended.

As the opening credits started, he leaned into Willow and whispered, “They’re not…together, are they? Now that he has a soul?”

The Witch shrugged. “Dunno. And honestly, I don’t care. When was the last time you saw Buffy that relaxed? And Spike…he doesn’t look ready to stake himself. The only thing I’m worried about is what they’re going to do when this is all over and Giles is ready to take him home.” She sighed. “As long as neither of them get hurt, it’s all right by me.”

“Yeah,” Harris complied, only half paying attention. “What are the chances of that?”

“Slim to none, but he deserves it.” At the inevitable oncoming rebuttal, Willow turned to him sternly and frowned. “He deserves it. Now lay off. Vivien Leigh’s about to debut.”

The movie ensued without much attention from the spectators, save Dawn who jotted down conclusive notes following every scene. Conversation blossomed, despite the girl’s attempts to keep everyone quiet. Every now and then, Willow would brighten in recognition and persuade everyone to pay attention for a few minutes before remembering that literature was not a dominant concentration in the company she shared. Only William remained constantly considerate and very interested in what she had to say. Someone whose passion for books rivaled her own.

When the movie neared the climax, the Witch drew in a gasping breath and froze. “Oh God!” she cried. “We should turn it off. Turn it off! Now now now now…”

But it was too late. On screen, Marlon Brando was grinning maliciously at Vivien Leigh, drawing in a look of brutal pleasure at her horror of reflection. Then he was nearing her, intentions all too clear, and the room stilled with sudden mortification. Buffy went rigid and the few breaths emanating from her companion ceased completely. The grip on her shoulder tightened then was released, and a possessed William rose to his feet, quivering with unkempt rage.

A shadow of the control he had spent so long mastering. The fighting glimmer as he struggled to contain himself, losing inexorably, trembling with sudden force. Flashes sparked behind his eyes: dangerous and consuming. And at last the dynamite cracked, and he forfeited every strain of his soundness to the growing fire within. “God!” he spat, shaken in balance by unstoppable tremors. “You’re sick! Bloody ponce! Right evil bastard!” With vehemence, he let out a sob and kicked the television. The on-screen insinuation of rape had already passed, not revealing much but enough. William had not calmed. With every kick, he lost more reserve, not caring that the picture was starting to crack and fuzz. Not caring about anything—hardly aware that he was being watched dumbly by people too shocked to move. “Evil!” Kick. “Disgusting!” Kick. “Sadistic bastard!”

He was yanked aside by a visibly frightened Buffy before he could destroy the television completely. Their eyes met and he read the fear behind hers, the fear and remorse initiated by every fiber of his existence. And without a word, he burst into tears, sinking to his knees and wrapping his arms around her legs. He pulled her to him tightly, uncaring, uncontrolled. “I’m so sorry!” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”

Buffy was overwhelmed, frozen in time. The astonished, blank faces of her friends mended as one. There was only her and William. Nothing beyond the sobbing vampire latched onto her, crying a thousand muffled apologies, though no amount of pardon would ever make things better.

She felt she would kill Xander if he dared make a mocking of this, but the expression on his face suggested anything but ridicule.

When at last he began to calm, Buffy tugged William to his feet. He had vamped out in the midst of grief, cold, wet ridges against her face, even as she attempted to wipe his tears away. The body quivering against hers was moments from collapse, breathing ragged breaths and leaning dependently against her.

The image was more than she could stand, and with fervor, she took hold of his chin and coaxed his eyes to hers. He had to see. He had to see there was no hate, no anger, nothing but swelling emotion just waiting to combust from her chest. Their mouths fused together at the same time, irrevocably drawn beyond control, the need to feel apologies, to taste the power of forgiveness. Long, hot, desperate kisses—fueled by the promise of absolution. Clemency. William moaned into her, for the first time not holding back, clutching on her shoulders as though something threatened to drive her away from him. His incisors scraped at her lips—fangs first then blunt teeth as he reeled the demon inward. And the tears wouldn’t stop coming.

Finally she pulled away, gasping deeply even as he latched onto her—not pushing her aside with further reprimands of why they couldn’t, why they could never. Instead, he held her resolutely to him, burying his face in her neck and drawing in her scent. He was firm against her, despite the shivers commanding his body. Cautiously, his mouth challenged her, tasting fevered flesh with his tongue as she held him solid against her. From her throat to her collarbone, drawing as much of her between his lips as possible. “I’m sorry,” he whispered miserably. “Oh God, Buffy, I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” she gasped. “It’s all right. It’s all right.” Diplomatically, she took his face in her hands and leveled his eyes with hers. “I love you.”

He balked instantly and once again began to struggle, though his efforts could not be classified as even remotely half-hearted. “You don’t,” he objected sternly. “No. No matter what. I’m not—”

Buffy grumbled in aggravation and tugged his head closer. “Will you ever just…open your eyes and look at me? I love you, William. Trust, me I don’t want to…but, you make it so hard. So hard not to.” She stomped her foot, joining him in his tears, knowing she had to stop before she hurt them both beyond words. And yet she couldn’t. Those eyes demanded compensation. He needed to hear the truth. The whole truth. No matter how it hurt. “God! I hate this! With as much as I try…I tell myself, I repeat everything that I said to…everything that you did, everything that I did…and it doesn’t work! It kills me, but I love you. All components of you. Man and demon alike.” Tears were clouding his vision again, his lips quivering in that oh-so-tempting way. “I love you,” she repeated, and she sealed her words with another kiss. Tender this time—soft and passionate. When she pulled away, there was reverence behind his eyes, passing with neutral understanding. And at last, she had what she wanted. A smile. A sigh. A burning trail of lingering forgiveness. Of accepted exoneration.

The smile remained even as tears cascaded down his cheeks, and he pulled her close again, clutching her against his chest. There they stood indeterminately, unaware of their surroundings, that they were still in Xander’s basement. That three pairs of eyes were studying them in growing bewilderment. And amazingly, no one said a word.

Xander looked to Willow and mouthed helplessly, “You up for The Matrix?”

Chapter Nineteen

A sense of peace settled over warring minds, and before the ending credits rolled, most everyone had fallen asleep. Though she had only been awake for a few hours, the Slayer was the first to topple into deep slumber, setting the bar for the others to follow. Curled into William's embrace, she clutched at him contentedly, blissfully unaware that her companion was still wide-awake, tracing her features with poignant fondness. The taste of her confession tainted the air in pleasant afterglow, but the ambiance fell sour for the knowledge of impending goodbyes. He sighed wantonly, wondering how any of it had ever come this far.

He knew it still changed nothing. Despite what was shared, despite how he felt, there was no way he could remain here. No way he would rob her of life like that. The Slayer was marked with an expiration date, and true, Buffy was different. Special. Assuming all went well with the looming big evil, she would be the oldest slayer in history.

But it changed nothing.

It didn't matter that she had already died twice fighting darkness. The Slayer wasn't supposed to have the support system she did; it kept her alive. And William knew that if he stayed, if he allowed himself to grow that selfish, the day would inevitably arrive when he would be forced to say goodbye. He had something she could never possess, something he would never grant her, despite how the thought of a Buffyless world plagued his already-tortured soul.

He sighed and cast his eyes about the room. Dawn was sprawled across the floor, snoozing soundly with a copy of Streetcar lying ineffectually on her chest. After things had calmed, Willow informed the girl that the ending of the movie differed from the play. They had fallen asleep reviewing study questions.

Xander was the only other one awake, and he was simply staring at the screen - blank as it was. There was no want of sleep. So they sat in silence, not looking at each other, and he was lost in knowledge that plagued the deepest layers of his subconscious. Serenity, temperate as it was, blanketed and cocooned. A grim final peace before hell broke loose.

Neither knew how much time had passed before William stirred. Wordlessly, he lifted Buffy out of his embrace, stopping to caress her cheek. A look of reverent peace overcame him, though briefly. The smile shadowing his lips never surfaced. Instead, he emitted a sigh and ran a hand through blond strands. It occurred to him off-handedly that it wasn't necessary to continue bleaching his hair, but decided there was no harm in it. Regularity filled the voids of tedium. He stood at last and strode passed Xander, taking a seat at a card table; caressing his brow in the loom of an oncoming headache.

Behind him, he heard Harris rouse, heard the grunt of the couch springs as he lifted himself to his feet. Heard him walk to the refrigerator and peer inside. Heard him pop something in the microwave but didn't look up until a familiar scent wafted through the air and was finally presented before him in a glass. William's eyes peered open at the offering, and he glanced at Xander skeptically.

"Angel was here earlier," he explained airily. "Dropped some stuff off. Thought you might be hungry."

Timely, the vampire's stomach produced a long growl, and he could do nothing but shrug his compliance as he took a modest drink. "You 'ave no idea. 'Preciate it, Harris. Thanks."

The other man nodded and cleared his throat, indicating the sleeping girls with a jest of his head. "I think she'd like it better if I made nice." There was a prolonged pause of discomfort before he found the courage to voice an inevitable curiosity. "You're not going to hurt her, are you?" If the inquiry had been made in any other context, William would have growled his discontent and sneered something unpleasant. However, it was genuine and coated with concern. The least he could do was offer his honesty in return.

"I'm not stayin' if tha's what you're askin'. No matter." He took a protracted, exaggerated breath. "I'm not that selfish."

Harris couldn't suppress a snicker. "Sorry," he said shortly. "That just sounds funny coming from you."

William rolled his eyes and took another drink. "Oh, 'ere it comes. Listen, mate. I-"

"I'm not going to tell you how much I hate you," he amended quickly. "I don't think I understood until...what happened earlier. For the life of me, I'll never know why you did what you did. I'll just...never get it. And I'll never approve of anything that happens between you and Buffy. I've been there before, and I've seen what happens. But she...well, you heard her. For whatever reason, she's able to love you." Xander sighed and looked to his clasped hands. "I just don't want to see her get hurt."

The root to all his fears was summarized with such simplicity. William exhaled and closed his eyes tightly. "An' hurtin her's the last bloody thing I aim to do," he replied. "I've told 'er that. I've also told 'er that I'm going back once this is all over. Nothin' that 'appens 'ere's gonna change that. Doesn't matter how much I...I couldn't do that to 'er. There's no place in the world for a slayer who loves somethin' as black as me." He shook his head in continuous awe. "She deserves so much more than this. An' if I were to stay, there would come the day when I'd hafta say goodbye, an' the longer I'm 'ere, the harder it'd be." A dry chuckle rasped his throat. "I'll tell yah, Harris...immortality's a bitch."

"Do you love her?"

William arched his brows. "More than anythin'. If I didn't, it wouldn't be this sodding difficult to say goodbye." Another sigh rolled off his lips. "Won't tell her, though. It'd just make things harder. 'Sides, 's no secret how I feel about her. Think I'd risk my hide for anyone?"

"I dunno," Xander confessed. "If you'd asked me that yesterday...things are different. What I saw earlier...you're not even like Angel. You're-"

The vampire scoffed and finished his drink. "Figures. Y'know, I can't lose this, right? Got it for her. 'S not a curse. 'S mine forever. Long after she's gone and you Scoobies are nothin' more than a footnote in some archival book for the ninnies in England. I'll still be 'ere, mournin' her, lovin' her. Till the day finally comes when the world ends an' no one stops it, or I get a pretty piece of wood in my chest."

The other man sighed and nodded. "I can't imagine that," he conceded. "I never thought you could do something so selfless."

There was a rich chuckle. "Cor, mate. Nothin' selfless about it. I told myself the entire time that I was aimin' to get this blasted chip out. Never really believed it, but 's more plausible than what I did. An' even so...even if I did understand what I was doin'...all I wanted it fo' was to make her love me. Give 'er a reason to love me. To be the kind of man that she could love." William shook his head at himself. "I'm such a prat. An' then she's all forgivin'. I don't get it, Harris. I just don' get it."

A brief silence settled between them.

"What happens if the Master finds a way around it?" Xander asked softly. "Angel and I were talking about this earlier. Truthfully, we're more concerned about him going off the deep end. Angel's annoying when he's soulful, but a goddamned bastard when he's not. You're just annoying. But if you're right about this guy anticipating our every move, why is so hard to believe that he might work some magic to retract the curse? Or take your soul away?"

"Already covered this with Ripper. Red works the curse again-on whoever, an' everythin's rosy."

At that, Harris leapt forward, eyes going wide with alarm. "No!" he objected fiercely. "Willow doesn't work magic. Not anymore. She-"

"Oh, that's what you think." A voice from behind them. Both men turned in time to see the Witch sit up and yawn, though it was obvious she had been awake for a while now. William saw something significant flicker behind her gaze, and immediately understood. She smiled softly, sheepishly, though there was confidence behind it. "Might as well come clean if I'm expected to work a curse on command."

There was no feeling behind Xander's eyes. Nothing but raw comprehension, tainted by sparks of garish duplicity. "You've been working with magic," he said softly.

"Ever since I got back. Nothing big or anything, but yeah." Willow pursed her lips, looked to William and smiled in reassurance. He could tell she was battling a frontage of instinctual guilt. "Actually, I didn't do much of anything for a while. Just a few good luck potions or whatnot. Like when you got your job. I'd done a spell that day so the interview would go well."

"Oh, that's great," he retorted. "What a way to tell me, Wills. 'The world might end in a few days, but hey, here I am to make it go quicker.'"

Something dark coursed through the vampire on reflex. A protective older-brother sensation that raged at the thought of anyone attacking his Red - verbally or otherwise. William growled tightly and, before he could stop himself, a hand had curled around Xander's throat, then immediately retracted when the chip activated. "Bloody hell," he grumbled, caressing his forehead. The look he delivered when his eyes leveled with the boy's could have frozen hell. "Don't be a prat, you sodding ninny. Red's harmless. I know what she did before, and I don't give a bleedin' fuck. I won't let 'er fall while I'm 'ere."

A long beat of cold reproach settled between them before Xander's eyes softened. Something undoubtedly nasty was coiled on his waiting tongue, but he swallowed the comment and aimed for a barb of neutrality. "I won't, either," he replied softly; hand around his neck, even though there was no pain. "Sorry, Willow. You just...took me by surprise."

"Hey. Understandable." She sighed meaningfully. "But seriously, Xan, I've been doing this for a while now. And this is the exact reason I decided to lay off. You guys wouldn't...or maybe you would've, understood. At the time, it didn't seem like it. Everyone was on pins and needles. And the more time that passed, the less important my mentioning it became. I just didn't want you guys going wiggy with the worrying. That's all. It's all a part of me. The magic and stuff." Pursing her lips, Willow tapped the vampire and earned his eyes in return. "You want me to be ready to work the curse, then. I'll need to go back and decode the original text...not sure if the same curse applies to everyone or if I'd need to change it so it works on you."

William nodded and leaned back. "Yeh. Figured there 'ad to be some catch to it. Listen, Red, I dunno if this aims to amount to anythin'. Chances are you won't have to touch any of that ritual mojo. I just wanna be prepared."

"It's a good idea," Xander agreed, nodding fervently. "If this guy's as bad as you've indicated, there's no reason to think he might not try something like that."

With a sigh, Willow stood, stretching with a sleepy nod. "I'll get working on it," she said before consequentially collapsing in a tired heap on rickety springs. "First thing in the morning."

"What are you going to tell Buffy?" Harris was staring at the vampire intently, dark eyes heavy but not angry. "With everything you said a few minutes ago...you saw her earlier. It's going to tear her up when you leave."

"I know." Something heavy crashed in William's head, and the room started to rotate. "An' it bloody kills me. But she knows. I've told 'er time and time again...I'm goin' back to London. 'S my home."

The Witch frowned, forcing herself to her feet. "This is your home," she insisted softly. "It'll always be your home. And if you told Giles that when-"

"No, Red. Nothin'll change my mind." William exhaled deeply and pushed himself away from the table. "I love her too bloody much to ruin her by stayin' here. I love her so much it hurts. Like my lungs are fightin' to breathe and my heart's achin' to pound, but can't. An' I want...you have no idea how much I want to stay, or to take 'er with me. But I gotta be smart." In defeat, he moved behind Willow and sunk to the space she had occupied, opposite the Slayer. For a few brief seconds, he watched her with pain-streaked eyes, admiring the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. "An' it's not just me," he whispered. "You mates deserve your fair chance at a normal life, too. Bleedin' unlikely, but a bloke's gotta do what a bloke's gotta do. It just gets one more vamp out of your way. The best way I can love her is to say goodbye. The sooner she and the lot of you accepts that, the better off everyone'll be."

Resignedly, Willow sighed and nodded, turning to face him with grave intensity. "I know," she whispered. "But...I'm going to miss you. And it'll tear her up. You know everyone leaves her. Angel did, Riley did...and you're going to, again. I don't know how many times a person can heal."

"Sure you do," he replied softly, taking her hand and squeezing reassuringly. "It takes stones, but everyone heals with time. An' she knows..." With a poignant smile, William's eyes flickered over Buffy's slumbering form again, a riveting sigh coursing through his body. "She knows as I do...the only way to really love someone is to let 'em go."

It was close to three in the morning when William left Xander's basement, intent on locating Giles and Angel, who he knew were still researching at the library. When challenged on his knowledge of the Watcher's study patterns, the vampire instantly provided countless accounts of life in London. There was the forty-eight hour investigation that ensued when they were first alerted to the vampires that excreted black blood. There was the night he found a relic of some demon he had heard of years back and insisted thorough research was essential. It accumulated to wasted hours. Apparently, a toddler had dropped the previously day in the library. A family emblem that had somehow worked its way into the child's overalls. The stories went on and on-most amusing, others unbelievable, but all true in their respects.

"The old git 'as his ways," William had drawled. "An' he's well-known in these parts as the Slayer's former watcher, by the demon community, at least. I'm sure he had no trouble talkin' the ole librarian into lettin' him stay fo' a few more hours. An' I know Ripper well. With a willin' accomplice, he can lose himself in those dusty old books. He's prolly jus' getting his second wind 'bout now."

Just as he suspected, the luminosity stemming from the main building provided a helpful pathway, reaching places the streetlights couldn't touch. The vampire grinned tightly, allowing himself to feel a rush of the slightest sympathy for Angel. Peaches might've been his study-buddy once, he reflected, but there's no way in hell he knew jus' how far the old man can push. He doubted that during their previous transactions the Watcher had eaten an entire evening away with his explorations. If so, it was likely a venue he traveled alone.

The previous night had seen the most hours William had slept in over a decade. It was so easy to lose himself like that, lying beside her. Watching her. Loving her. Needless to say, he was plenty rested for the next few days. Nearly twenty hours of sleep was liable to juice him through the rest of the week.

And he was certainly not doing anyone any good just lounging about; discussing the outcome of their perilous situation while maintaining the mindset that everything would pass without conflict. No one liked to voice the very really possibility that this might be the one thing they couldn't defeat, but understandably after so many years, encountering such an entity seemed rather unlikely. The Scoobies had only had a taste of death - some more than others. None of them - save Buffy - had died and been brought back.

His Red had had to say goodbye to her lover and suffered drastic consequences in return, but she had not died.

William helped himself into the library and found Giles hunched over a stack of books, nowhere near sleep, talking excitedly with Angel. Neither noticed his presence until he cleared his throat loudly.

"Oh. Hello, Will," the Watcher greeted distractedly, handing Angel the book he had just flipped through. "I thought you were watching videos at Xander's?"

The vampire's lips curled in amusement. How typical. "Yeah. Right. Movies. We got through watchin' The Matrix about five hours ago. Shoulda been there, Ripper. Jus' the kinda encouragement we need. 'There is no spoon' an' all that." Pointedly, he arched a finger at Angel, and recited with droll humor, "There is no Peaches. Peaches is a matter of mind and will that you can control on every whim."

His grandsire was less than amused, notably exhausted but willing to continue. "You're hilarious. Did you say the movie ended five hours ago? Is it really that late?"

"Yeah. You'll be wantin' to head off to bed, soon. Else you'd rather spend the day in this place. I can see that, really. No skylights." William smiled fondly and approached the book-covered table, offhandedly investigating the titles. "Had a wicked time findin' a system to hop around my place of employment without getting dusted. This place seems to be a bit more vamp-friendly. So...what're we lookin' at?"

"We believe we might have pinpointed the identity of the Master," Giles announced, still hunched over. "This book you were researching the other night mentions a vampire called Geryon. 'One born of the oldest order to slay the slayer of his kind.' He was supposed to rise sometime last year, according to these calculations, but the previous Master's death might have come a year too late."

"Mmm, name sounds a bit familiar," the bleached vampire conceded, approaching Angel to peer at the pages over his shoulder. "Vaguely. Did it mention anythin' that'd be useful? I figure the day's gettin' closer. Aim to be ready."

The Watcher looked up fully for the first time. "You didn't encounter any trouble on the way over here, did you?"

"Nada. All's quiet on the front."

"Where's Buffy?" Angel this time. Inquisitive and concerned - implicitly assured that his childe knew her whereabouts at any given time. It was a bizarre feeling; to be trusted without any form of tangible faith.

William sighed. "Sleepin', like any normal person at this hour. Well, any normal human. Sleepin' harder than I thought she could with as much as we slept last night. Bonkered herself out, she did." At his words, Giles and the other vampire looked to him sharply - halfway between accusing and amused. He blinked, understood, and rolled his eyes. "From the fight, you prats."

The Watcher cleared his throat and smiled uncomfortably. "Umm, yes. Of course. Will, I could use your opinion on this passage." Eager to escape the incredulous gaze, he tore the book away from Angel and thrust it into William's grasp. "There. There's a long paragraph about this Geryon fellow, and it's sealed with this."

The vampire's gaze dropped to the indicated text. In old script following a passage of fluent Samarian were the words:

Slayer; Even night ends two at circle

- Corou

That made absolutely no bloody sense.

"Well," he mused. "Strange."

"Any ideas?"

William arched a flawless brow. "From that? Shyeah. I'm not that good, old man. Could mean any number of things." He squinted and peered closer, face softening as the inner wheels began to turn. "But...'f you look closely, the language before this mumbo jumbo s'all fluent an' what all. This doesn't make any sort of grammatical sense."

Angel perked humorously. "S'all wonky, innit?" he drawled in a thickly fake, not to mention horrible English brogue. "'S what I thought, but Ripper 'ere didn't want to believe me."

The unamused, identical stares spawned by the two Englishmen wiped the snicker off his face, and things grew uncomfortable again. However short-lived: the bleached vampire was grinning in a second, slapping his sire on the back with lively enthusiasm.

"Didn't know you had it in you, Peaches. Where would I be if I couldn't take things with a spot of good humor?" William smirked and reached for his cigarettes; ignoring the pointed look Giles directed his way in silent reminder of their location. "'S not my place, Ripper," he observed as he lit up. "Don't give a bloody lot if it roasts. 'Sides, I've been doin' this for years. I'm careful." He blew a ring of smoke onto aged pages. "My guess 'ere is code."

"Code?" they echoed together.

"Yeh. They're places in 'ere where 's in English, an' it sounds all honky dory. This looks to be the only grammatical inconsistency. 'S definitely a message to the Slayer. I'm right sure 'bout that." William frowned thoughtfully. "Corou...'aven't heard that name before. 'Ave either of you?"

"Can't say that I have," Giles replied, lips pressed together in a tight frown. That alone nearly sealed it. If the Watcher had not heard of a historical figure sprouted from the demon world, the indications typically implied deception. "You think it might be a part of the code?"

"Makes sense enough, eh? Maybe an anagram or somethin'. We can make about a thousand things with those letters, though, and only 'alf of 'em would be intelligible." William sighed, eyes falling again to the highlighted name of the revealed Master, lips playing it out, testing its sound against still air. He was aware that his colleagues were watching him - Angel with surprise and Giles with interest. "Geryon," he hissed a minute later. "Bloody hell, that name really does sound familiar."

A series of nods followed the observation. "Yes," the Watcher agreed. "We thought so, as well. It's right there on the tip of my tongue, but..." He trailed off in thought, eyes flickering in the struggle with memory and fatigue. After a minute, he sighed and shook his head, removing his glasses to caress his eyes tiredly. "Perhaps it is getting a bit too late," he murmured.

"Pish posh, Ripper," William snickered. "Some literary reference. You don' spend as much time in a sodding library as I 'ave in the past few years without reading every bloody book the place has to offer. You should know that, old git. Prolly the only prat that's spent more time surrounded by books than I 'ave. I know I've..."

"The Inferno," Angel said suddenly, eyes going wide. "Geryon was the name of the serpentine monster that took Dante and Virgil from the seventh circle of hell to the eighth."

There was a long pause of comprehension, light dawning behind weary gazes. "By George, I think he's got it," the platinum vampire said gleefully. "Oh, that ponce. Tha's it. That has to be it."

"Of course," Giles agreed breathlessly. "So he decides to call himself by the name of a serpentine monster. What..."

"Exaggeratin' his powers?" William suggested.

Angel arched a skeptic brow. "Is that a chance we want to take?"

"No." The Watcher shook his head solemnly. "We can't. Will, look carefully. Our time is running out, and fast. We couldn't find anything...do you think it possible that you decode the message?"

There was no doubt in his voice. The unshakable confidence Giles expressed had the ability to swell you with pride and make you quiver with incompetence in chorus. However, the burden of responsibility was not one that William shied from these days. With a slight nod, he sighed. "I can try. 'S a matter of time, Ripper, an' how quickly we're runnin' out of it. When's this anniversary set to take place?"

"Two days," Angel and Giles answered in unison, earning a sharp gaze of understanding from the bleached vampire. No one could question just how sharply that date stood out. Buffy's first death-however brief-must have been horrific. A pain still struck deep in his chest whenever he thought of her, lying inert on the ground before him, a martyr - the gift of life for her sister.

And then new resolution. William shared a moment of private reflection before he hardened again, closing the book and placing it aside. "Won't bloody happen," he promised them. "Didn't come across the world to watch her be killed again. I'll get started on this." Sharply, he pivoted to Angel. "An' you should take her out on patrol. She won't listen to me...this bloke's got a yen to hurt 'er. 'S not a good idea that she be out there right now, but since she...go with her. I can't. I gotta work on this."

"I will," he whispered. "But not without trying to talk her out of it first."

"Right," the vampire snickered in turn. "Good luck."

A fond smile played across Giles's lips, and he shook his head in disagreement. "Getting Buffy to listen to reason will take more than luck," he observed. "Though I believe most everyone has lost faith in miracles, it being the twenty-first century."

Chapter Twenty

It was positively sinful to have a surprise pop quiz during the last week of her final year in high school. However, as this was the instructors' favored brand of torture, Dawn didn't get much of a say. Along with the other two hundred fifty seven of the graduating seniors, she grudgingly endured the lasting strain of academics the so-called authority figures attempted to exercise. She remembered Xander telling her once that his final week had been composed of madlibs and hangman. This was pure and simple torture, concocted to keep the students in line. If only that giant snake hadn't destroyed the school that used to reside on these grounds...

In spite of herself, Dawn had to crack a grin. Honestly, how many teenagers could have that purely validated thought cross their minds without a flinch, or a sudden need of extensive therapy?

Between passing notes in class and turning in her last revision of the Streetcar essay Willow had helped her with, the younger Summers was completely occupied with whispered talk concerning the uprising evil. Even the notably oblivious students that accompanied her through particularly boring lectures seemed to understand that something large was on the rise. The number of people occupying the Bronze after dark had dwindled - granted, not by much - but enough to be noticed. The previous day, after awaking ten minutes late for class, she found Buffy watching the television in Xander's basement, keened to the news that another baby had been born with the eyes facing inward.

Things were getting hairy.

The bottom of Dawn's stomach gave way, the lead of her pencil snapping as she hastily attempted to answer question fourteen. It was impossible to concentrate in the midst of such proceedings. To make things worse, she hadn't seen Spike since that episode in Xander's basement. When she arrived that evening from school, she found Buffy and Willow chatting quietly, reflecting some conversation the Witch and Harris had held with the vampire prior to his departure. Giles and Angel showed up sometime later, relating that Spike (or William, as the Watcher called him) was busy with research and couldn't be bothered.

It was the definitive sign of bad to worse.

Trying to gauge Buffy's reaction to the entire situation was difficult, especially with the weight of Spike being back and all non-evil-like resting atop every other flash of new tidings. That night at Xander's seemed to prove several things. For one thing, her sister had loved the demon very much, despite what she said or whom she tried to fool. Secondly, Spike, equipped with a soul, felt it impossible to feasibly give her what his demon had tried over and over to obtain for the burden of his crimes. And lastly, (not at all pertaining to her sister), Dawn needed to talk to the vampire desperately and apologize for the harsh welcome home she had delivered the night they discovered his return. Soul or no soul, she had loved Spike dearly, despite what he did to her sister, and to see what he put himself through all for the sake of her...it made her well up with warm fuzzies.

Tiredly, the younger Summers girl yawned, eying her friend, Denise, with a pointed look. "I'm going to be so glad when this is all behind us," she whispered fervently, avoiding the accusing though indifferent look cast by the teacher. It was too late in the year to start avidly caring about the classroom chatterboxes.

Her friend nodded and rolled her eyes. "No guff. Hey, I'm gonna head downstairs for a quick smoke. Wanna come?"

The answer formed wordlessly in the air before the need to recite her standing materialized. A year before, Denise had persuaded Dawn to join her on one of these daily trips to the basement and test a huff of nicotine. Smoke did not rest well with her, and the first puff did her lungs in. Whatever fascination she held with the practice was hence dissolved, and though she didn't want to admit it, a higher level of Dawn's understanding connected the experiment with Spike's annoying addiction. On occasion, Denise would ask her friend to accompany her out of the sport of good humor and a friendly jest when she declined.

"And miss this highly entertaining class period?" Dawn smirked and indicated the drooping heads and eyes that were fixed on the clock that insisted on passing time as slowly as possible. "Get real."

Denise snickered and rolled her eyes. The teacher excused her to the rest room, though the telling threat behind her voice informed her that she knew perfectly well where the girl was actually headed. "Whatever, Summers. Be sure to not tell me if we have another quiz. As the rest of the senior class, I don't really give a fuck anymore."

Dawn smiled and resumed doodling on her spiral notebook. The majority of the class had finished the quiz and was collaboratively partaking in the attempt to stall turn-in time. These endless days could not be filled with more tedium, but that didn't mean the Gestapo that ran her school wouldn't try.

The rest of class passed with growing monotony. By the time the bell rang, more than half of the students who bothered to show up anymore were snoozing on their books, oblivious to the drool that rolled haphazardly onto hard-wood desks. Threats of a follow-up test rang ineffectually to the herd of hormones fighting to get through the doorway. Things as universally dull as schoolwork simply didn't matter anymore, and try as they might, the faculty was visibly tired of routine as well. The evidence was irrefutable: Sunnydale was beyond prepared to grasp summer with open arms.

Dawn was halfway to her next class before she realized her friend had not returned from the rendezvous downstairs. This was not wholly unusual; Denise's smoke breaks were extending rapidly by five-minute intervals the faster graduation day approached. Anything to avoid a room full of blank stares and redundant lessons that no one would remember outside of high school. Fellow students were often referred to as puppets. Guinea pigs. Whatever the public school system could devise to keep Sunnydale's youth in line. That, and the teachers were likely a part of some major government conspiracy that concerned flying saucers and shiny objects.

Lunch hour came and went with no sign from Denise, and at last Dawn began to worry. Chances were an authority figure had finally captured the offender after four years of carefree smoking, but she was in no way accustomed to living on absolutes. Strictly speaking, students were not admitted on the lower levels without a pass, and while this hardly put a hamper to daily exploring by the big-name troublemakers, it was stringently monitored thanks to the aid of several sporadically placed security cameras. By whatever grace of God, Denise had managed to evade capture during the course of her high school career.

But now...

Third period's a bore, anyway, Dawn rationalized as she neared the NO STUDENT ADMISSION sign placed rigorously at the end of the long corridor. The warning bell had sounded, but no one was hurrying to beat the tardy policy. Besides, I so aced that test. Won't matter if I...

It was a matter of resolve. What would Buffy do?

Summers grinned cheekily and pushed the door open. Her body went rigid immediately as though she expected an ambush of angry personnel, but the only thing that greeted her was the darkness of the stairwell. Cigarette smoke wafted in the still air, and she rolled her eyes with expectancy, a dry, sardonic murmur escaping her throat. "Quick smoke, huh? Well, let's be fair, Dawn. She never specified what she was smoking."

Uh oh. Perhaps she had been training too much with Buffy. The butterflies in her stomach were beginning to stir in that you know something's down there kind of way. Weren't only slayers supposed to get the tinglies? Emitting a breath, ashamed at how it shuddered, she shook her head and stepped down boldly. Alarms failed to sound and she was fairly certain the staff had yet to sick the guard dogs after her.

This from the girl whose occupation used to be amateur shoplifter...

Dawn stopped on the fifth step down and finally allowed the door behind her to slam closed. "This is stupid," she told the darkness, unsure of whom she was trying to convince. Either way, the three-word assurance did her in, and without further hindrance, she skated down the stairway, searching for a light when she came to the end.

Switch. Burned out bulb.

"Fantastic," she murmured. "I knew I should have bought those night vision goggles."

All right. Bad humor not a good sign of being completely in charge of one's emotions. Dawn bit her lip and proceeded. The past three years had taught her to be entirely self-reliant - prepared to face a world of danger, and though she handled herself better than any of the other Scoobies when presented with peril (strictly in the ass-kicking sense), a child lurked within her confident cavity. An evil child that whispered unvoiced feelings of lingering inadequacy. Vampires were easy to deal with, and patrolling in an open-graveyard in the dead of night seemed much more logical than attempting to maneuver through a dark high school basement.

School in itself was frightening enough.

She waited a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. No such luck. Dawn waved her hand in front of her face with futility. Her skin could be florescent purple and she wouldn't know the difference.

Okay, she thought, calming, let's sort things out in a good and bad pile. Good: I'm not in European Government. Good: Had a nice, healthy, school/prison food lunch. Bad: Should not have thought of food. School food icky; term 'food' used lightly. Bad: Am currently trekking through unknown territory at bottom of said school. Bad: If sister finds out, sister kills. Bad: Have lost use of personal pronouns. Bad: Have very bad feeling about this.

"I am the Key," Dawn proclaimed under her breath. "And it's not the Key's job to have tinglies."

And yet tinglies were most certainly being had.

Pursing her lips, she continued down a darkened passage, tiptoeing as quietly as possible while stretching her hearing down the far-reaches of the underground to detect any indication of movement. She absently wondered how the security cameras spotted misdemeanors down here unless they were equipped with super laser vision or something equally cheesy.

I'm being stupid. Dennie probably ditched school and went home like any sensible senior would. I mean, who would want to be here on a lovely...dreary...rainy... Okay, scratch that. Who would want to be here at all?

"Stop talking...or thinking," Dawn sputtered awkwardly. "It's not working."

The next instant banished any measure of rational thought from convenient proximity. One second she was standing grounded, watching, waiting, listening for a sign that her friend was near, and as her senses took command of her, the eerie serenity captured in the lower level evaporated altogether. A sharp pain clamored against her jaw as she was shoved to the wall, the familiar growl of a hungry vampire caressing her ear. Dawn's interior monologue vanquished along with any lingering qualm. It was basic instinct now. Quickly, she head-butted the vamp and broke free, whirling in a roundhouse kick that resulted with her pressed again against the wall; tight, snapping jaws nearing her neck too close for comfort.

All right. Enough with the 'What would Buffy do' thing. We've done what Buffy would do, and now we're feeling pretty much screwed. Let's try the...what would Spike do. SPIKE. Not William - Spike. What would HE...

The answer to that was all too obvious. Something outlandish and bold and just stupid enough to work.

"You know," she said, struggling futilely against the vampire's strength. "You really should consider a long term dental plan. One that actually concerns brushing. Cause from here...shew. You smell like cabbage, buddy."

Forget bold and outlandish. That was just stupid. Within the next second, Dawn found herself resigned harshly to the floor, and at last the darkness alleviated with some sense of light. There were four, perhaps five vampires surrounding her. Closing in.

Still wanna try what Spike would do?

No, no. In such instances, it was her extreme good fortune that her older sister was a superhero. Drawing in a deep breath, Summers bounded to her feet. The situation would be a breeze if Buffy were here, and despite whatever preparation she had put herself through, it was beyond obvious that the Key did not equal Slayer.

If I get out of here alive, she thought with tragic irony, shuddering to imagine the scowl of raging disapproval on her sister's face. I am so dead.

These were not encouraging thoughts.

Dawn kicked blindly in a random direction, victoriously coming into contact with something - cold but lively. Again she twirled, swinging instinctively to the creature behind her. Another successful blow. Motivation charged her veins. Gaining momentum, she prepared to pivot again, but was stopped in mid-action by powerful pressure weighing on her shoulder. Not thinking twice, she grabbed the offending hand and attempted to toss the vampire over her body as she had seen her sister do time and time again. However, her confidence drained as her peaked high remembered exactly who she was and what powers she did not possess. The ground beneath her groaned when she hit it - or was that her own helpless wheeze fighting to escape winded lungs? It was over so quickly; she didn't realize she had lost until she was surrounded by an oval of demon eyes.

The most hideous face she had ever seen hovered over her weary face, and Dawn felt her insides collapse in dread. Over the course of her brief, eventful life, she had played witness to more than one memorable occurrence. More than one apocalypse. She remembered Buffy's accounts of the first, those many years ago. When she had been too young to - when she hadn't even been there.

The face she saw now surpassed all accounts of reasonability. Everything and anything her young, gullible mind could conjure-swept away in the blink of an eye. Glowing maroon eyes - God, are there vampires with maroon eyes? - stared back at her, tight lips taut in a satisfied, malicious sneer. The sort of mocking repose that dared any sort of revolution. Without speaking, without breathing a word, the smile assured her all hope of escape was naïve, and beyond impossible.

This sort of despicable creature. Dawn felt a rush of disgust before losing all sense of consciousness. The last thing she saw was the drained, lifeless body of Denise lying several feet away, cigarette still smoking between unmoving fingers.

However much time had passed since the night spent at Xander's, William wasn't sure. A few days, even a week, perhaps. Time in itself mended into one continuously growing routine. Every waking minute thereafter had been occupied in the library, investigating book after book and playing himself into a labyrinth of crossword puzzles with numerous failed attempts to decode the cryptic message Giles had discovered. At first, even he had been skeptical of his own conviction. The measures one took lowering to the helpless grasping of straws.

He was convinced now. It was definitely code. A well concealed code, at that. He had positively nothing to compare it to. Nothing to test it against. The words and letters constructed a thousand different sentences in a thousand different tongues: none of which rang as intelligible or likely. He had the sinking suspicion that the answer was remarkably straightforward, and that he was simply missing something.

There was one perk to continuous research: his mind hadn't the time to travel to Buffy. To consider what had passed between them. That road was untended, and with any luck, he would figure the clue out and reveal it to show terrific potency as the missing link to defeating the rising evil. Then he and Ripper could go home.

At long last.

Of course, nothing was ever that simple.

Leaving the Slayer would be easier said than done, especially with every tearful confession clamoring his insides. Whatever he had expected from this journey, it wasn't forgiveness, and least of all love. Every time he got near her, touched her, he felt and saw warmth he could not fathom possessing. And it hurt. With each look, smile, kiss, she drove a stake through his chest. Her best was more than he could bear. It was harder yet, now that he had accepted its validity. Pretending it all to be an elaborate dream had at least given him some room to work.

But now was not the time to worry with such things. More urgent matters pressed with lasting persistency. The code would not unravel itself.

It was getting darker earlier. The terrain was nestled in blackness before the hour could creep past five. William felt the hairs on the back of his neck spring to life in reaction, a shudder claiming his body. Time was growing regrettably short; they had spent so much effort mangling themselves around the personal affects of his visit rather than visiting the point of the trip in itself. The approaching days would prove difficult, perhaps deadly, and no one would know how to respond.

Not for the first time, he felt a surge of homesickness seize his core. Everything had been so simple then. Working for the lot of poofters that owned the library, researching every demon brought to their attention, trading jibes with Ripper over morning coffee, poking fun at obscure literary references that would likely exceed anyone else's understanding. Knowing that he could never have her. Understanding that was what he deserved.

William sighed and shook his head. The past couple days had not been generous enough to provide him time to rest. Though he had slept his share at the crypt the night they were raided by vamps in the graveyard, he could only go so far fully charged before fatigue inevitably seized command.

It was luck that Willow happened in at that moment. The library was fairly unoccupied, all except the nosy librarians that had grudgingly accepted that he had consent from the administration to use as much time as he cared to, even if his stay progressed far into the night. The past couple days had seen him nowhere else, and each morning the opening librarian would greet him cheerfully and give him a cup of coffee. He liked her all right. It was the closing shift that had their knickers in a twist, studying him contemptuously. He had to hand it to them; he didn't much have the look of a bona fide scholar. The temptation was great to light up a cigarette a couple of times, just to get them brassed, but he knew that would lead to banishment from the books and straight to Giles's crap list: a place he had not seen in years.

The Witch presented him with a brown bag full of goodies with a slight smile. "Hey, Mr. Research," she greeted, plopping her purse into a chair, briefly glancing over an open book cast across the table. "Any luck?"

William motioned to the notebook filled with the thousands of possibilities he had produced in the past forty-eight hours with arched brows. "If you call that luck," he sneered bitterly. "This bloke's aimin' to make it eat away days at a time. After all, what is life to these chaps more than a tale told by an idiot, full of sound an' fury, signifyin' nothing? Problem is everythin' I come up with 's just as wonky as the original. None of that makes any bleedin' sense."

A frown wiped the smile from her face as she browsed the list of useless predictions. "No, it doesn't," she agreed. "I could surf the net for yah. Maybe there's something on this Ger...Geryon? Yeah. Geryon guy. You know...list of powers, references, things he might have put in creepy old books to wig people like us out?"

A small, faint grin tickled William's lips, and he shrugged appreciatively. "Luv, 'f you think it'll do any good, I'm open to all sorts of help right now. But I gotta tell yeh...I've looked through every bloody title in this damn place, an' I've searched my own collection more times than I can count. Not to mention all those books Ripper has piled away." He read her skeptical expression, and the smile on his face turned sheepish. "A bloke's gotta keep occupied. 'Sides, I do work in a library. In order fer anythin' to get online, they'd firstly 'ave to 'ave a book to look it up in, right?"

Willow frowned and conceded, her eyes rolling. "Yeah, I guess. Are you sure you've looked through everything-"

"Two and three times, pet. P'raps more. 'S not 'ere. There's only a couple books I've found that even call Geryon by name. 'E's mentioned in a few, right, but nothin' that would lead me to know what the bloody hell this means." In grim frustration, he gestured to the yet-to-be-cracked code. "This not knowin'...really's the bloody thorn in my side." Then, without suggestion, the hardened expression besetting his features fell, a placid look of indifference overcoming him. The tenor of their discussion changed at that minute, dropping in degrees. "How is she?"

"All right. She was confused when she woke up and you were all...not there."

"She understood, though, right? Some things're just more important." He sighed heavily. "The sooner this is over, the better."

"Hey - no argument here." Her face, though, told a different story.

William's mouth drew into a taut line, eyes unwittingly rolling upward and meeting hers. A sort of grim understanding connected their thoughts into mutinous abode - unspoken and not needing any elaboration. There was no want of denial, and no use in vocalizing those opinions that were already gleaming in manifest light. When the air confined and threatened to become uncomfortable, he shifted and cleared his throat, drawing his gaze back to the ineffectual text. At such times, it was imperative to discover a new route of conversation. "So..." he said awkwardly. "Any luck with the curse? Find how to work the wonky?"

At that, the Witch's face brightened and she nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yeah. Well, it's not all completely worked out. Got its kinks and whatnot, but I think I could definitely work it on you...if, for some weird reason, I need to. There's not much change in the ritual. I used Ms. Calendar's old program to translate the document." She stopped and rolled her bright eyes. "It's been so long! I had to dig out my old computer to find software compatible with it. I never noticed how quickly things get outdated. The curse mentions Angel's name twice...so I think if we had to, we could put yours in there - no prob."

Well, that was reassuring, though he didn't know how helpful it would be in the end. He was simply grateful that she felt useful. He suspected things would pretty much be left up to Buffy.

"It's amazing," the Witch continued. "To think...that curse was so hard for me to work. I looked at it last night and was all like, 'Whoa...I could do that now. Right here. No big.'"

"You've come a long way, pet," he agreed.

A scowl crossed her face, brief but effective. "Yeah. Went from computer geek to Lady MacBeth in just four years."

"Ah, ah." William quirked a brow. "We'll 'ave none of that. 'Sides, I went from the Big Bad to a bloody poof of a boy scout in three. Wanna compare notes, luv?"

Willow fought for a minute but her humor got the better of her, and she offered a large, grateful grin. "I wouldn't worry," she assured him. "Don't think anyone will mistake you for a boy scout anytime soon."

"Sure as hell hope not. Might be all soul-having, but I got an image to upkeep."

"Hate to break it to you, Buster, but your reputation was pretty much shot the minute you showed up here and started acting like the son Giles never had."

William smiled brightly. "Yeah. Look what that old git's made me into."

"Nothing you didn't let him."

"'S right. Absolutely." With a sigh, the smile melted once more from his face, and William cast his gaze downward again. "I can't let 'em down, you know. 'Im or her. Gotta find out what the blazes this bloody thing means."

Willow bit her lip and stepped forward. "Is there anything I can help you with? Anything at all?"

"I don' think so, but I 'preciate the notion." His eyes told a different story. Hazarding a glance to the librarians, he finally explored the contents of the sack she had brought him, discovering - to his delight - a pack of blood and a zip-lock bag filled with Wheetabix. "Ah, Red," he said gratefully. "You sure know the way to this man's heart."

A tickle of mirth overcame her briefly. "Hate to tell you, buster, but I'm just the delivery girl. That's all in the care of your ingenious, however impatient, supplier."

"Well, Ripper does know how to motivate me," William conceded, practically tearing the bagged blood open with blunt teeth. "I was getting all sorts of rumblies in that region, anyways."

"Glad I could help." Willow smiled again before casting her gaze to the open manuscript. There she lingered as he heartily drank, not noticing that he vamped out. He was careful not to spill; technically, food wasn't allowed anywhere on the property. He received the vague notion that being caught downing a bag of blood wouldn't put him right with the workers.

The comprehension came slowly. He watched it tackle her eyes, lighting up fiery pupils with radiant understanding. Then to her cheeks, rousing a breathless rouge to otherwise pale skin. And lastly, her smile intensified to heights of terrific magnitude. She was tugging at his arm before he had a chance to voice his inquisition.

"Geryon...Giles said he took the name from The Inferno, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, look! Slayer; Even night ends two at circle - Corou. Circle! The circles of hell, or whatever? What if he took this directly from the book? What if the-"

William groaned and smacked himself in the forehead. "I am such a git!" he growled, lurching over, seizing a fresh page of notebook paper, and beginning again.

The new additive made for a simple translation. Annoyingly simple. The vampire spent the next few minutes grumbling about his lack of insight - muttering things Willow couldn't possibly hear, though she detected the words ponce, prat, and nincompoop more than once. He stunk of self-aimed aggravation.

"I'm a bleedin' wanker," William snarled, throwing his pencil down with finale. "Right 'ere; in fron' of me the whole time! God, I've lost my edge."

"Spike-"

"I mean it. My brain's all rotted out. This sodding trip has taken it out of me."

"Spike! What does it say?"

At that, he blinked and leaned forward, shaking his head still. "Right. Directly from the text. Canto VIII - prat spelled everythin' out, o'course - Circle Seven Round Two. Clue's somewhere in there. Be a doll an' fetch me a copy of The Inferno, would yah? Grab two if yeh wanna help."

She returned shortly with the requested material, and they dove headfirst into work. There were only two copies in the entire library. One translated into English, the other in fluent though foreign with no helpful sidebars. She offered it to him without bothering to ask how sharp his Italian was. There was no need.

"I think," Willow suggested after a few minutes of mindless flipping, "that it's at the end. The clue...'even night ends two' - get what I mean? Flip to the end of Canto VIII. What's the last line?"

Immediately complying, William tore across the last page of the indicated text. Something tight and restrictive caught in his throat, and slowly, he began to read. "Io fei gibetto a me de la mie case."

"What does it mean?" The Witch was practically shouting, ignoring the looks of perturbed indignation other patrons of the library delivered. In that minute, it seemed she had forgotten that she had a perfectly capable copy sitting in her waiting grasp, pages away from unearthing the riddle herself. Instead, her eyes focused demandingly on the vampire, who took a long beat to find his words.

"It means - when all put together: 'I am one who has no tale to tell. I made myself a gibbet of my own lintel.'"

Willow frowned. "What does that mean?"

"That the Slayer's aimin' to set herself up right quick, an' we-"

The thought went incomplete with the sudden persistence of a loud shrill vibrating from the Witch's purse. Another montage of irritation wafted in their direction, but the damage was already done. She leapt to her feet and seized her cell phone - suddenly cluing into the sense of displaced frustration emanating from the staff. A stoutly woman with a mean face had paraded forward, making sure to put herself between William and his friend as Willow turned down an aisle of books to answer her call.

Then the librarian was scolding him, face red with anger. It was obvious she was attempting to exercise the same restraint she was preaching, but the vampire had hit some pivotal nerve. He didn't capture much from her tangent as he struggled to hear what Willow was discussing, but several select words like delinquent, no respect, and I don't care who your friends are - we bend the rules for no one stood out in all their inglorious condescension. It wasn't until the Witch returned, phone curled in grasp, expression pale that he snapped to the present. Something within ran dreadfully cold.

The librarian was still whispering vehemently. Dismissively, he waved her off and muttered an insincere, "Umm, yes. So sorry. Won' happen again." Without waiting for a reply, he tore away and approached his companion, eyes wide with concern.

There was no denying it. Buffy was his first and only coherent thought. "What happened?"

Willow couldn't speak. Her mouth was open and words were ready to pour, but she couldn't bring herself to force anything out. William's patience ebbed uncontrollably. He was seconds away from either slapping her silly - rather until the chip knocked him out on impact - or running to make sure Buffy was all right. What seemed like hours crept by before she met his gaze fully, returning to herself in all sense of judgment.

Her words cut him like deep shards of crimson glass.

"It's Dawn."
 

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