Judgment

AUTHOR: Medea

Parts: 11 - 15

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~Part: 11~

"Anya, there's really no need to -- OW!!"

Rupert Giles abandoned his characteristic gentility and swatted Anya's hand away from his face. Although she sulked, the ex-demon made no further attempt to dab his bruises and scrapes with alcohol-soaked cotton balls.

"Thank you, Anya, my injuries were painful enough the first time around," Giles bit out curtly, wincing at the sting of alcohol on his abraded skin.

"Well, excuse me for trying to help," Anya snapped indignantly. Stepping back, she appraised him and added. "It's just that you look so gruesome. What happened?"

"I met up with a would-be assassin," Giles muttered.

"Would be? Does that mean he's--?"

"Dead, yes. Quite dead, as a matter of fact."

"Oh."

Anya stared at him awkwardly.

Tired, more tired than he'd been since their battle with Glory, Giles brought his good hand up to his face and massaged the bridge of his nose. The long flight and subsequent attempt on his life were starting to catch up with him. Suddenly lightheaded, he swayed. Anya's arm shot out, steadying him, as she helped him sit down.

"Maybe you should stay off your feet. Wouldn't want you falling down and hurting yourself, or knocking over any more of the merchandise."

"Heaven forbid," Giles murmured.

Anya sat down across from him and gawked at him in anticipation. "So...back in town. Fending off the hit men. Getting pulverized. Any particular occasion?"

The weight of the world seemed to press down on his chest, painfully squeezing his heart. A vision of Buffy's eyes, fixed and moistened with unshed tears at the news that he was returning to England, crept into his mind. She had looked so abandoned, so alone.

So much like a frightened child.

Softly, Giles acknowledged, "Just doing my job."

After a brief pause, Giles announced, "I know it's late, but I need to call everyone here for a meeting. Buffy's future may depend on it, not to mention my life."

"You can't," Anya blurted out.

Irritated, Giles snapped, "Anya, this is hardly the time for--"

"I mean you can't get everyone here right away. They're in L.A.," she clarified hastily.

"Los Angeles?"

"There was a problem with Willow..."

*****

Spike hated sitting on his arse. Hated that he couldn't smoke -- damn baby upstairs, damn sun outside. Hated that he was stuck lounging in the Poof's froofy four-star lobby, while Angel was up trying to out-morose the witch.

Above all, he hated that he had to listen to Xander Harris gripe.

"Shouldn't he be changing diapers or something? I should be the one in there talking to Willow."

"Bloody hell, stop whining already. At least you didn't have to sleep on a grimy work-out mat," Spike growled, craning his head to one side in an attempt to reduce the stiffness in his neck.

The Prom Princess had "forgotten" to vamp-proof a guest room for him, so Spike had slept in Angel's basement practice room. Slept? Hardly. Suffocated was more like it. The space reeked of the great, hulking Poof...and, rather interestingly, of human sweat.

Mild, feminine sweat.

Angel was just swimming in shameful little secrets these days...

"No, but I did get to hear Deadboy serenade the munchkin at 2:00 a.m. -- when he wasn't hovering over *my* best friend," Xander retorted crossly. "My best friend, who he's tried to kill before, and who he doesn't know half as well as I do, because, hey, her best friend? That would be me, not him."

"Oh, please," Spike muttered. "Spare us."

"Guys, knock it off," Buffy interrupted sternly. Slouching on the plush settee in the middle of the lobby, she sighed, "At least she's talking to someone. That's a start."

"Besides, sometimes it's hard to open up to your friends," Tara added, raising her eyebrows hopefully. "That's why people go to counselors. They need a good listener, but one who isn't so close to everything."

"Which would be fine, except that Will's new counselor is the poster child for psychotic multiple-personality disorders," Xander mused dryly.

"He *is* a disorder," Spike agreed with a scowl.

Spike was spared the horror of actually bonding with the git over their residual dislike of Angel when the priggish ex-Watcher and the skittish little snip appeared at the top of the stairs. He felt a slight, sentimental pang as he watched them descend toward the lobby. They chattered on about something, the perfect picture of quaint little bookworms.

Just the sort he and Dru used to eat when she was in the mood for something sweet.

He blinked and shook himself out of his reverie as Buffy rose to her feet and greeted Angel's co-workers. "So, any breakthroughs?"

"Yes, although the details Willow was able to give us have raised a few questions that will require further research," Wesley replied. "In fact, we may need to go over your last confrontation with Willow again."

"What more do you need to know?" Buffy asked.

Fred's eyes twinkled and her entire body quivered with animation as she eagerly blurted out, "We're trying to calculate the magnitude of the force that could have propelled her on a trajectory through multiple dimensions. We need to map the dimensions specifically to plot a vector for each leap, but it will help if we know what kind of momentum she started with."

Xander stood, gestured for a time-out, and quipped, "Translation for us English-speakers?"

With an apologetic tilt of his head, Wesley explained, "Apparently, Willow had quite the experience. She was thrust -- inadvertently, it seems -- from one dimension to the next. To use a crude analogy, it may have been similar to skipping a rock across the surface of a lake."

"Only Willow was the rock," Buffy murmured, frowning in comprehension.

"She remembered all that? I would've thought it would have been a big blur," Xander added.

Wesley and Fred exchanged an awkward glance. Spike recalled the question he'd asked a haunted, subdued Buffy the night she'd returned from the grave, and realized the boy's mistake. He fixed the ex-Watcher with a steady gaze and asked, "How long was she gone?"

It was a moment before Wesley answered. Then, quietly, he said, "Approximately three-and-a-half centuries."

"Centuries? As in those things that measure historical eras instead of people's lives?" Xander protested, aghast. "But she wasn't even gone long enough for us to see her disappear."

Buffy's eyes took on a distant, slightly pained look. "Time passes differently..."

"Centuries..." Xander murmured numbly.

The emptiness in Buffy's voice stabbed at Spike's gut. However, just as he was about to rise to his feet and offer her a supportive nudge, she lifted her chin with determination and said, "So, where do we start? You pretty much know about the spheres..."

"Centuries..." repeated Xander.

"It would be helpful if Tara could give us more detail about the dynamics of the conflict during the spell, a 'feel' for the power, if you will," Wesley proposed.

Tara nodded, then inclined her head toward the blond vampire and added, "Spike might be able to give you a good description, too. He was pretty attuned to the magic."

Spike smirked at the uneasy grimace on Wesley's face that Tara's suggestion elicited. Nonetheless, he shrugged and followed Tara and Wesley into the office. Buffy, Fred and Xander joined them and settled in with a stack of dusty, leather-bound tomes, most of which looked older than Spike. Wesley gave them descriptions of the dimensions Willow had mentioned, and set them to looking for any references that matched. He then concentrated on interrogating Spike and Tara.

Wesley pressed for specifics about every minute detail of their attempt to restrain the witch, to the point that Spike felt like he was going cross-eyed. Bugger it all, he knew there was a reason he made himself scarce when the Slayer and her gang were researching.

Slowly, though, sketches of a model began to appear on the white board that hung on the wall behind the coffee maker. Spike arched an eyebrow in amusement every time Fred went to jot down an equation or plot a vector. Her meticulous attention to each symbol and her child-like compulsion to draw each segment in a different color reminded him of Dru. He sighed. How his Dark Goddess had loved to fuss over her dolls' seating arrangement at those damn tea parties.

He knew sod all about physics. Might've been easier to get rid of the damn chip if he'd had any aptitude for science, but all that math was more foreign to him than Fyarl. So it irritated Spike when Wesley and Fred stood gaping at the board, as if it held the secrets to the Universe, when the rainbow scribbles looked like so much Jabberwocky to him.

"Come on, already -- what's the story?" Spike growled.

"Dear God," Wesley murmured numbly.

"Can th-that be right?" stammered Fred.

"What?!" Buffy demanded, shifting her gaze expectantly from one to the other.

Wesley shook himself from his daze and explained, "The dimensions Willow seems to have traversed are spaced rather far apart...well, in a manner of speaking. For her to have crossed them and sustained the momentum for three hundred and fifty years..."

When Wesley trailed off, Fred concluded, "It would have taken a pretty big jump start. Part of it could have been a slingshot effect. The more force you used to contain her magic in the Ptersian spheres, the harder she resisted, until it all snapped. But...the size of the force...just what class witch was she?"

Xander, Tara and Buffy looked uneasily at each other. Grimly, Spike understood what the mousy little brunette was driving at. Past few months, he'd sensed pretty formidable power in the witch.

"Could she have gotten stronger from her visits to that Rack guy?" Xander wondered.

At Fred's puzzled expression, Buffy clarified, "Warlock. Underground dealer in dark magic."

"Doubt it," Spike frowned at the whelp's speculation. "Chits go to Rack for a quick fix. Feels good, but after too long it trashes 'em, like junkies. Doesn't make 'em stronger; makes 'em weaker."

Wesley seconded Spike's assessment. "As with the body, the mind strengthens with exercise. Willow must have been stretching her abilities to the limits over an extended period of time."

"Glory," Buffy murmured.

Comprehension dawned on the Sunnydale group. Wesley's diagnosis placed Willow's efforts to help fend off the hell god in a new perspective. In the darkest hour, her magic and determination had been one of the few things holding everyone together. It hadn't occurred to her friends that this might have taken a severe toll on her, mentally or physically.

She'd handled everything without complaining.

Timidly, Fred surveyed the sober faces around her and asked, "Who's Glory?"

When Buffy, Xander and Tara failed to respond, Spike muttered with a scowl, "Bloody bad news's what she was. Hell god. Nasty bitch."

Fred's eyes widened and her mouth formed an astonished 'O'. "Wow...a ...a god? I guess that would have strained a mortal witch's powers a little bit."

"Well, yes," Wesley conceded. "Although the respite after Glory's defeat would have allowed Willow's power to settle back to more normal levels."

Xander and Tara exchanged a solemn glance. Resting his elbows on his knees, Xander lowered his eyes for a moment, then said, "Willow didn't really get a chance to power down. While Buffy was...gone...we kind of needed her help with the usual Sunnydale freak show."

A gloom settled over the room, but Spike was in no mood to listen to the children wallow in guilt. "Nobody forced the witch to go to Rack's," he pointed out. "Just 'cos she had power to burn doesn't mean she had to go dark."

Buffy agreed, although remorse still haunted her expression. "Willow made her own choices. She may not have had much of a choice when we were fighting Glory, but experimenting with the darker magic came later. She even admitted she'd done it out of boredom. Besides, you didn't have a Slayer, but you still had to deal with life on the Hellmouth. You couldn't have known."

"I should have known."

The familiar, mild-mannered voice drew all eyes to the doorway, where Rupert Giles stood, haggard and battered, beside Anya and Dawn. Spike looked at the overnight bags piled at their feet, which suggested an extended stay. Not a good sign. Immediately, his guard went up.

"Giles?" Buffy whispered in disbelief.

Slayer and Watcher regarded each other with a mixture of sorrow and relief. Relief won out, and Buffy rushed forward to swallow Giles in a fierce hug. Meanwhile, Xander gathered Anya into his arms and pressed a light kiss against her forehead.

"You came back," Buffy murmured against her mentor's chest.

"Mind the arm," Giles winced.

Chagrined, Buffy released him and stepped back. "What happened? Is everyone okay?"

She scanned her sister and Anya for similar injuries. Spike, likewise, turned a critical eye to the Niblet, his nerves on full alert at the thought that something had threatened her while they'd been away.

"We're good," Dawn assured her. "But Giles had kind of a rough welcome home."

At Buffy's pointed stare, Giles explained, "I've had another falling out with the Council. This is serious, Buffy. I think you'd better sit down."

"How is dear old Quentin?" Wesley asked, his voice seething with sarcasm.

Giles turned a knowing gaze to his fellow exile and said, "Worse than I had ever imagined. He, and the entire Council."

Xander gestured toward the sling and remarked, "I take it they're responsible for your latest trophy."

Nodding, Giles continued, "One of their assassins tailed me from the airport, tried to run my car off the road before I could reach Sunnydale. I'm afraid my arm is still rather sore. You wouldn't happen to have any aspirin, would you?"

Fred snorted, "Do we ever! You should see the collection of pills Cordy keeps on hand because of her visions."

"Er...yes," Giles stammered. Turning to Dawn, he said with a gentle smile, "I think I left the salve for your scars in the glove compartment. Why don't you fetch it, and then see if you can find Cordelia and persuade her to part with a few painkillers for an old librarian."

"Sure," Dawn agreed with a smile.

"I think Cordelia is up in Angel's room with Connor. I'll show you," Fred offered brightly.

Giles waited until Dawn was well out of earshot. When he looked back to the others, his expression revealed the gravity of the situation.

"So, what's the sitch?" Buffy asked in a low voice.

"The Council wanted to prevent me from sharing what I'd learned," Giles began.

"What, that they're a bunch of stuffy old weasels who poison their own Slayers?" Buffy sneered with disdain. "Too late, already figured that part out."

"The Watchers poisoned you?!" Spike demanded incredulously. At the stern, affirmative gleam in Buffy's eyes, Spike's blood boiled. He almost hoped that his suspicions were correct, and that the Council would be sending more assassins. Chip be damned, he wanted to kill the lot of 'em.

"Er, do continue, Giles," Wesley interjected, eyeing the sullen vampire uneasily.

"For several weeks after I left Sunnydale, I was uncertain as to whether I'd made the right decision. I consulted the journals left behind by my predecessors for any insights about how other Watchers adjusted their mentoring to meet the needs of Slayers who survived to adulthood. Believe me, I was completely unprepared for what I found."

"Something tells me it had nothing to do with how to find a nice young man for the Slayer, or whether her father or her Watcher had first dibs on walking her down the aisle," Xander muttered, encircling Anya even more tightly in his embrace.

"I only wish that had been the case," Giles confirmed sadly. "Unfortunately, they were never given the chance to ponder such matters. Any Slayers who survived the Cruciamentem and didn't fall in combat by their early twenties were killed by the Council."

A low growl rumbled in Spike's throat and he immediately moved to Buffy's side, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. Otherwise, the room was frozen in stunned silence. One face after another contorted in a grim mask of horror. Xander closed his eyes and rested his brow against Anya's, as if to block out the news. Wesley sank into the chair behind the desk.

Buffy stood her ground and clenched her jaw. When she finally found her voice, she whispered hoarsely, "Why?!"

"Because of what happened to Slayers who lived long enough. A Slayer's unique qualities set her apart from ordinary humans. After several years, some Slayers developed a sense of kinship with the creatures they had been trained to destroy. Many of them began to question their calling, to the point that the Council found them too difficult to manage..."

"And so the Council killed them," Buffy concluded in a small voice.

A storm raged in icy blue depths as Spike steeled her with his gaze. "They even think of layin' a finger on you, and I'll kill 'em all. I swear it."

His eyes firmly fixed on hers, Spike grasped her hand in his and held it tightly, daring the bastards to come.

~Part: 12~

Angel closed Willow's door behind him and made his way to his suite. He paused long enough near the grand staircase to hear the muted voices of Wesley, Tara and Spike, discussing the confrontation that had sent Willow on her unexpected journey. Hopefully, Wesley would be able to draw more information from them than Angel had managed to coax from Willow. After Wesley and Fred left, Angel had tried in vain to persuade Willow to talk further about her experiences. However, his attempts had earned only a sad smile, a shake of her head, and a soft plea that he not concern himself about her.

Frowning sadly, he proceeded toward his apartment. He couldn't force Willow to accept his help.

Or to accept the idea that people cared for her.

He opened his door, took a few steps, and stopped. A gentle smile spread across his face.

At the sight of Cordy cradling Connor in the crook of her left arm while holding a bottle to his tiny, hungry mouth, Angel felt a cleansing peace wash through him. He silently gave thanks that his son was surrounded by people who cared for him. Making a father's wish, he hoped that it would be a long, long time before the world stripped Connor of the innocence that gave children their unquestioning faith that they were loved -- and that they deserved to be.

Angel suppressed a shiver of dread at the thought of all the people and demons who had designs on Connor. The idea that these forces might one day leave Connor as broken and desolate as Willow was unbearable.

Firmly shoving these concerns to the back of his mind, Angel walked over to stand behind Cordelia. Connor nursed greedily at his bottle and stared up at him with wide, fragile eyes. In that look, so pure and wondering, Angel saw his own redemption. For the moment, all his worries were banished.

"Hey," Cordy greeted over her shoulder.

"Hey," Angel murmured, still gazing at Connor. He reached around Cordy's waist to toy with his son's flailing hand. Cordy smiled down at the child, completely relaxed in Angel's platonic near-embrace.

After several minutes of Angel's doting, nonsensical baby-talk, Cordelia removed the drained bottle from Connor's fleshy lips and crossed to set it on the kitchen counter. Angel followed her and set about washing and sterilizing the bottle while Cordy burped a very sated babe.

"So, how's Willow?"

As he soaped the bottle with a sponge, Angel sighed, "I'm not sure. Physically, she seems undamaged. Mentally...she knows who she is. She remembers everything that's happened, but she's so sad. There's a spark of the old Willow that's missing. I wouldn't think she'd changed so much since I left Sunnydale that she'd lost..."

"Her Jiminy Cricket perkiness?" Cordelia finished wryly.

Angel paused for a moment and rested his palms on the edge of the counter. Frowning, he added, "She's shouldering so much guilt. I couldn't get all the details out of her, but she's convinced that she's responsible for destroying every dimension she passed through."

Cordy stopped patting Connor over her shoulder. "You're kidding." At Angel's grim expression, she murmured, "Wow."

Neither of them said anything for a while. Angel rinsed the suds from Connor's bottle, then set it on the counter, filled a sauce pan with water, and set it to boil on the stove. When the water was rolling, he submerged all components of the bottle in the pan.

"You've been making yourself pretty scarce since everyone got here," Angel observed, changing the subject.

"The less time I have to spend around the Platinum Poseur, the better," Cordy remarked crossly. She shifted Connor in her arms and her expression grew thoughtful. "I guess I'm also not ready for the Sunnydale reunion yet. That part of my life was something I wanted to leave behind."

Satisfied that Connor's bottle was sterilized, Angel removed the pan from the burner. "You've faced worse since then."

Cordy rolled her eyes. "It's pretty much a tie." She eased over to the couch, rocking Connor gently, and sat down. "Anyway, it's not just the monsters and weirdness I wanted to get away from."

Angel joined her, resting one arm along the couch behind her shoulders while caressing his son's downy head with his free hand. "Xander?" he guessed.

"Well, him, too," Cordy conceded with grimace. "But mostly me. I..."

She trailed off and fidgeted awkwardly. Then, in a soft, steady voice she confessed, "I look back now on who I was then, and there are a lot of things I don't like. *Not* that I think there's anything wrong with speaking my mind...but sometimes I was pretty mean when I didn't have to be. Mostly to Willow. It's stupid, but seeing her the way she is makes me feel guilty, even though I'm not the one who did that to her."

Cordy's features tightened into a frustrated pout, eliciting a bemused grin from Angel. God, she was adorable when she...No. He couldn't go there.

His expression soon faded to regret as memories of his own, sordid history surfaced. "I know how you feel. Whenever I'm confronted by people I wronged in the past, no matter how much I've tried to atone since then, I feel like I'm the monster I used to be."

Angel frowned, shook his head and murmured, "I just hope we'll be able to help Willow. I never saw her let anything get her down like this. Not even me when I was at my worst."

Cordy looked at him as if he'd grown two heads. "Angel, if anyone can help Willow, it's you. If her problem is guilt over a few centuries of mass destruction, that's right up your alley."

Angel's shoulder's slumped at her painful, albeit truthful, reminder that his ability to help Willow rested on the fact that he, too, had left unspeakable damage in his wake. Seeing his discomfort, Cordy nudged Angel's calf with her foot and softened her tone.

"I guess where tact is concerned, I haven't changed as much as I'd like to think." When her remark earned a hint of a grin, Cordy added, "What I meant was, in spite of what you did in the past, you've moved beyond that. You're a better person than most human beings I know. You help people. You're becoming a great daddy. If anyone can show Willow that it's possible to move on, it's you."

With each warm compliment, Angel's smile broadened and he gazed raptly at Cordelia. Although his better judgment warned him away from true euphoria, he couldn't help feeling warm at hearing Cordy's sincere assessment of him. Sheepishly, he realized he was glad he was sitting down. Lately, she seemed to have the ability to make him go weak in the knees.

Unable to resist the impulse, Angel cupped his hand at the nape of her neck, pulled her close and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead.

"Thanks, Cordy," he murmured against her brow.

At that moment, a throat cleared from behind them. Distracted, Angel hadn't noticed the arrival of new heartbeats. He pulled away from Cordy and turned toward the doorway.

A dull ache tore at his gut as he gaped, speechless, at Fred...and Buffy's younger sister.

"Hi, Angel," said Dawn, her tone deceptively light. Glancing suspiciously from the dark vampire to his companion, she arched an eyebrow. "Hey, Cordy."

*****

Dawn surveyed the scene before her with more than a little righteous indignation. She stopped shy of snorting in contempt. So much for eternal, true love.

She cleared her throat. The guilty expression on Angel's face when he jerked away from Cordelia, coupled with Dawn's sense of loyalty to her sister, fuelled her need to diss him, and diss him big time.

"Hi, Angel," she said coolly. "Hey, Cordy."

"Dawn...wh-what are you--?" Angel stammered awkwardly.

Feigning aloof detachment, Dawn broke in, "Oh, just some trouble with the Watchers Council. They sent someone to try to kill Giles, and he didn't think it was safe for us to stay in Sunnydale."

"Actually, that's why we came up," Fred explained, threading her fingers together self-consciously. "Mr. Giles has a broken arm and he asked if Cordelia could spare some of her painkillers."

Cordy shook off her astonishment and replied, "Yeah...sure. Fine. I've...ah...I've got some sumatripan in the medicine chest. I'll get it for you."

Gingerly, Cordelia handed Connor to Angel and got up from the couch. Dawn's eyes narrowed as she watched Cordy disappear into the bedroom. Just whose apartment was this, anyway?

Rising to his feet, Angel asked, "Why would the Council want to kill Giles? Is Buffy in danger?"

Dawn shrugged indifferently, allowing her gaze to roam past the dark vampire as if he were merely part of the room's furnishings. "Giles didn't want to talk about it around me. That's probably why he sent me up here. I mean, somebody probably keeps a bottle of ibuprofen in that office downstairs."

Pausing and smiling for effect, she added, "Anyway, Buffy can take out anyone they send at her. Plus, I'm pretty sure they'd have to go through Spike, first. He gets all sweet and protective when someone threatens Buffy..."

At the look of utter, jealous dismay on Angel's face, Dawn silently congratulated herself. Served him right, getting all cuddly with someone else when he and Buffy still hadn't worked out all their Eternal Soulmates issues. It wasn't that Dawn thought Angel was cheating on Buffy or anything. Deep down, she knew Angel was better than that. When he and Buffy had been together, he'd been totally stellar. But it was just obvious to Dawn that a whole lot had been left unresolved. Most of the time, Buffy couldn't even bring herself to say Angel's name. And when she did, she got all skittish and mopey.

Meanwhile, here he was, playing house with Cordelia -- complete with an adopted baby. Well, unless Cordy had been sleeping around with someone else before Angel. Eww.

Buffy must have totally wigged.

Deciding she'd messed with Angel long enough -- she really didn't *hate* him -- Dawn said casually, "It's been nice seeing you, Angel, but I should probably get back to everyone downstairs. You know, makin' with the crisis mode again. Who knows, maybe I'll catch something interesting before Giles notices I'm there."

Angel winced.

Dawn turned her back on him, smirked, and ambled leisurely out of the apartment. She rolled her eyes. *Boys*. Sometimes they could be such dweebs.

Well, except for Spike. He was cool.

She had every intention of heading down to the office -- she really did hope she'd be able to eavesdrop -- when a strange sensation pulled at her. Dawn halted. Her skin felt warm and tingly all over. Every inch of her, from her eyebrows to her toenails, seemed to hum with energy. All sound other than her own heartbeat dimmed until she heard only a steady, soothing rhythm pulsing in her ears. Entranced, she stared down the hallway. Something behind a distant door beckoned. Dawn drifted past door after door, feeling the call resonate through her entire body.

*****

Willow shrank back against the wall in a panic.

Magic crackled over her skin and burned like fire in her veins. The power blossomed and sang in her mind, calling her to the dance. A familiar presence drew near. Willow struggled to repel it, terrified that her ordeal would begin anew, but it was overwhelming.

She felt it at the door.

"No," she insisted through clenched teeth, digging her fingernails into her palms. "No. No. Stop. Go away...."

*****

Dawn stretched out her hand, turned the knob, and pushed open the door. The power was strong, bathing her in gentle warmth and a gossamer caress, like a stream of orchid petals or liquid moonlight. A melodic whisper floated in her head, summoning her forward.

*Thou art well come...*

It was pure joy.

*****

Willow hid her face in a desperate attempt to break away from the pull, even as the power enticed her, rippling through her as Dawn came nearer.

She couldn't let this happen!

With one, last burst of willpower, Willow threw all her might into a gut-wrenching scream.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!!!"

~Part: 13~

Had it really been only a few months? That couldn't be right. A lifetime of changes was etched on the children he'd watched over not so long ago.

Children no longer.

Giles blinked amid the chaos. Willow's scream had brought them all running and his heart was still hammering against his chest. Yet for all the confusion around him and the frenzied thrust of his pulse, the world seemed to move in slow motion.

Angel and Cordelia had apparently arrived first. Angel knelt beside the bed where Willow huddled in terror. He gripped her by the shoulders and murmured words too soft for Giles to discern. Spike brusquely shoved Cordelia away from Dawn as Buffy stepped in to scrutinize her sister for signs of harm. The blond vampire hovered close, eyes narrowed, as Buffy forcefully shook her younger sister.

Dawn swayed, her expression radiant with bliss. Slowly, she responded to Buffy's urgent attempts to jar her out of her trance, stiffening and blinking her eyes.

It was only at this moment that Willow quieted and collapsed against Angel.

In a moment of clarity, he recognized the situation for what it was.

Dear God...how could he have missed it?

Willow. How he'd failed her! He should have seen the signs; should have anticipated something like this, especially after their prolonged battle with Glory. Even in his anger over her reckless venture with the resurrection spell, he should have had the presence of mind to question how she had managed such a difficult feat. But he hadn't. He'd been too close to see it.

He'd been too afraid that his prodigy would make the same mistakes he had.

"Dawnie? Dawn! Are you okay?!" Buffy demanded frantically, almost choking on the words.

Still somewhat dazed, Dawn nodded and murmured, "Uh huh..."

"You're sure she didn't hurt you? What happened?" Buffy pressed, eyes flaring urgently.

Dawn shook her head and her eyes focused more clearly. "No, I'm good. Buffy, it's okay, I'm all right. I don't know what happened. It was kinda freaky, though. One minute, I was leaving Angel's suite; the next, I felt this...pull..."

Giles might have been gone for several months, but there were some memories that would never fade. After years spent at Buffy's side, patiently guiding and training his young charge, her Battle Face was forever burned in his mind. It was a look of pure determination, from hardened eyes to firmly set jaw, and one he'd seen countless times as Buffy had prepared for mortal combat. He saw that look now as she spun around to confront Willow, who lay prone against Angel's side.

Quickly, Giles intervened.

"It's known as sending out a call."

"What?" Buffy stopped short and looked expectantly at him. "What kind of call?"

"Oh, God...I can't believe I didn't recognize it," Tara breathed from the doorway behind him.

"A call for a familiar," Giles continued, observing with interest as Spike brushed Dawn reassuringly on the cheek, then rested his hand on Buffy's shoulder. "Beings who provide guidance and enhanced power for a witch -- usually a small animal, such as a cat, but there have been instances of supernatural entities acting as familiars. It is possible for a call to be sent out unconsciously, although more often an intentional appeal is made."

Giles had hoped to calm Buffy's fury, but at her tense posture and wide, alarmed eyes, he realized he'd fallen short of the mark. She lurched at Willow and was held back only by Spike's firm grip.

Angel, too, tried his hand at soothing her. "Buffy, I don't think Willow meant to do this. Whatever this was, it terrified her."

But it wasn't Angel who succeeded in easing Buffy's hostile stance.

"Shh, luv," Spike urged in a rich, purring baritone, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Bit's fine. Best get her away from the witch and figure out what's goin' on. Remember: Red may look weak, but her magic's still there. Don't pick a fight until you're sure you're ready."

Buffy yielded. Giles saw that he was not the only one who had read the subtle text of their exchange. Angel's eyes, too, were frozen in a stare of disbelief.

At some point while Giles had been away, Spike had replaced them both.

Confidant. Touchstone. Ally.

Lover? Giles opted not to consider that possibility just yet, but he knew his Slayer's heart, and feared he saw the signs.

Had it really been only a few months?

A lifetime of changes, indeed.

*****

In her terror to flee before she could hurt Dawn again, Willow thrust herself deep into her mind--

--and found herself in the forest glade where Poydras had trained with old Garat.

Sunlight streamed through the trees and dappled the low, gnarled vegetation that carpeted the glade. She stood in the rays, bathed in warmth, resting slightly against the heavy quarter-staff in her right hand.

Once again, she was in the athletic, masculine body of a warrior.

Or, at this stage, a much younger warrior-in-training.

She remembered vividly every practice bout Poydras had experienced here. Sometimes he'd sparred with other novices, sometimes with seasoned warriors, and sometimes against phantasms conjured by Garat. For six years, not a night had gone by that Poydras hadn't collapsed on his sleep mat, aching, sore, and too tired to eat. Of course, the few times his wearied sinews had tempted him to refuse supper, Garat had taught him that it was possible for a body to feel even worse, rousing him with lashes from his switch. The old master never let him miss a meal.

Those years had blurred together as one, long, fatiguing period of intensive training, patient lectures, frustrating tests of will, trials of intelligence, and strained muscles.

They had been among the happiest of Willow's long, torturous travels.

Willow relaxed in the pleasure of this fond memory, escaping her troubles for a moment by daydreaming...

No! Wait! What had Garat said about dayd--- oof!

The sharp blow of a clawed foot against his back sent Poydras stumbling forward. Raw, bleeding stripes throbbed as a reminder that losing focus would get him hurt -- or killed.

Willow receded to the back of Poydras' mind and observed fondly as he went through a vigorous routine with one of Garat's phantasms. This time it was a simulated Tracker. Willow remembered these sessions and would have grinned if she'd been in control of her host's body. The youth had found them humiliating; the veteran fighter looked back, years later, and recognized them as some of his most important lessons.

Poydras crouched and swung his quarter-staff in a powerful arc to his right and behind him, following the staff with his body. He struck the phantom Tracker hard across the knees, eliciting the familiar, unearthly howl that even fully-trained Guardians dreaded. Its mouth pulled back in a menacing snarl over red gums and jagged, obsidian teeth. The silver-grey tentacles that cascaded mane-like from its head grew agitated.

Moaning inwardly, Willow braced herself for the sting of those tentacles on Poydras' skin. It would still be several years before he learned what Garat had been trying to teach him with this test: if you worry too much about how your opponent can hurt you, you'll overlook weaknesses that you can use to your advantage. At this age, only a few years since the elders of his village had offered him to Garat as a novice, Poydras was still easily thrown by the instinctive fear of his people's deadliest enemy.

Through her host's eyes, Willow saw the weakness that Garat would point out later, when Poydras was writhing in pain. The Tracker's head had reared back in preparation for whipping its poisoned tentacles at him -- leaving its neck exposed and vulnerable. Oooooh, this was going to hurt. Willow wished there was some way to warn him.

She was stunned when Poydras thrust his quarter-staff at the Tracker's neck and speared it brutally through the throat.

It hadn't happened this way!

Poydras' reflexes were still too untrained, his mind still too prone to react in fear, for him to pull off such a maneuver.

But....he had.

The killing blow ended Garat's spell and the hideous phantasm dissolved in a hiss of smoke.

As Willow gaped incredulously along with Poydras at the empty space where the Tracker had been, Garat's gruff, amused voice broke the silence.

"So, young novice. How did you manage that?"

"I...I..." stammered Poydras uncertainly. Speechless, he dropped to his knees, shifting his wide-eyed stare from the ground to his stunted, grizzled mentor.

Garat's face wrinkled in irritation, causing the long quills on his chin to twitch. "What have I told you, hmm?" he chided, cracking his switch against Poydras' arm.

Poydras yelped and clutched at his arm, where an angry welt had been raised against green skin. However, he was still too confused to answer his mentor's question.

"Combat is more than fighting, more than just reacting. Use your mind. Thought and action should be one," Garat lectured. "So, if you did it, you must know how you did it. Tell me."

"A...I...his neck. There was...in my mind...something," Poydras frowned as he stumbled over his words. "It told me...somehow I knew to strike the neck."

"Voices in your head, eh?" Garat poked beneath Poydras' chin with his switch, unimpressed. He peered intently into the youth's eyes, and Willow had the uneasy, surreal sensation that he was looking directly at her. "Who's in there, then? Hmm? Know this now: if you are to accomplish what must be done, all must be brought forward. Can't work with voices in your *head* -- you aren't pieces, you aren't parts, you're a whole. Embrace what you are -- and let's go again."

Willow was shaken. This hadn't happened! Not like this.

However, she had no time to wonder at the strange turn of events. The world was shifting again, fragmenting into a myriad of images. Bursts of light, shapes, shadows all spun around her at a dizzying pace until Willow found herself back in her room at the Hyperion.

It was oddly quiet.

She remembered that she'd been screaming before. Dawn had been there, as had Angel and the others. Now only Angel remained.

His posture, tense and watchful, eased with relief. "You're back."

Willow nodded, taking deep, gulping breaths to steady herself as a disorienting stream of memories flooded her mind and grafted onto the ones that she knew as her 'true' experiences. She couldn't stop herself from trembling. Her brain was already filled to the bursting point, but alongside her established memory of Poydras' life, there now stretched a second history of events, equally authentic.

Two paths.

Both real.

Each ended the same way, with Poydras staring up at a blade that would cut out his heart. But in the second, he'd been able to prevent Garat's death.

Through her astonished stupor, Willow felt Angel rest his hand on her arm and heard him ask, "Willow? Willow, are you all right?"

Suddenly, she snapped to attention and clapped her hand urgently over Angel's. Clinging to him almost desperately, she riveted him with an excited gaze and babbled, "Angel, something changed! It was different...I mean, it didn't happen like the first time -- I think he heard me! I changed something! Or...or do I just want to think I did? Am I just remembering things the way I want to?"

"Easy, Willow. Slow down," Angel hushed, steadying her with a firm but gentle grip. "Tell me what happened, from the beginning."

"Like she said: she changed something."

An unfamiliar voice drew Willow's attention to the doorway. She saw a somewhat homely man smirking back at both of them. His clothes were nondescript, although they looked vaguely like what a blue-collar worker might have worn after hours in the 1950s. Maybe it was the rumpled Stetson on his head that did it.

Willow frowned in confusion. Who was this guy?

"Whistler?" Angel murmured.

*****

Spike gave the softly lit tables, polished bar and row upon row of exotic bottles, urns, and jars an appreciative once-over.

Pretty posh, for a demon bar. Maybe he could convince Buffy to stay for a drink, once they got the Niblet settled in Liberace's private suite.

The green bloke'd pitched quite a fit when Angel had asked him if they could bring Dawn over for safe keeping. The Poof'd had to hold the phone away from his ear, and Spike had caught a few angry shouts about convertibles, bombs, hoodlum vigilantes and the high cost of renovations.

But as poncy as he was, Angel still knew how to negotiate. Angelus always had been a master of coercion.

So here he stood, with Buffy, Dawn, and a horned nightclub owner, perusing one of the most motley assortment of demons he'd seen in a long time. Oblivious to his curious stare, the bar's patrons sipped various spiritous beverages or bodily fluids and listened to a really bad karaoke rendition of Patsy Cline.

"Come on, princess, your palace awaits you...well, actually, it's still more of a construction zone than a palace, but I call it home," Lorne commented amiably. "You'd be amazed what you can do with a few throw pillows."

"I'm not a princess," Dawn sulked, eyes downcast. She was faking indifference in that adorable way she had, but Spike saw how clearly she was hurting. "I'm nothing but a cosmic power source."

"Here now," Spike scolded, chucking her beneath the chin and forcing her eyes to meet his. "No pity parties, they're boring. You're a normal, teenage girl, pet. No doubt there. You bloody whine enough, couldn't be anything but."

Dawn scowled at him and brushed his hand away. Good. Irritated was better than sniveling.

"Dawn, be nice. Lorne is doing us a favor, and from what Wesley told us about everything that's happened in the past year, a really BIG favor," Buffy added. Smiling hesitantly, she rested her hand on Dawn's shoulder. "Besides, you'll be okay here. Willow won't be able to reach you. Remember, no matter what she's done to you, she doesn't define who you are. You're *you*."

"Easy for you to say," Dawn huffed. "At least you have some control over your life. I'm just a Key, a tool for someone else to control. Willow proved that."

With that, she stomped petulantly over to the far side of the bar, jostling a walrus-faced demon as she brushed past. Disgruntled, it snorted at her, then went back to sipping a bright chartreuse concoction.

Lorne sighed. "Kids. I shudder to think what Connor will be like when he's this age, considering who his daddy is. Why don't you two sit down and have a drink. I'll turn on the charm and get her settled in."

Buffy looked uncomfortable with the suggestion. She was poised to stalk after her sister, but Spike stayed her, gently shaking his head. "She doesn't want us around right now, luv. Let her cool down."

After a long pause, Buffy relented, although the frustration was visible on her face. She let Spike escort her over to a candlelit table in the corner. They sat in silence for several moments. On an impulse, Spike reached across the table and took Buffy's hand, stroking his fingers over her soft skin but saying nothing.

With a wistful smile, Buffy dropped her gaze to their hands and murmured, "Thanks. Lately, you always seem to know what I need."

"Only lately?" Spike retorted with a cocky arch of his brow. "Slayer, I've had just what you *need* for years now."

She curled her fingers against his hand and dug her fingernails into his pale flesh.

"Ow! That smarts!" he protested. Buffy grinned.

A waiter -- or waitress, Spike couldn't tell -- came over and took their drink order, and they lapsed into silence. The drinks were delivered, but sat ignored as Spike watched Buffy stare thoughtfully into the distance.

"It never ends," Buffy observed at last. "I keep hoping that, someday, it will all be over. But as soon as we get over one hurdle, five more spring up in its place."

" 's how it goes, yeah," Spike agreed. Then, narrowing his eyes in concern over her fatalistic tone, he demanded, "You're not havin' regrets about bein' back again, are you? Not thinkin' of...endin' it...?"

"No," Buffy reassured him. She brought her gaze to his, and the emotion in her eyes nearly knocked him out of his seat. "I don't think about that any more....thanks to you. I don't know how I would have made it through all this without you."

Spike gaped at her, speechless.

Blushing, Buffy glanced away for several moments, swallowed, then looked at him pointedly and said, "I...don't love you...yet. But I trust you. Thank you for letting me trust you."

Borrowed blood pounded hot and furious through his veins, as Buffy's confession echoed in his ears. Especially one word: yet.

Yet.

Evidently, Buffy's emotions were just as turbulent. A pretty pink flush deepened in her cheeks as her blood screamed close to the surface of her skin. Her voice shaking nervously, she teased, "Come on, isn't this the point where you point and laugh? Or at least gloat? Tell me 'I told you so'?"

So beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

Spike simply stared at her as she squirmed across from him, all flustered. Her hazel eyes enchanted him. Her soft lips trembled so shyly.

He closed his eyes, drinking in the moment just a little longer, before he opened them again and answered her from the very depths of his soulless yet sentimental heart.

"She comes not when Noon is on the roses--
Too bright is Day.
She comes not to the Soul till it reposes
From work and play.

But when Night is on the hills, and the great Voices
Roll in from Sea,
By starlight and candle-light and dreamlight
She comes to me."

Buffy's mouth dropped open slightly. His response clearly wasn't what she'd expected. But when Spike saw a tiny glimmer at the corner of her eyes, he knew his words were far from unwelcome.

He nodded in the direction that Lorne had taken Dawn. "Come on, luv, let's go say good night to the Niblet."

~Part: 14~

Déjà-vu wasn't unusual for Angel. He had walked the earth long enough to realize that events and encounters often repeated themselves with little more than a change of scenery. However, a slight tremor nonetheless ran through him at the sight of the immortal demon who had served as the catalyst for his transformation.

Scarcely six years earlier, Whistler had found him in a New York alley, starving, filthy, and hopeless. A mere blink of the eye for someone of Angel's longevity, yet a lifetime ago in terms of how far he'd come.

Six years. Angel had been a vampire for two and a half centuries. What were six short years in that immense span?

Everything.

Those years held in them more than was dreamt of in heaven and in earth. They eclipsed his first two centuries, overshadowing the worthless drunkenness of his human life, the sadistic cruelty of his reign at Darla's side, and the mind-numbing despair that had been his souled existence until Whistler's appearance. In just six years, he had become something -- he'd made himself worthwhile.

So he understood more than anyone that a visit from Whistler was no casual affair.

"Whistler?" Angel repeated incredulously. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, it's L.A.," came the demon's cavalier answer. "There are a thousand reasons'd bring a guy to this town."

"Not when the guy is you," Angel observed, folding his arms across his chest.

"Um, Angel? Who is this guy?" Willow asked hesitantly. She rose to stand beside Angel and peered warily at Whistler.

"It's okay, kid, I haven't slipped here from one of your other stomping grounds. Name's Whistler," he said, extending a hand. However, rather than shaking the proffered hand, Willow shrank against Angel and stared uncomfortably at the shabbily dressed demon.

"Whoa, so don't make with the nice," Whistler shrugged, withdrawing his hand. "Suit yourself."

"You didn't come to chat. The Powers That Be don't send their emissaries to make small-talk," Angel pointed out.

"Tell me about it. Do you know how fast I wear out my welcome, delivering message after message about an impending Apocalypse?" Whistler huffed.

"There's an Apocalypse on the way?" Angel's expression instantly grew serious.

"Nah, 's already happened. A couple of times, actually," Whistler replied easily as he perused Willow's spartan room with a smirk. "You know, this room'd look a lot nicer with a painting or two -- even a bookshelf."

"It's me...I did it," Willow murmured, eyes widening in despair. "Oh, God...Oh, God...I'm an Apocalypse."

"Willow, shh...Easy..." Angel steadied her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "You couldn't have known."

Willow's entire frame was shaking, reminding Angel how fragile humans were in body as well as in mind. When he'd broken her, Drusilla's heart had raced as Willow's did now. But whereas he'd savored each anguished tremor, each tormented moan he'd wrenched from Drusilla in that dark age before his soul, it pained Angel to see Willow reduced to this state.

She turned her back on Angel and Whistler, wrapped arms around herself, and hunched her shoulders, as if to make herself a smaller target, or deny herself closeness and comfort.

"I can't write this off as an honest mistake," Willow insisted brokenly. "This goes way beyond 'oh, oops, sorry'. I could feel it everywhere, all the time. Something was wrong, because of me. The world was out of control because *I* was out of control. Each time I slipped from one dimension to another, it followed me. I brought it with me. The magic I'd tapped into was disrupting things on a fundamental level and I couldn't make it stop."

As Angel listened to Willow's bitter self-reproach, a sickening hollow formed in his gut and he realized what had been stalking her through her journeys.

She had.

She was the ominous specter, bringing destruction to each incarnation in which she'd found herself.

"That's pretty much it," Whistler agreed, hands thrust casually in his trouser pockets. "You played with fire, kid."

It was a blunt statement, stark in its acknowledgment of the devastating consequences of Willow's actions. Angel's throat tightened with grief as he watched the young redhead sink to the floor in defeat. She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed quietly. As her tears fell Angel recalled a painful night in the woods of Roumania. The ground had been cold and sharp with twigs as he'd knelt, crying out from the depths of his newly restored soul. The force of guilt had crashed down on him so fiercely he'd pulled out his own hair until his scalp was bloody.

"So that's it?" Angel whispered, aghast. He tore his eyes from Willow to stare expectantly at Whistler.

"What?" came the bemused reply. "Angel, man, you've gotta stop being so cryptic." Whistler ambled toward the desk, opened the drawer and frowned in disappointment. "What is this, a prison cell? Even the dives I stay in have a Bible or a phone book in the nightstand."

Angel snorted in disbelief. Cryptic?! Whistler was one to talk...

"Have the Powers started sending you out to condemn people? Is that what this is about? You're just going to rub her nose in it and leave?" Angel demanded, gesturing toward Willow, who huddled despondently at their feet.

"Hey, cool down, already," Whistler raised his hands, giving Angel the brush-off. "No one's passing judgment on anyone yet...well, except the kid there. She's beating herself up something good. When she snaps out of it, you can tell her the Powers did her a favor."

"A favor?"

Whistler shrugged. "Yeah. See, she wasn't far off the mark -- she was an Apocalypse, six times over."

"Willow kept saying something about seven worlds," Angel interrupted.

"One of those wasn't her fault," Whistler replied. "Anyway, it's too big for the Powers to ignore. Something like this isn't just going to work itself out. One Apocalypse, sure -- maybe two. But not six. She's gonna have to fix it."

"Fix it?! How can...are you saying Willow is powerful enough to undo an Apocalypse?" Angel demanded incredulously.

He looked down at the silent, withdrawn woman whom he still thought of as a girl. A helpless girl he'd terrorized more than once. She'd been so frightened, so unsure of herself.

And the Powers expected this little one, this timid, troubled soul to tip the balance? Surely it was too much weight for such slim shoulders.

"Let's just say she's made a big splash. There are plenty of parties who are going to be real interested in what she can do, real soon. She's already had one offer that I've heard of. But this is big enough that she's got some help. Like I said, the Powers did her a favor."

"What did they do?"

"Put the worlds somewhere she can fix them. Trouble is, she's going to be afraid to try. That's where you come in." Whistler gave him a nod.

"Me?" Angel frowned.

"She'll need a coach. You know: 'Get in there and give it your all, champ'; 'Up and at 'em, slugger'; 'Go team'. That kinda stuff."

"Why me? Wouldn't her friends be better at that?" Angel protested, daunted at the prospect of shepherding Willow through something as arduous as undoing an Apocalypse.

"Her friends? Jeez, what do you think *you* are?" Whistler chided him with an impatient, sidelong glance.

"I only meant..." Angel began, pausing awkwardly as he struggled to characterize his relationship to the young woman who had known him back when he'd taken his first steps toward redemption. "Of course I'm her friend, and I'll help however I can. But she has other friends who are closer to her. How could I possibly know how to help her better than they would?"

"Use your best judgment. Talk to her. You'll find out you've got more in common than you think. In the end, you pretty much use what you've got," Whistler shrugged. He glanced down at his watch. "Will you look at that? Time to go. Well, take care of her. Hope you work it out."

He started for the door.

"Wait!" Angel nearly yelped, more confused than ever. "You've got to give me more to go on than this. How am I supposed to help her work this out? You said the Powers put the worlds where Willow could fix them. What does that mean? Where?"

"Her head," Whistler grinned, nodding toward Willow and tapping his own skull.

"But that's im--" Angel stopped mid-protest, dumbfounded. Six worlds in her head? He stared at her, brow furrowed, for several moments before turning back to Whistler...

...who was no longer there.

Angel closed his eyes and groaned inwardly. Great.

Just once, couldn't the Powers give clear instructions? No visions, no visitations from demons whose curse was to be always misunderstood -- just some nice, straightforward clues about what they wanted from their Champion. Was that too much to ask?

Grimacing uneasily, the dark vampire lifted his gaze toward the ceiling and thought, '*Don't answer that...*'

*****

"I suppose it was too much to hope for straightforward dealings from the Council," Giles remarked. He took a sip of tea, then set the white china cup back down on its saucer. "Still, it was a rude awakening to discover how far my sense of my mission diverged from the Council's."

The ex-Watcher's observation was met with nods of agreement and grim resignation from the others who sat with him in the office. Oddly enough, it gave him a sense of solidarity, an inner peace he hadn't had since he'd left Sunnydale so many months earlier. Truly, the people in this room were his colleagues, his peers, far more than the Watchers Council.

"Giles...please don't take this the wrong way," Buffy said, her eyes glimmering with a volatile mix of hope, uncertainty, and sadness. "I'm glad you're back -- you have no idea how glad. But I thought you'd decided this wasn't your mission any more."

A lump rose in his throat, and it was a moment before Giles could speak. Xander and Tara glanced at him furtively from their seats on either side of the Slayer, their expressions mirroring Buffy's halting stoicism.

"I never abandoned my mission, Buffy. I just lost sight of it," Giles softly voiced his regret. "I thought I was holding you back. I no longer knew how to guide you. In all the years I've worked with you, you've been...remarkable. You shattered everything the Council had trained me to believe about the Slayer -- no Slayer has ever been quite like you."

He paused, fixed his gaze pointedly on Buffy, then added, "Or so I had thought."

"How exactly did you learn about the other Slayers, about their...sense of fellowship with vampires?" Wesley interjected from his seat by Cordelia's desk. He leaned forward, his brows knit in intense concentration. "You've told us how uncooperative the Council was upon your return. For the love of mercy, Rupert, they tried to kill you."

"I know," Giles agreed, pursing his lips thoughtfully. He closed his eyes and shook his head, still finding it difficult to come to grips with all he'd experienced in the past few months. "However, I think you know as well as I do that the Council is usually at its most revealing precisely when the hierarchy is trying to obstruct someone's path. Their response to my initial research on past Slayers who survived into their twenties exposed some particularly damning truths...."

//...Two Weeks Earlier...//

Giles shook with pain as he reclined against the cold, tiled wall of the Metro tunnel and struggled to tighten a make-shift bandage around his bleeding arm. A cursory self-examination gave him hope that the bullet had passed clean through the flesh, but he was by no means out of danger. He was losing blood at an alarming rate. He needed proper medical treatment, but alerting the Council to his whereabouts by visiting a hospital could prove fatal.

He cursed himself for not having anticipated such an ambush.

Quentin Travers had been uncharacteristically gracious in directing him to a reclusive demon scholar in Paris. Indeed, he'd been *too* forthcoming with information, especially given the scarcely masked alarm that had flashed in his eyes when Giles had asked him about vague references in the Watchers' Diaries to a Spanish Slayer in 1809. That alone should have set Giles on guard.

But Giles had been so eager to follow up any lead that might help him understand what Buffy needed, how he could help her, that he'd let himself get careless.

Now he was paying the price for that lack of caution.

Giles gritted his teeth and clamped his hand down over his throbbing arm. Ruefully, he thought back to the terrible moment when he'd arrived for his rendez-vous with the demon scholar and discovered his unfortunate semantic error. Ramon Diaz was no scholar *of* demons and demonic lore, he was a very learned demon.

A vampire, to be precise. A very old and powerful vampire.

And very, very deadly.

Giles had escaped only through blind luck and the arrogant miscalculation of the Council itself.

"You managed to get further than I would have expected."

The cool, smooth voice sent a white-hot bolt of fear coursing down his spine. Giles scrambled to his feet and desperately scanned the vicinity for a stick, a pencil, any fragment of wood whatsoever. Unfortunately, his luck had run out.

Unarmed, he braced himself and raised his eyes to look at the calm yet predatory face of Ramon Diaz.

"Apparently...not....far enough," Giles bit out, wincing at the pain that radiated from his gunshot wound.

The immaculately groomed vampire arched an eyebrow. Like so many of his kind, his sartorial preferences ran toward dark colors and sensually pleasing fabrics. Yet though his attire was that of a contemporary businessman, right down to the tasteful, navy silk tie and tailored, charcoal gray suit, Diaz had the look of a Roman centurion. Raven hair adorned his brow in short, clipped locks, and timeless, dark eyes stared out from stern, proud features.

"Yes. It would have had to be much further," Diaz allowed with genteel grace. He stepped closer, but paused when Giles stiffened defensively. With a slight smile, his eyes narrowed and he asked, "Who are you, that the Council of Watchers would not only misdirect you to a vampire's lair, but have its best marksmen follow to finish the job in case the vampire himself didn't kill you?"

"Obviously a very dangerous man," Giles bluffed, fixing Diaz with what he hoped was a steely, menacing glare. "Too dangerous, perhaps, for the likes of you."

A sly grin stretched across Diaz's face. "Ahh...false bravado. So, you're a Watcher, then." The vampire turned his back on Giles, dismissing the bleeding human as a threat, and strolled toward the edge of the platform. Staring out into the darkened tunnel, he said, "I have no use for Watchers. After the last fifty I killed, I would have thought they'd learned to respect my privacy."

Turning back to Giles, he arched an eyebrow and murmured, "You, however, are a curiosity."

"It intrigues you that the Council would murder one of its own," Giles surmised. No doubt the vampire saw this as a welcome sign of weakness.

However, to Giles' astonishment, a brief spark of pain -- almost human in its vulnerability -- flickered in dark eyes before fading to contempt. "I am well aware that the Council has no scruples about killing its own. Probably more so than you."

The remark was laced with such iciness and velvet rage that Giles shivered involuntarily. His body's self-betrayal did not go unnoticed. Diaz smirked back at him.

"So, Watcher, why does the Council want you dead?"

"I haven't figured that out yet," Giles answered guardedly. He felt his limbs trembling, and realized that it was not solely due to fear. The evening's events were taking their toll. His agitation seemed to run cell-deep, and he'd been unable to steady his shaky breathing and his rapid pulse. His system was showing the classic signs of hypovolemic shock. Grimly, he acknowledged that the Council might get its wish after all.

Diaz nodded thoughtfully, clasped his hands behind his back and paced slowly along the edge of the platform. "Their motivations are often clouded. Petty, base..." He glanced coolly at Giles. "Human."

The well-groomed vampire paused and frowned slightly. "Why would they bother to send you to me, though? They could have killed you more efficiently a dozen other ways."

A grim truth Giles understood all too well.

Fighting light-headedness, Giles remarked, "Why does it matter to you?"

Another arched eyebrow. "As I said, you're a curiosity." Slowly, a cruel smile spread across the vampire's face. "More importantly, the Council fears you. I would be interested to know what it was that had them so threatened they would seek to kill you."

"As would I," Giles agreed weakly. His knees felt wobbly and he swooned against the wall. "However, I haven't yet...figured...that out... either"

No longer able to stand, Giles slid down the wall. Diaz knelt before him, his human mask having given way to demonic ridges and fangs. Once again, Giles was taken aback by the vampire's actions. With consummate skill, Diaz undid the bandage around Giles' arm, provoking a fresh trickle of blood. Then, biting into his own wrist, Diaz sprinkled a few drops of his blood on the poorly dressed wound. Giles felt a warm, burning sensation in the surrounding flesh. He glanced down and saw that his arm was no longer hemorrhaging.

"That should speed the healing. Or, at the very least, prevent you from dying before you can answer a few more questions," Diaz noted with satisfaction. He rose to his feet.

"Might've spared yourself. I haven't any answers to offer...only questions of my own," Giles murmured absently. He stared, intrigued, at his rapidly healing wound, brushing it experimentally with his fingertips.

"Don't poke," Diaz reproached him. Folding his arms across his chest, he prompted, "Tell me your questions, then. What were you so eager to learn, that you let yourself be fooled so easily by the Council?"

His pride wounded, Giles scowled crossly and said nothing for several moments. Patiently, Diaz reached into his breast pocket and withdrew an elegant, silver cigarette case. He slipped one between his lips, returned the case to his pocket, then raised a lighter and ignited the end of his cigarette.

The vampire inhaled, then gently expelled the warm smoke from his mouth. Still, he made no move to harm Giles or coerce him into speaking.

Perhaps it was Diaz's apparent lack of interest in killing him, or his undisguised contempt for the Council; or maybe simply that his quiet, unhurried enjoyment of a minor vice was reassuringly familiar, reminding Giles of an irritatingly arrogant, blond vampire who, contrary to all expectations, had proven himself an ally. Then again, it could have been the massive blood loss, clouding his judgment. Whatever the reason, Giles found himself opening up to his unlikely demon confessor.

"For the past few months, I've been researching past Slayers who survived into their twenties, to determine whether their needs changed as they entered adulthood, whether they had difficulty adjusting."

Diaz chuckled and tapped his cigarette, shaking loose the ash that had accumulated on the end. "That is what the French would call 'une question mal posée'. You think like a human of the twentieth century. For the majority of my years, a Slayer, like any woman, was already an adult at age fourteen." He took another thoughtful drag, then inquired as smoke filtered out from his mouth, "What interests you in these matters?"

Bowing his head slightly, Giles stared at his shoes and murmured, "I have nothing left to offer my Slayer, nothing that I can teach her. She's faced the impossible...countless times, now...nothing has beaten her. Not even death."

Giles raised his eyes to find Diaz watching him intently. Again, the Watcher was startled by the depth of emotion he saw in the vampire's steady gaze.

"I realized I was holding her back," Giles continued. "She let herself rely on me for things she could handle herself. It was easier, I suppose. So I left. But each day thereafter, I felt like I'd betrayed her, failed her somehow. I began to scour every record left behind by previous Watchers about their Slayers. It was after I'd come across a reference to a Slayer in 1809 that the head of the Council sent me looking for you."

Diaz had turned away from Giles. He said nothing for a moment, merely stood, motionless and silent. Then, in a soft voice, he said, "Jacinda...Jacinda Santos."

"There was no mention of her name. In fact, there was surprisingly little about her at all in the Council's archives," Giles admitted.

"Not surprising at all," Diaz countered, his back still to Giles. Ignored, the vampire's cigarette slowly burned down to a column of ash between his fingers. "Undoubtedly, the Council wanted to purge all traces of her from their history. Jacinda committed the cardinal sin."

The cigarette fell to the ground. When Diaz failed to elaborate, Giles prompted apprehensively, "What did she do?"

In the silence, Giles heard the rats skittering across the tracks.

"She loved a vampire," Diaz said simply.

Neither man nor vampire spoke for a while. Then, Diaz turned half-way toward Giles, cocked his head, and observed, "This does not surprise you."

"No, it doesn't," Giles sighed. At this admission, Diaz slowly brought himself around to face the reclining Watcher head-on. Comprehension dawned in his eyes -- and something more.

Respect.

"Your Slayer, too. She loved one of my kind." A statement, not a question. When Giles nodded, Diaz fixed him with a sober, unwavering gaze. "It is more common than the Council wishes to admit. They fear the truth."

"And what is the truth?

Diaz narrowed his eyes and smiled the sinister, toothy smile of a predator. "That familiarity does not breed contempt, but fosters a sense of kinship...awakens a longing for those who walk the same path in the shadows." Absently, the vampire traced his thumbnail over the tip of his index finger until it drew blood. "Kindles the flame of passion."

For the first time since he'd initiated their conversation, Diaz closed his eyes. To Giles, it looked as if the vampire were miles away, lost in another place, another time. When Diaz opened his eyes once more, he stated bluntly, "Jacinda was not the first. Your Slayer will not be the last."

Giles had a disturbing feeling that it would be dangerous to press Diaz any further on this matter, but his curiosity somehow managed to override his better judgment. Leaning forward, he asked, "What happened to Jacinda?"

The murderous look that seized the vampire's face and the barely controlled rage that tensed his entire frame told Giles that his instincts were correct. Instantly, the Watcher regretted his question. However, Diaz regained his composure, and began to speak in a faraway voice.

"Her vampire...loved her as deeply as she loved him. He offered her immortality. And she *accepted*...she was ready to walk beside him as his mate. She would have been his most glorious creation." Diaz paused and clenched his jaw. "For this, the Council killed her. Their assassins surprised her as she was confessing her intentions to her Watcher, and murdered them both. Her lover found them, beheaded and staked through the heart -- a precaution taken by men who considered the union of Slayer and vampire to be an abomination."

"Dear God," Giles whispered, aghast. He wasn't sure whether he was more horrified by the Council's brutality, or by the fact that he knew full well that the Council was capable of such actions, and even worse.

"Your *dear* God had nothing to do with it, did nothing to prevent it," Diaz spat bitterly. "As I told you, Jacinda wasn't the first. So you see, Watcher, I do know how easily the Council will kill one of its own."

Grimly, Giles realized the terrible extent of his dilemma. If Buffy hadn't been in danger before, his unintentional trespass into the Council's darker secrets had now most likely placed her in serious jeopardy. And he was gravely ill-equipped to warn her. If he didn't die at the hands of the vampire who stood before him, and if he survived his gunshot wound, the Council would most likely find him and kill him before he could reveal what he'd learned.

With uncanny intuition, Diaz seemed to anticipate his concerns. "Do you have a name, Watcher?"

Giles blinked momentarily, then replied, "Giles. Rupert Giles."

"Keep yourself alive for the next twenty-four hours, Rupert Giles," Diaz instructed. Calmly, he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a black leather wallet. Thumbing through various business cards, he finally extracted one and handed it to Giles. "Tomorrow night, go to this address. Someone will attend to you until you are able to return to your Slayer."

Although Giles suspected he knew the reason for Diaz's generosity, he thought better than to ask the vampire why he was offering sanctuary to a human, and a Watcher no less. Lifting his eyes from the card, Giles acknowledged his benefactor with a solemn, "Thank you."

Diaz regarded him impassively, then turned to leave. As he walked away, he said, "I do not do this for your sake."

Nodding, Giles murmured to himself, "I know."

//...The Hyperion, Present Day...//

Wearied from the emotional tale, Giles reached for his cup of tea and took a sip. As the soothing warmth slid down his throat, he surveyed the deeply troubled faces before him. Xander grimaced in confusion and clutched Anya's hand. Although she appeared least worried of the group, Anya nonetheless frowned in sympathy and patted her fiancé's hand. Wesley had removed his glasses, shut his eyes, and now rested his forehead against a tightly clenched fist. Tara breathed shakily as tears ran down her cheeks.

Buffy sat very still and stared, unblinking, at the floor.

Slowly, she raised her head and looked at Giles. "I think we need to talk."

"I think we do," a voice agreed from the doorway.

Sheepishly, Giles realized he'd been so wrapped up in recounting his experience that he was unaware how long Angel had been standing there.

"This conversation should wait, then, until all interested parties are here," Giles suggested, knowing that a central figure in Buffy's life had elected not to return to the hotel that night.

Nervously, Buffy averted her eyes. Angel said nothing, but acquiesced with a curt nod, then looked away.

*****

"You're not seriously gonna sleep on the floor, are you?" Dawn demanded as she settled herself beneath the airy comforter on the Host's bed.

Spike snorted. "Anything's better than the work-out mat in the Poof's basement. Don't trouble your head over it, Niblet. This'll do fine. Now, lights out, already."

"Yes, *Dad*," Dawn grumbled as she flipped the switch on the wall.

"Drop the attitude, pet," an irritated growl carried through the darkness.

~Part: 15~

Dawn listened absently to Fred's giddy chatter as they walked with Gunn back to Caritas, her temporary home.

Home. Yeah, right. There with the rest of the freaks, where she belonged. She frowned. The whole gang was back at the hotel, and meanwhile she was shoved off to the sidelines again, sleeping at some weird demon bar and being babysat all day by two people she hardly knew. All because she was like some kind of cosmic heroin to Willow, and everyone was too busy trying to find a way to protect her to spend any time with her.

"Maybe tomorrow we can go to the beach. Would you like that, Dawn?" Fred asked, smiling shyly.

With a half-hearted shrug, Dawn replied, "Sure. That sounds okay."

Gunn craned his neck and let out an exaggerated sigh. "Well, that's a relief. I don't know how two girls as small as y'all could buy so much...stuff." He punctuated his remark by raising both arms, each heavily laden with shopping bags in a medley of rainbow plastics and stiff, glossy paper.

In spite of the easygoing smile Gunn flashed at her, Dawn winced. Spending all day at one of L.A.'s malls had forced her to struggle with old temptations, and he'd caught her trying to steal a silver bracelet from one store they'd visited. He hadn't made a scene; just told her in a low, steady voice to put it back, then walked away. Gunn hadn't even hovered nearby to ensure that she did as he told her. Maybe it was that, or maybe it was the total lack of shock or disappointment in his eyes, but Dawn had felt ashamed of herself, rather than defensive.

But Gunn had played it cool for the rest of the afternoon, as if nothing had happened. It kind of surprised her.

They made their way into Lorne's establishment just as the shadows which angled across the street were lengthening. It was dusk, and already a patron or two had arrived at the bar.

Lorne approached them in an elegantly tailored, deep red Armani suit that nicely accentuated his vermilion eyes. "Well, looks like you went on a spree that could put Elizabeth Taylor to shame," he noted approvingly. Gesturing to the scaly bartender who was busily polishing glasses, Lorne asked, "Can I have Ronnie fix you anything? A little Shirley Temple after paying homage at the temples of commerce?"

Dawn shrugged indifferently, lowered her gaze and muttered, "I'm fine."

She didn't want to feel comfortable here. She didn't want to let Angel's friends make her feel comfortable. For months upon months, even though she'd been the object of everyone's concern and the center of their efforts to combat the latest threat, be it Glory or Willow, Dawn had nonetheless felt like an outsider. She was so tired of being sheltered, so very tired of being protected to the point that she was closed out of the gang.

Besides, every time she started feeling even the least bit comfortable or reassured about her connection to her family and friends, they left her. She wasn't going to set herself up for that again. Not when this was a temporary arrangement anyway.

"You sure, cupcake?" Lorne asked her in a voice as melodious as a siren's lure. "It's easy to work up an appetite when you're doing serious shopping, and Ronnie makes a mean plate of nachos."

Traitorously, Dawn's stomach chose that moment to rumble, and she was forced to admit that she was hungry.

"I guess that sounds good," she conceded.

"Ooh, nachos!" Fred chimed in with child-like glee.

Lorne beamed indulgently at both of them. "Tell you what, sweet things. I'll have Ronnie fix you up a triple order. Why don't you have a seat?"

Lorne gestured to a nearby table as he headed toward the bar. Meanwhile, Gunn gripped the shopping bags and said, "I'll be right back. Just wanna drop these in your room before my arms fall off."

Dawn joined Fred at the table and fiddled nervously with her hands. She scanned the near-empty room, her glance falling briefly on a spiky, blue demon seated near the stage, then looked back to the shy, youthful woman across from her.

"I know I'm not the greatest company," Fred began, with an awkward, apologetic smile. "I guess that kind of comes from having spent five years living in a cave in a demon dimension..."

Busted.

Inwardly, Dawn cringed even as she reassured her soft-spoken companion, "No, no, I had a great time today. It's just..."

At this point, Lorne set two glasses of water down before them and pulled up a seat. "Got a lot on your mind, huh, pumpkin?"

Dawn frowned in discomfort. At her uneasy pout, Lorne remarked, "Don't take it personally, Dawnie. I do this to everyone. Call it an occupational hazard."

"And do many people tell you to butt out?" Dawn retorted wryly.

"Sure. Angel's one of the worst. Now *there's* a big ball of tension -- doesn't take an anagogic demon to read the pent-up frustration coming off of that one. But will he listen to advice? Nooooooo. That, my dear, would be one of the first signs of the Apocalypse," Lorne observed, leaning forward conspiratorially. This elicited a grin from Dawn, who'd had plenty of her own experience with the dark vampire's stubborn pillar-of-strength routine when he and Buffy had been dating.

Fred giggled. Gunn, who had returned from Lorne's suite, eased into the chair beside Fred's, smiled adoringly at her and asked, "So what are we laughing about?"

"Angel," Dawn supplied with a smirk.

"And how he's not good at opening up," Fred added, returning Gunn's affectionate gaze with equal measure.

"No kidding?" Gunn snorted ironically.

"I suppose I can appreciate that," Fred admitted, self-consciously nudging her glasses above her nose with her index finger. "It took me a long time to open up to anyone after we came back from Pylea...and then only with Angel's help. I guess I got so used to hiding in my cave that I kept on hiding, even when there weren't any more monsters."

Gunn gently rested his hand over hers. "You survived five years in a world where demons treated you like a slave or an animal. It takes a lot of strength to hold up when everyone around you says you're no better than dirt. You weren't even in control of your own life. I think you were entitled to have a few problems with trust. Anyway, you came through it. You're strong, girl."

Dawn watched them and felt a pang of jealousy. She hated feeling so alone, and wanted to wrap herself up in the warmth that they so obviously shared.

"It must be hard," Lorne's gentle observation startled Dawn. She stared at him warily, wondering exactly how well he could read minds. He offered her an understanding nod. "Being uprooted at a moment's notice, hiding out from the bad guys. Having the Slayer for a big sis. It probably makes it tough to have a normal life."

"You don't know the half of it," Dawn sulked, lowering her eyes to hide the faint glimmer of moisture.

The scaly bartender appeared at their table and set down a heaping platter of nachos, piled high with bubbling cheese, richly aromatic chili, shredded lettuce, salsa, olives, tomatillo relish, sprigs of fresh cilantro, and sour cream. Lorne scooted the platter toward Dawn and said, "Go ahead. Nothing feels better than a nice, warm snack. Sometimes we all need to live it up a little."

"You got that right," Gunn agreed, helping himself to a blue corn tortilla chip piled high with toppings. "Hey, where's the guac?"

Ronnie re-appeared and left a bowl of guacamole next to the nachos.

"Live it up," Dawn muttered glumly. "That would be nice, if I actually had my own life to live." She munched on a chip, savoring the piquant salsa and rough, stone-ground corn, and found herself confessing her misery in spite of herself. "My life isn't even real. My whole past is fake. My family isn't even really my family. All I am is a ball of energy that one person or another keeps wanting to tap into."

Dawn wasn't sure how much Willow had explained about her when she'd taken the news of Buffy's death to the L.A. gang last spring. However, she figured they knew at least the basics, since they regarded her with sympathy rather than bewildered shock.

"Dawn," Gunn said after a few seconds, "I don't mean to mess with your business. I know what it's like to feel cut off from the world when you don't have family. Believe me, I know how much that hurts. I'm not sayin' your situation isn't unique. But your family isn't any less real just because you weren't always part of it. Family is more than what you're dealt at the beginning of the game. Family is the people who help you get through whatever you're dealt, no matter how tough it is."

For a moment, Dawn said nothing. Her insides trembled uneasily as she reluctantly admitted to herself that these people were friends, that try as she might, she couldn't shut them out. She didn't want to need anyone new, she didn't want to make room for more people who would leave her, but...she couldn't stop herself from needing somebody to talk to.

"Thanks," Dawn murmured. "I get that."

"This might not make you feel any better," Lorne added, his voice rich and soothing. "But you're not much different from any other sentient being I've ever met. They're *all* balls of energy, at the core. Why do you think I can read their auras?"

Dawn gaped at the green-skinned demon. She'd never really thought of it that way. Slowly, a smile began to spread across her face. Lorne saw her brightening expression and continued.

"And being a familiar involves a lot more than supplying a little energy. Granted, it shouldn't be forced on anyone -- you're right to feel upset about that. But in some circles -- actually, a lot of circles -- familiars are highly respected and very influential in their own right. It's considered an honor."

A self-conscious grimace spread across Dawn's features. She knew that Angel had shared a few details with Lorne in order to persuade the demon to let her stay at his establishment, but it nonetheless made Dawn uncomfortable that so many people knew, especially about Willow's first attack. The experience had left Dawn feeling humiliated, raw and vulnerable. Talking about it made her feel exposed.

And yet...this last time had been different. It hadn't felt bad at all. It had felt strangely right...

"I just don't like feeling controlled," Dawn protested softly. "Willow tried to use me, and it hurt."

"And it didn't work," Lorne agreed reassuringly. "Because that isn't what familiars are for, that isn't the relationship. It isn't something that can be forced. Any more than love can be forced. When it's the real deal, it's offered freely. And then -- whoa! Look out, it's a force that can't be stopped. Most importantly, it's a two-way street."

Dawn paused and reflected.

That was exactly what it had felt like. The last time she'd been drawn to Willow, it had felt warm...loving...sharing...

She was angry at Willow for hurting her before. Willow had done a horrible thing. But, she realized, Willow wasn't a bad person, not at heart. A possibility churned in her mind.

Could Willow need her?

*****

In the spartan yet comfortable room that had been made up for Giles not long after his arrival, Buffy sat in the one desk chair and listened numbly as her Watcher told Spike the same story he'd shared with the rest of the group. To his credit, Spike kept his face a neutral mask of detachment, revealing nothing that might suggest the Slayer's love life was any of his business. Angel leaned against the far wall and observed from just beyond the edge of the soft light cast by the floor lamp.

After Giles finished, Buffy's throat ached with tension as she watched the three most important men in her life stare at each other in awkward silence. Never mind that two of them technically weren't men at all, and that they were glaring rather than staring. As necessary as this conversation was, as hard as it was for Buffy to believe she'd avoided dealing with this for as long as she had, it was still her worst nightmare.

A very irrational, panicky side of her wished she were trapped in a room with the Master, Adam and Glory. Anything would have been better than having to explain her relationship with Spike to Angel, Giles... and Spike himself.

The Cruciamentem had nothing on this.

Buffy felt utterly abandoned by every last ounce of her strength and wanted nothing more than to run away and hide. Where was her inner Slayer when she needed her? And what about her easygoing, witty banter? Why did the quips come so naturally when she was fighting demons, only to abandon her when it came time to discuss her feelings?

"So, you met Diaz," Spike remarked coolly, shifting his gaze from Angel to Giles. "Told you 'bout the girl, did he? Huh. Heard rumors, but never bothered to find out if they were true. Bloke was jealous of his privacy, didn't take kindly to anyone askin' too many questions. Figured it was a legend started by a vamp who got bored. What I want to know is why the soddin' Council gives a rat's arse now? Why weren't they all up in arms when the Slayer and the Poof were snogging in the graveyards four years ago?"

The sickening knot in Buffy's stomach tightened even further. She wanted to weep with gratitude and shame at Spike's gesture. Angel had always been a difficult topic for them, yet Spike was willing to cover for her, to maintain the illusion that there was only one vampire who had ever worked his way deeply enough into her heart to be a cause for the Council's concern.

It was time for her to stop hiding.

"Well, actually...they were," Giles countered haltingly. He grimaced apologetically at Buffy, then glanced away. "But then Angelus...er, returned, and there no longer seemed any danger that the Slayer would be seduced away from her duty."

Buffy took a deep breath. "And if the Council hated that their Slayer loved a vampire with a soul, they're probably having one, big, group heart-attack over the thought of her with a soulless one."

Instantly, three sets of eyes locked on her. In Giles' somewhat pained gaze, Buffy nonetheless saw compassion and understanding. In Spike's winter blue eyes, pure, unadulterated shock, softened by hope. It was the same look that had frozen his features for several seconds when he'd first seen her after the resurrection.

And, just as she had dreaded, Angel's eyes shone with stark, painful despair. Guilt sliced deeply through her heart. When Angel averted his gaze, unable to look at her, it hurt even worse.

"Thanks for not making any of us say it," Angel murmured quietly.

Buffy bit the inside of her lip, but it didn't stop the tears from flowing. She supposed she couldn't really be surprised that he'd already guessed. "I'm so sorry," she lamented in the barest of whispers. "I never wanted to hurt you..."

Her breath hitched momentarily, then she continued, "...but I need him. Coming back was...hard. I wouldn't have made it through the past few months without him...Spike makes me feel alive."

Two quick nods of the head were Buffy's only indication that Angel had heard her. He remained motionless, lifeless, revealing nothing. Buffy closed her eyes, aching with regret that she had tarnished the one thing she and Angel had left between them.

Hope.

Somewhere deep inside, she knew that he would have come to accept anyone -- for her sake. Anyone *else*. Anyone but Spike.

Flushed with the storm of her emotions, Buffy wiped impatiently at the tear tracks on her cheeks and opened her eyes again.

The sight she beheld merely proved to her how deeply, how paradoxically, Angel and Spike mirrored each other even as they were a study in contrast. Like Angel, Spike was nearly motionless. But whereas Angel shielded his emotions from view, obscuring the depth of his pain with silent stoicism, Spike was utterly transparent. His eyes brimmed so intensely with joy and awe that they quivered. He pursed his lips slightly, as a hesitant, wondrous smile threatened to burst forth.

"Didn't know if I'd ever hear you say it," Spike murmured, his eyes burning into hers.

Buffy offered him a shaky albeit warm smile, even as she silently begged him with flaring eyes and rigid posture not to gloat. She knew Spike could be mature -- she'd caught him at it once or twice, usually when she needed to rely on him the most. She desperately hoped he'd come through for her now. It was no secret how much the two vampires loathed each other. The last thing Buffy needed was for Spike to shove this in Angel's face.

She saw Spike weigh the temptation. His eyes widened briefly at her painfully visible distress before gleaming with comprehension. For just a moment, he smirked and cast a devilish glance at Angel. Buffy's pulse quickened and she felt her stomach twist with dread. It was then that Spike shook his head gently and gave her a small, reassuring smile that swelled to fervent adoration by the time it reached his eyes.

"Right. So...Council'll be sending more assassins, then. How soon d'you figure?" Spike brought the discussion back to business in a gruff voice.

"Difficult to say," Giles confessed. Buffy saw him relax slightly, but he still looked as tightly strung as a bow. Poor Giles. He probably thought this was all so unseemly. "They might send a team right away, hoping to strike before we've organized ourselves. On the other hand, they might wait weeks or even months, until we let down our guard."

Buffy snorted. "That'll never happen. New Spring fashion for Slayers: keeping your guard up is in. Not likely to go out of style for, oh, possibly -- ever."

"They won't wait too long," Angel amended quietly, studiously avoiding Buffy's gaze and instead looking at Giles. "The longer they wait, the greater the risk."

"What do you mean?" Buffy asked warily. For the first time since she'd admitted how important Spike was to her, Angel turned his eyes to hers. A distressed wrinkle formed above his brow. He glanced briefly at Spike, then back to Buffy, and opened his mouth as if to speak, but thought better of it and merely frowned in silence.

"By now, there is a good chance the Council is afraid that Spike will try to turn you," Giles explained with an apologetic grimace.

Buffy gaped at her mentor in shock. For several moments, the soft hum of Giles' travel alarm clock was the only sound in the room. Buffy even wondered if her heart had stopped beating. She felt completely numb. Finally, still dazed, she slowly shook her head and murmured, "No. That's ridiculous..."

In a low voice, seething with barely restrained fury, Angel growled, "Spike, if you care for her even half as much as she seems to think you do, come clean with her NOW, you pathetic excuse for a--"

Instantly, Spike was in his face, glaring through demon-gold eyes and snarling, "Back. Off. This is none of your damned business."

"Both of you -- back off," Buffy snapped sternly, eyes narrowed. Her patience was wearing thin. She had a sullen, confused sister to help, a friend who had fallen so far she might never find her way back to herself, not to mention that Buffy still hadn't adjusted to the fact that Angel and Darla had produced a son. So help her, if Angel and Spike started with the male, proprietary posturing, she wouldn't be responsible for her actions.

"If you won't tell her the truth, you don't deserve her," Angel muttered, although he stepped away in deference to Buffy's demand.

A menacing growl rumbled in Spike's throat and he clenched his fists, but he, too, stood down. He closed his eyes and paused for several moments before shaking away his demon face. Turning stormy blue eyes to Buffy, he conceded softly, "I'd never do anything against your will. I wouldn't force you. But," here he grimaced with distaste, "the Poof is right." Spike squared his shoulders with determination and continued. "I love you, Buffy. There's no changing that. And there's no changing what I am. I'm a vampire. I'll want to love you forever. Sooner or later, I would have asked you. But you have my word, I won't change you unless it's your choice."

For several seconds, Buffy couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. Finally, she managed to choke out, "But you'd want to."

Eyes closed, Spike bowed his head slightly. "But I'd want to." He opened his eyes again and fixed her with a piercing gaze. "I let you die once. I don't think I could survive it again."

Buffy took a half-step back, deeply disturbed, albeit not as much as she would have expected to be. Spike was everything that she, as the Slayer, should be against. Everything about their relationship was wrong according to the beliefs that had been instilled in her. This was yet another jarring reminder of the fact that they violated every code of decency and morality she could think of.

And yet...she couldn't deny how he made her feel. True, some of it had been cheap and sordid and violent. Well, actually, a lot of it had. But deep within Spike, there was also a love so tender, so strong...and all the more precious because he'd only been willing to share it with her.

She had been so vulnerable these past few months. He could have betrayed her in a dozen ways, reveled in demonic triumph over her as he'd always bragged he would. Instead, he'd offered her comfort when no one else could. This aggravating demon had been her beacon of light in the dark that had been her life since the resurrection.

"Perhaps for the moment we should concentrate on preparing for the Council's next move," Giles interjected delicately. He paced to the center of the room, placing himself between Angel and Spike, as if to diffuse some of the tension by physically blocking them. Such a small, subtle gesture, but it nonetheless lifted Buffy's spirits. It was reassuringly familiar to be on the receiving end of Giles's protective instincts. With a nod toward Spike, he continued, "Whatever Spike's intentions in the matter, it's academic for the time being since the chip still prevents him from harming Buffy."

Buffy saw Spike's jaw clench. His eyes glimmered with sullen resentment, but he made no move to correct Giles on his assumption. Before she had time to talk herself out of it, Buffy found herself explaining, "No it doesn't. Something happened when I was resurrected. For some reason, the chip doesn't recognize me. So, Spike can hurt me -- even kill me. But he's chosen not to."

Giles stared at her in shock. "Buffy, why didn't you tell me?"

A deep, hollow pit ached in Buffy's chest as she answered, "Because you weren't here."

The look of guilt on her Watcher's face ripped right through her.

Angel moved toward the door. Poised to slip out of the room, he said in a voice thick with emotion, "It will be safest if we make the hotel our base camp. If we're split up, the Council will get to you by going after the weakest link. I know you're worried about Willow, but I think it would be best for Dawn to be with the rest of us....Spike," Angel's voice lowered and hitched slightly, "is welcome to stay here."

"Thank you, Angel," Buffy breathed, blinking back tears.

The dark vampire raised his eyes and sent her a look so charged with longing and regret it shook her to the core.

"I'm going to check on Willow," Angel murmured as he exited the room.

Almost too hastily, Giles followed on his heels. "I think I'll accompany him." Pausing, he looked to Buffy and explained, "I haven't really had the chance to speak with Willow, and...there are a few things I said last fall that I regret..."

With a weak smile, Buffy nodded. "I understand. Go check up on your other daughter. I'll be okay, dad."

Mild astonishment flashed in the Watcher's eyes, then slowly eased into genuine delight. Hesitantly, Giles walked back to her and opened his arms rather awkwardly. Grinning, Buffy stepped in and hugged him.

"I missed you," Giles murmured.

"Missed you, too," Buffy confessed. He gave her a final squeeze, then extricated himself from her arms and went to seek out Willow.

Buffy let out a long, shaky breath. She felt like her entire body was ready to collapse. Spike drew close, and she was about to comment on how that conversation hadn't been *quite* as bad as fighting a hell god, when he stilled her with a gentle finger against her lips.

He replaced his finger with his lips. His tongue slid against hers and explored her mouth with agonizingly slow, languid strokes. Buffy felt herself melting into him, wanting to bathe in his fire. Spike finally broke away, only to nibble his way down her jaw. As he nipped her earlobe, he whispered, "I."

A light flick of the tongue against her neck. "Love."

A hungry, open-mouthed kiss over her pulse point. "You."

Buffy closed her eyes and sank into his embrace. She'd made it through one of the most difficult things she'd ever had to do. It was so humbling, it made her tremble. For her sake, Angel and Spike had been...they'd actually been *civil* to each other. She understood how much that meant, and as grateful as she was to have Spike, a small part of her died inside to know just how cruelly that must stab at Angel's heart.

Why did love have to hurt?

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