*  *  *  *  *
 

Chapter One

Like anyone would be
I am flattered by your fascination with me
Like any hot-blooded woman
I have simply wanted an object to crave

But you
You're not allowed
You're uninvited
An unfortunate slight

Must be strangely exciting
To watch the stoic squirm
Must be somewhat heartening
To watch shepard meet shepard

But you
You're not allowed
You're uninvited
An unfortunate slight

Like any uncharted territory
I must seem greatly intruiging
You speak of my love like
You have experienced love like mine before

But this
Is not allowed
You're uninvited
An unfortunate slight

*  *  *  *  *

Buffy glowered out at the darkness once more as she heard Willow's
footsteps outside the dorm room.  He was there.  He was watching her.
He knew she knew he was there.  He knew she knew he was watching her.
She knew he knew she knew.  It could go on like that forever.  Hopefully
it wouldn't.

She looked up and plastered a smile on her face as her best friend
entered, pretending nothing was wrong.  Willow smiled at her, but her
smile seemed to carry a little weight.  And Buffy knew exactly what the
problem was, because she'd noticed it herself when she got home.

On Willow's pillow there lay a single rose.  Scratched in a careless
script on a note next to it were a few simple letters, nothing really
meaningful unless you knew what Buffy did.

"W."  Below that, scrawled in a carelessly drawn heart, were the letters
WtB.

To Willow.  Love, William the Bloody.  Currently known as Spike.

The rose itself had surprised Buffy, too.  Rather than a dead rose, a
black one, or even one the color of blood, as Buffy would have guessed,
the rose was a creamy shade of pale, with a hint of pink at its center,
creeping up through the rose and keeping it from being totally
paper-white.  Its stem was completely free of thorns, as smooth as silk.

Willow stared at the rose for a few moments.
"Um...what...where...how...when...why?"

Buffy sighed.  "A rose and a note, right on your bed, someone snuck in,
presumably while you were out and I was in the shower, judging by this-"
she held up a Polaroid of their dorm room, Buffy's Bronzing shoes
sitting one on the bed and one off, as she'd left them while she was
taking her shower.  "And because someone has a crush on you."

Willow finally met her friend's eyes.  "Who?"

They stared at each other for a few seconds, Buffy's heart aching with
guilt.  She should tell Will he had been following her.  Following her,
hell.  He was stalking her.  Even now, she could feel his presence
nagging at her mind, teasing her from a distance.  If anyone had a right
to know, Willow did.  But...something held her back.  Something kept her
silent.  Maybe it was fear.

Fear of what?  Buffy certainly had nothing to fear from Spike.  He could
talk big, but he couldn't do much to her besides insult her.  Big Bad
was at her mercy, and just had to hope she didn't decide she felt stakey
one day as she was passing by his place.

She looked away from her redhaired friend, feeling the girl's eyes
boring into her accusingly.  Willow knew.  At least, she knew who it was
who had sent her the rose.

Buffy swallowed, the tension in the room palpable.  She opened her mouth
slowly, but dove for the phone as it rang, putting her out of her
misery.  "Yeah!" she gasped, grateful for the distraction.

"What's going on, Buffy?"  The soft voice came from miles away, but
struck her as hard as if its owner had been in the room with her.  She
grabbed the bedside table, reeling as a thousand different emotions
welled up inside her.

"You..."

"I'm sorry, Buffy.  But...I sensed something inside of my childe.  I
need to know what's going on."

"An..."  She couldn't finish.  There was an edge to his voice that she
hadn't heard in years, that she'd hoped she would never hear again.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.  Finally, his voice
came again.  She could hear his cruel smile, could feel the razor edge
to the silence pressing against her.  "Nice to hear your voice again,
Slayer."

She tried to steady herself.  Something about the town had seemed off
tonight.  Finally, she realized what it was.  Right about, she'd wager,
at the same time as the vampire stalking her best friend did.

She drew in a long, shuddering breath.  Instantly, Willow's wordless
battle with her was forgotten.  A comforting hand was on her shoulder,
and Buffy caught a glimpse of said best friend's reassuring smile, a few
tears of her own being held in for the Slayer's sake.

"Slayer?"

"I can't..."

"Buf-"

She hung up on him without another word, and ignored the phone as it
continued to ring, yanking the answering machine's cord out of the wall,
then, after a moment's deliberation, the phone cord.  She let Willow hug
her for a long time as the sobs wracked her body.

*  *  *  *  *

The unmistakeable alarm went off in his head, and the vampire standing
outside the dorm swore quietly to himself as he ground what was left of
the cigarette under his foot.  He tore his eyes away from the Slayer and
Willow for a moment, narrowing his eyes and drawing himself up.  Say
what he might about his sire, the Great Poof had always had an
impeccable sense of timing.

Spike cast a furtive glance around, and saw, under the oasis a
streetlight provided against the pressing darkness, a recently abandoned
pay phone reciever.

A voice came from out in the darkness.  An unmistakeable, impossible
voice.  "Someone's been very baaaaad..."

Spike threw his gaze about, staring desparately through the shadows for
the woman the voice belonged to.  Already, he could feel her addictive
tug on his conciousness.  No.  Willow.  Think of Willow.  He shut his
eyes, trying to ignore the laughter he heard tinkling around him, a
silver thread forcing its way into his mind.

To no avail.  The cold, cruel laughter continued, and the human girl he
tried to imagine vanished.  The warm young woman he pictured himself
embracing disappeared, replaced by a cold, dead, evil creature.

Still, he fought the irresistable pull of that old drug.  Willow.
Coppery hair, plastered by sweat against his bare skin as they lay
together.

And inevitably, the copper was replaced by a deep brown, the color of
cocoa, of coffee.  The laughter continued on, intertwined with the
endless, singsong accusation.  "Someone's been very baaaaad..."

Then, there was silence.

Not for long, though, the presence remained.  Presences.  Two
unmistakeable presences.

The voice came once more, softer this time, barely more than a whisper.
"He's been very, very bad, hasn't he, Daddy?"

Spike tried not to flinch as he heard that voice again.  That drug of a
voice.  The voice he couldn't help but obey.  "He certainly has."

A finger, tracing itself along his cheekbone.  Not Dru's touch, but just
as addictive.  More so.  The hand circled lazily along his jawline, then
vanished.

"As rebellious as ever, I see," the second one's chuckle.  "Well, it
didn't save you way back when, I don't know why you think it'll save you
now.  But it's always made you that much more fun.  Made your screams
that much louder."

Spike never flinched as his sire lunged, never fought even as he felt
Angelus' fangs pierce his throat.

*  *  *  *  *

Willow stared outside at the darkness from the safety of her home.  She
and Buffy had remained awake all night, staring at the door with nothing
much in their eyes besides fear and fury.  But it seemed that a visit
hadn't been part of Angelus' plan yet.

So as soon as the first rays of daylight shot out through the trees, the
two of them had raced to Willow's house, the only place they could think
of.  Her parents had, as usual, been out of town, and after a few phone
calls, the entire gang had been gathered there within an hour, trying to
understand exactly what was happening.

They had spent the entire day poring over books, web sites, memories,
everything that might possibly explain why Angel had reverted to this
state.  And they had found nothing.

At last, Willow had suggested the only reasonable course-they had yet to
get in touch with Cordelia.  There was a good chance she'd know
something about what was going on.  Then there had been the question of
would she tell them what she knew-if she was even alive.

It was nearly three in the afternoon when Willow called her-at their
office and at home-and she got no answer.  About an hour later, Buffy
tried both numbers again.  Still nothing.  Each of the group tried once
an hour over the next few hours, and still, there was nothing.  It was
eight when they finally got an answer of sorts.

The phone was picked up, and a gruff voice rang out.  "LAPD."

Willow recoiled.  "Um...I'm trying to reach Cordelia Chase.  She lives
here?"

"Are you family?"

"No...I went to high school with her and I wanted to ask her something-"

There was a heavy sigh on the other end.  "I'm sorry.  I hate to be the
one to tell you this."

Willow felt as if she'd swallowed about a million sharp pointy rocks
just before she jumped into the deep end of a swimming pool.  She sank
down onto the floor, her eyes wide and her face ashen.  She weakly
mouthed the word "police" to the rest of the group, and they came to the
same conclusion as she had.

"Ma'am, we came by here after we recieved reports from one of the
neighbors that there was something dripping through his ceiling.  He
said that it looked like blood."

Her stomach constricted, and she wanted to throw up at the images
running through her head.  She gripped at a throw pillow next to her,
unaware that her nails were digging into it enough to split the seams.

"I'm sorry, Miss..."

"Rosenberg," she choked out.

"I'm sorry, Miss Rosenberg.  Your friend is dead."

She tried to speak, but couldn't.  She made a few choking noises, tears
starting to sting at the corners of her eyes.  With a sob, she threw the
phone away from her, drawing her knees up and pressing her face against
her legs like a child.  She rocked back and forth on her heels, drawing
back from the touches of her friends.

Finally, when she had regained control of herself, she looked up at
them.  Her voice was leaden, dull.  "Cordelia's dead."

There was a long silence, and a lot of gaping.  Willow looked out at the
gathering darkness, and felt only an awful emptiness.  Finally, Buffy
spoke.

"We've got to get down there.  We don't know that he didn't force his
blood into her system, and if he did-"

"He would have taken her body with him if he'd vamped her," Willow heard
herself say.  She felt as though she were watching from a distance, from
behind a two-way mirror.  Surveying over all with a sage, enigmatic
smile, a Sphinx, a Mona Lisa.  Omniscient as the gods of old, but silent
as nightfall.

There was a long, heavy silence.  After a few moments, Xander tried to
speak, making a few dull, strangled noises before standing and hurrying
off.  Anya followed, stricken.

"I...I'll be upstairs for a few minutes," said Willow, rising slowly and
lifting her feet, which felt as though they were made of lead.  She
passed by the guest bedroom on her way to her own, and caught a glimpse
of Xander and Anya.

Xander was sitting on the floor by the bed, in Anya's arms.  She was
silent, her eyes closed, and she was stroking his hair gently as he
sobbed into the hollow where her neck joined her shoulders.  She was
rocking back and forth slowly, like a mother trying to soothe her baby.
It did not matter to her that Cordelia had been Xander's girlfriend, it
did not matter that there had been no love lost between Anya and the
other woman, all that mattered was that Xander was hurting.  A lot.

Willow choked back a sob at that knowledge.  She raced into her own
bedroom and threw herself onto her bed, curling up with a pillow and
realizing that the tears she cried were not for Cordelia, not for Xander
or Anya or Buffy, not even for Angel and his descension back into these
depths of his own madness, not even for Spike, whom Angel would surely
kill if he no longer served a use.

The tears were for herself.

She had seen true love in that guest room-true love that gave and gave
from a bottomless well and asked for nothing-absolutely nothing-in
return.  Love that embraced the other loves that came before it, all for
the sake of its own object.  Yes, Anya had known Cordy briefly.  Yes,
she'd even granted Cordy's own wish.  But she'd never really cared that
much for the woman.  Cordy had been just another human.

But Xander had loved her, and for Anya, that was enough.  Anya could
love the woman simply because Xander loved her.  It didn't matter if
Xander gave her a gift or had sex with her or even said "thanks for
being there", because she loved him so deeply that she didn't need any
kind of response.  It wasn't even that the love was its own reward, for
love needed no reward.

And now, in the midst of all her pain and anger and fear, Willow felt
guilt.  Horrible guilt that stabbed at her like Buffy had shoved one of
her many stakes right through her heart.  Because she felt jealousy of
Anya and Xander.  Of Buffy and Riley.  She wanted that.  She'd thought
she'd had that, for a short while.  A painfully, brutally short while.

So the jealousy burned inside of her, and the guilt began to consume the
jealousy, and the anger at herself consumed the guilt, and anger at
Angel consumed anger at herself, and jealousy of Buffy and Angel
consumed anger at Angel.  And she continued on this vicious circle,
spiralling downwards into her own personal Hell.
 

Chapter Two

A tapping sound awoke her before she realized she'd been sleeping.
Someone had turned the lights in her room off.  Probably Buffy or Giles.

The tapping continued.  Willow glanced over, and realized someone had
been tapping on her windows.  The clouds of sleep cleared as quickly as
though the sun had fried the fog away.

Her eyes went wide, and she grabbed the stake she held.  Yes, the first
thing the group had done was to perform the invitation-revoking spell as
soon as they had all gathered here, but that didn't mean a vamp couldn't
grab her as soon as she opened the window and leaned out.

She steeled herself, stood as far back as possible, and threw the
windows open.

Her senses were momentarily assailed by a loud clap of thunder which
seemed to come from right overhead.  It rang on for a long time,
reverberating its threats to all who could hear.

A gust of wind danced its way into her oasis of stillness, toying with
her curtains and turning them from shrouds to banners.  It carried with
it dozens, hundreds, of rose petals.  Pale, creamy rose petals, blushing
at their edges with a pinkish maroon that crept along them like blood
pumped beneath pale skin.

And, just as suddenly, the air was completely still.  Utterly,
dangerously, comfortingly still.  Heavy with a threat, but wrapping
itself irresistably around her, like a cloak or a warm blanket.

The stillness hung for a few moments, and, slowly, the sweet scent of
the roses forced its way through the cracks in the still, heavy air,
tentatively tempting her down, as she sank to her knees.  The stake
clattered to the ground, forgotten, and she picked up a handful of the
rose petals.  One by one, she let them slip through her fingertips,
flutter to the ground, as her tired ears percieved dimly the hiss in the
distance of rain, striking the parched land with a vivacious brutality
as the thunder continued its song and the lightning began its vicious
dance.

Without even needing to look up, she whispered the words.

"Come in."

*  *  *  *  *

He had been hunting something under the light of a full moon, when the
storm clouds had begun to gather.  He had sensed the oncoming downpour,
and wisely returned to his car, cursing all the way.

Once there, though, Angelus smiled to himself.  It had been far too long
since he'd had a nice little romp, free from the simpering trappings of
humanity.

And it had been far too long since he'd gotten together with his old
kith.  Little Spikey and the Princess.  Gone back to their old stomping
grounds.  Good old Sunnyhell.

This storm was irritating.  Going out in it would ruin his
mostly-leather wardrobe.  His hair.  It was almost as irritating as the
Slayer and her little sidekicks.

Almost as irritating as Cordelia had been.

Before he'd killed her, of course.  Before he'd taken her again and
again while he was breaking every single bone in her delicate little
body.  While he was gouging marks into her back for every scream she
gave, of pain and even pleasure.  Before her blood had soaked everything
in her apartment.  Before she had given one last shuddering breath and
closed her eyes, to be reuinited with her sweet Doyle.

Her 'roommate' hadn't posed much of a threat.  Angelus had learned more
than a little magic in his time, enough to keep a mere ghost at bay.
The thing had been restrained to a corner, thumping and trying to do
anything it its own limited power to stop this carnage.  Angelus had
left it there, just for the hell of it.

He'd called Drusilla back.  She'd heard his siren song coming down to
her in the moonlight, and knew that everything would be like it was
before.  She was as crazy as any of a dozen loons, but damn if she
wasn't a great lay.

Finally, the desire to hunt grew too strong.  Oblivious to the storm,
Angelus threw the door of the car open and raced out, sensing the
maddening proximity of his prey.  The threat of a ruined wardrobe seemed
smaller now in comparison to the need to kill, to feed, to assert once
more that Sunnydale was his territory once again by marking its ground
with its own blood.

There was still, he reflected almost unconciously, this little problem
of the Slayer's new boyfriend.  Well, not him exactly (though he'd be a
lot of fun to kill later), so much as all his little friends.  They'd
rendered Spike useless, and he'd have to keep them from getting to
anyone else.

Spike, they could do without in the long run.  Now that she had her
Daddy back, Drusilla couldn't honestly have cared less about Spike.  And
the fact was, the kid was just too rebellious for his own good.  In the
past, a little of Angelus' style of discipline would keep him in line,
if unwillingly.  But now that his only source of food was his own kind?
It was just too easy for him to rebel against the mental and emotional
bindings his sire held over him.  Especially with the ties that he'd
begun to form with Summers and her friends.

For instance, the little hacker-cum-witch.  Even in his snivelling
souled form, Angelus had felt her draw, a veritable loadstone of beauty
and mystery, of innocence that always made their deaths so much more
fun.  Those glimpses he had caught of her alternate-universe
doppelganger had tempted him sorely.  He was incredibly jealous, now, of
whoever it had been who turned her in that world.  She had probably been
a virgin then, and they were always so much fun.  Virgin blood was
always so much more...enticing.

A slow grin crossed his face as he caught sight of his prey, a creature
maddened by the storm and fear, racing for its pitiful life as fast as
its weak legs would carry it.  He took his time in catching up to it,
savoring the fear that rolled off of the creature in waves.

He knew very well that Spike had a thing for Willow.  He had been
planning to return to Sunnydale from LA just to beat it out of him, make
sure his childe never touched her.  Never hurt her.

That had been while he was trapped as Angel, of course.  Then, that
stupid actress had come along.  Wanted her taste of immortality.  Just
as a publicity stunt.  A career move.  Probably a smart one.  Unless she
was ever required to work with mirrors.  Or in churches.  Or in broad
daylight.

But it wasn't his problem that the stupid twit had wanted to become a
vamp.  So he'd been more than happy to do it for her.  Well, they'd
never quite gotten to the part where she came back from the dead. That
was all he needed, one more childe to deal with.  But killing her had
been so much fun.

And then, he was free.

He'd known that his time as Angelus would be short, so he'd stolen the
drugs until he could find some kind of a spell to keep things this way.
The spell in question wasn't too hard to find.  Casting it had been a
bit harder, but still a simple matter.  It had required innocent blood,
and, unfortunately, the actress hadn't qualified as innocent in a long
time.

But he'd done it.  And that was what mattered.

So he and Dru had come back to Sunnydale for Spike.  Only to find him
completely harmless.  A pathetic mockery of a real vampire.  He was
useless now.

And he wasn't even interested in them anymore.

The vampire was closing in on his quarry.  He was mad with bloodlust,
and an almost orgasmic thrill went through him as he reached the stupid
being, dug his fangs into its neck, and the warm blood spilled into his
mouth.  He tasted something in the creature-almost as though it were a
hybrid of human and animal.  Suddenly, he remembered the full moon, and
smiled, the blood dribbling down his chin as he did so.

Of course, Angelus still held great psychological power over Spike.  But
no longer did the younger seem interested in the activities of
Sunnydale's other vampires.  He obeyed Angelus only because he had to,
no longer because he wanted to.  It wasn't even that he was jealous of
the fact that, in Drusilla's mind (or the twisted remnants thereof), he
would always be second to Daddy, for he wasn't even interested in the
woman anymore.

It was the witch who haunted him now.  It was she that occupied the
place Drusilla had formerly possessed in his thoughts, his dreams, his
fantasies.  Little Willow Rosenberg, the Slayer's main cheerleader.  The
irony of it was disgustingly delicious.

It would be so much fun to kill her.  He would save her for last when he
struck.  Yes.  After he'd killed Anya, Xander, and Giles, he'd chain
Spike and Buffy to a wall and make them watch as he killed Willow.  As
he tortured her, raped her, and slowly drained her of life.  Then, as
she was breathing her last, he'd shove a stake through Spike's heart.
If he timed it right, the last thing each of them saw was the other's
death.  Just thinking about it gave him a thrill.

All this crossed Angelus' mind as he ripped out the heart of a wolf with
a cruel laugh, and watched as the dead animal slowly melted from the
shape of a wild dog to the mangled body of a young man named Daniel
Osbourn.

"Nice to see you again, Oz," he smiled, discarding the body and turning
away, the rain already washing the blood into the ground.
 

Chapter Three

"Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it;
Making it momentany as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
That in a spleen unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say, 'Behold!',
The jaws of darkness do devour it up;
So quick bright things come to confusion."

-William Shakespeare, 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'

*  *  *  *  *

He stepped silently into her room as the wind picked up again, bringing
with it the cool scent of a rainstorm.  Lightning flashed and thunder
crashed, and the smell of rain mingled with the sharp tang of ozone.

The breeze riffled the curtains again, and the scent of roses became
less heady, more light, hopeful.  Willow held a single petal in her
fingers, staring at it as though transfixed.  Afraid to look up, because
she knew she wouldn't be able to look away.

The wind began to gust in earnest, as another crash of thunder came from
overhead.  She sensed him kneeling down beside her, running a hand
through her hair, toying with the coppery locks which had been robbed of
their color by nightfall.  Maybe it was better that way.  Maybe it was
better if neither could see the other's true form, true colors.  Because
then she wouldn't have to be held captive by his icy blue eyes.  He
wouldn't be caught in the veridean gossamer web of her hair.

Night offered a cheapened version of life, she thought bitterly, the
petal slipping from her fingers as the rain silently crep into her room
with the wind, staining her mother's precious floors and doubtlessly
ruining countless papers.  A version robbed of all truth.  What happens
in the night is a mere shadow of the light.

Lightning illuminated everything for a moment, along with the cannon of
thunder.  Willow remained motionless, though the noise and bright flash
hand sent her pulse racing.

Or perhaps her pulse had already been racing.  It didn't really matter,
she reflected idly.

She felt his fingers alight on her throat, felt his cool touch on her
warm skin.  He could feel her pulse, feel her fear and her anger and her
jealousy and her mad desire.

Then, as softly as it had landed there, the butterfly touch of his
figners was gone, replaced by a soft, quick kiss.  The rain would reach
their haven between the window and the bed soon, she thought idly as the
wind whipped at her hair relentlessly, as it swirled the rose petals
around the two of them in a cyclone of fear and fury, of dementia and
desire.

Would love be real in the washed-out tones of night?  Would lust be real
in the surrounding storm?

She looked at him, finally, and saw in his eyes the answer to a question
neither knew she would ask.  Spike stroked her cheekbone slowly, gently,
staring at her as if transfixed.  She could tell that she was staring
back in the same way, even as she closed her eyes.

She heard the thunder crash again, saw a glow against the insides of her
eyes of lightning, and felt the rain strike them in earnest, pouring
down on the two in their embrace.  She felt him kissing her softly, but
with a building intensity that echoed that of the storm.  His arms were
wrapped tightly around her, one softly stroking her hair and one
gripping at her waist, as though afraid that if he let her go for even
the briefest of moments the storm would sweep her away, she would vanish
into a rose-scented nothingness.  Unconciously, she clung to him with
the same gentle ferocity as the storm swept around them.

The storm gathered as did their kiss, and when the thunder snarled
again, both pairs of eyes flew open.  The winds surged around them, and
she felt a part of her reaching out and grasping at unseen strands of
power in the room as the two lovers continued their fervent forbidden
embrace.  Unaware that she had tempered some unseen magick within, the
pair rose slowly into the air, too distracted by each other's passions
to notice their sudden disregard for the laws of gravity.

Time seemed to slow for both of them as the storm raged.  The only
sound, it seemed, was the beating of a single living heart.

*  *  *  *  *

As all storms do, this storm lifted at last, fading to a simple rain
shower.  The rose petals fluttered back to the floor slowly, and the
pair of lovers drifted back to earth.  Neither noticed, for they were
sleeping in each other's arms, each too weary to fear the morning, and
each too happy to be weary.

Her eyelids fluttered open a few hours later, to find the skies clear
again.  The full moon was about three hours from setting, she noted
idly, staring out at the stars.

His hands were tracing over her body slowly.  There was nothing sexual
about his touch now, none of the intensity that had marked their
lovemaking earlier.  This was simply a soft, gentle stroking of her
arms, her legs, her stomach, her hair, her breasts, as though he were
trying to commit her to memory.

Finally, he leaned in close to her and kissed first the top of her head,
then her forehead, and finally, her lips.  For what felt like the first
time in ages, she smiled.

"Something funny, love?"  Spike's voice was soft, almost reverent, but
still retaining that dangerous edge.  It caressed her mind like his
hands did her body.

"Just...thinking," she answered, her voice soft as well.  "About the
moonlight."

He gave a playful groan.  "You're not turning into Dru, are you, love?"

She smiled as he pulled her tighter, feeling the silky smooth of his
skin against hers.  "Not that I'm aware of...but...I was thinking..."
Willow trailed off, as though she were afraid that to speak her thoughts
would allow him a closer view of her soul, one that she wasn't sure she
wanted him to have.

He kissed her on her forehead again.  "What?"

"I was afraid before...afraid that...nighttime would make it less real.
Because there's no color in the dark, no reality, only the shadow of
what is real."

She could feel him frown.  "That because it was dark, it wouldn't be
real?"

She nodded.  "Silly, huh?"

He said nothing, but held her tightly for a few moments before putting
his hand over her eyes.  "Close your eyes."

She gave him a questioning look, but complied.  Strangely, she felt no
panic, as she had earlier that evening, at closing them.  She had
someone, now to keep her from falling down into despair, into the black
hole that was her sorrow and fear.  She'd been drowning without
realizing it, and Goddess, God, whatever supreme being it was that
looked down on earth, had tossed her a life preserver.

^And *what* a life preserver,^ she reflected giddily, picturing his body
in her mind.

She was pulled from her reverie when his cool hands fell upon her again,
and he kissed her softly on her eyelids.  "All right, love.  Open your
eyes."

She complied, and found her room bathed in light.  He had turned on
every lamp, even lit a candle or two.  She stared around in wonder, and
then looked back at him, once again struck down by fear.  What did he
mean by it?

Spike seemed to see the doubt in her eyes, and placed a reassuring kiss
on her hair.  "I'm still here, aren't I?  Didn't fade away with the
light?"

Willow nodded, helplessly, and felt an extraordinary peaceful happiness
come over her.  It seemed that right now, nothing else mattered, if it
was even real.  Right now, in this single moment, everyone important to
her was in this house, safe from all the evils of the world.  Even Cordy
was safe and happy where she was, eternally peaceful and beautiful.  She
wanted to weep with the wonderful knowledge she had at this perfect
moment.

She wasn't even aware that she was crying until he kissed one of her
tears.  He didn't say anything, seemed to understand that it wasn't
fear, or rage, or self-loathing that caused these tears, but joy, and
peace, and hope.

Reaching out with a part of her that had awakened that night, she closed
the windows, and drew the curtains across them without ever lifting a
hand.

*  *  *  *  *

Buffy awoke that morning on Willow's couch, a blanket pulled over her
clumsily, doubtlessly by Giles, who lay on the floor a few feet away
from her, curled up in a fetal position.  She grimaced at the sunlight
pouring in where a few hours ago there had been rain and lightning.

It took her a few moments to realize what had awoken her-a knock on the
door.  That knowledge was all she needed to fully clear away the
mustiness of sleep from her body, and jerk her to her feet, a grave
resignation settling over her as she grabbed the wooden stake up from
the floor and stuffed it in her pocket.  Slowly, cautiously, she
approached the front door.

"Who's there?"  Her voice was rusty with sleep, but sure of itself
nonetheless.

"Sunnydale Police.  We need to see Miss Willow Rosenberg."

"She's asleep right now.  Can I help you?" she asked, pulling the door
open.

The officer, a young man, one who'd probably graduated only shortly
before she came to Sunnydale, studied her nervously.  "Buffy Summers?"

She narrowed her eyes, suspicion back in full swing.  "Yeah, why?"

"I suppose you could do this just as well...you were next on the list of
contacts anyway, supposing Miss Rosenberg wasn't home-"

"What is it?" she asked bluntly.  She didn't have the time for yet
another of Sunnydale's finest bumbling along until he finally got to the
point.

"We found a body last night, the victim of-of a drug gang."

She rolled her eyes at the police force's code name for vampire attack.
"And you need me to identify it."

He nodded.  "Y-yes, that's right.  I'm sorry, it might be difficult for
you-"

She interrupted him once again.  "Who do they think it is?"

He seemed startled, and glanced uneasily down at his clipboard.  "A...a
Daniel Osbourn."

That silenced her for a moment, and she swallowed hard, raising a hand
to her forehead.  "Oz," she whispered, more to herself than anyone
present.  "Oz..."

The cop looked uncomfortable.  "Hopefully, this shouldn't take too long,
Miss Summers...if you'll just come with me-"

She nodded abruptly, reining in the conflicting emotions within her.
"Hang on a sec.  I just have to leave Will a note for when she wakes
up."

Racing inside without waiting for an answer, she shook Giles awake.
"Giles...Giles, for God's sake-"

Slowly, the former Watcher awoke, his eyes blurry and unfocused.
"Buffy?  You're awake?  What time is it-"

"Yes.  Morning.  The cops want me to identify-" she choked on the words,
not ready to tell them yet.  Chances were good that the body was Oz's,
but some little shred of hope begged her to wait.  "To identify a
body...they think it might be...someone I went to school with.  A friend
of Will's."  An 'orgasm friend', in fact.  "I shouldn't be too long.
You can take the couch, if you need some more sleep.  I don't think you
need to wake anyone else up yet."

With that, she whirled and began to hurry out.  Before she'd gone more
than a few steps, however, she stopped.

"Giles?"

"Yes, Buffy?"

She swallowed.  "I...I think it might be time for us to bring Riley and
a few of his guys into this."

That woke him up fully.  "The Initiative?  Buffy, are you sure-"

"No," she said.  "No, I'm not sure.  But...right now, the most important
thing is to get Ang-" she stumbled over the vampire's name, and was sure
that an obvious expression of pain had crossed her face.  "To get
Angelus under control."

Giles looked as though he were going to protest, but instead sighed.
"All right.  I'll-I'll try to get hold of Riley."

She nodded.  "Thanks, Giles.  Bye."

And with that, she was gone.

It wasn't until they were well on the way to the morgue that she
realized she'd felt a presence within Willow's home that definitely
shouldn't have been there.  One she'd just grown accustomed to having
around after so long, to the point where it wasn't a shock to sense it
nearby anymore.

Spike had been in the house with them.  And, she realized with a
mounting sense of dread, she had a pretty good idea of exactly where he
was-and who he was with.

*  *  *  *  *

She was awake, he realized idly.  And she knew he was aware of it.  But
for the moment, both of them was more than content to just lie there in
each other's arms, gripping just tightly enough to reassure themselves
that neither was going anywhere.

The sunlight was beating against the windows, against the curtains she'd
drawn tight, but to no avail, he was safe here.

Strange, that he would consider himself safe with this tiny, frail
specimen of a human being.  She was small, she was skinny, she was
emotinally fragile, quiet, timid, the list went on.  But there was much
more to her, a side that even Buffy, possibly the best friend she'd ever
had, and Xander, whom she'd known since childhood, and even the
wolf-damn his semi-lupine blood-had only caught the briefest glimpses
of.  A side that it seemed only he could be certain of.

A side that meant she could be a greater foe than anyone would imagine,
or a more powerful ally than anyone would imagine.  A side that was
fiery, passionate, that was willing to submit but loved to dominate, a
side that could coax out of anyone on earth ear-splitting screams of
ecstasy or whispered pleas for mercy.

Yes, he felt safe with her.

*  *  *  *  *

He knew she was awake, she thought, her eyes remaining closed, her
breathing remaining steady.  But she would stay like this a little
longer.  She felt his arms wrapped around her, toying with her hair,
tracing every contour of her body, as though reassuring himself that she
were real, that she wasn't going anywhere.

She wasn't afraid, now, that Buffy or one of the others would find them
here.  That they would be separated, torn apart.  Those fears had
vanished sometime during the night, sometime during their lovemaking.
She felt safe here, with him.

Strange, that.  She felt safe with *Spike*?  It wasn't just the implant,
she knew that.  It was what she knew, what she'd felt, what she'd seen
of him that no one else had.  He would never hurt her-and he would
protect her as well.

Oh, she could fight when pressed.  She had power, too.  And it was
certainly illogical to assume that someone who had tried to kill her on
multiple past occaisions would protect her.

But she felt safer now.  Somehow, she felt *secure* right now.  Because
of those words he had whispered to her when she was asleep, the words
she'd heard even through her dreams, even in his hushed voice.

"I love you."

Yes, she felt safe with him.
 

Chapter Four

What ravages of spirit
Conjured this temptuous rage
Created you a monster
Broken by the rules of love
And fate has led you through it
You do what you have to do
And fate has led you through it
You do what you have to do

And I have the sense to recognize
That I don't know how to let you go

*  *  *  *  *

Buffy paced slowly out of the morgue, her step tired.  She felt weary,
frightened, angry, everything that she should feel and more.  Everything
she could never let anyone see her feel.

It was Oz.  She didn't want to break it to Willow and the gang.  And she
didn't want to have to show any of them her fear.

She didn't want them to see her.

At that moment, Buffy was a lot of things.  But most of all, she was
nothing.  She felt complete emptiness.  A void.  And at that moment,
though it tore her apart to know it, she knew what it was that she had
to do.

She hurried home, a determined look on her face.

*  *  *  *  *

It was three hours later when she finally returned to Willow's.  She had
a bag ready, and only needed to wait the anxious hours until sunset.

Riley was already there.  When she walked in, he and Giles were sitting
there in an umcomfortable silence, and she assumed that her ex-Watcher
still hadn't told him about Angel.  Silently, she thanked him for that.
She sat down to their expectant stares, and, at last, spoke.

"Giles, I need to talk to you for a second.  Um...come on, out in the
kitchen."

Giles' frown deepened, and he followed her.  When they were safely out
of range of Riley, he spoke in a hushed tone.  "Buffy, what's wrong?
You're acting-"

"It was Oz," she blurted out.  "The body they wanted me to identify."

Giles stopped his frenetic pacing and stared at her.  "Oz?"

She nodded, expressionless.  "Oz."

"Oh, God," he said, sinking down onto the floor.  "First Cordelia, now
Oz...Buffy, this can't go on."

"Tell me something I don't know," she responded.  Her voice was sharp,
not malicious, but merely purposeful.  "It's going to stop.  I swear
it.  This time, it stops for good."

"Buffy-"

"No," she said.  She looked away, not meeting his eyes.  "Giles...every
single day, I think about him.  I have tried, and tried, and tried again
and again to get rid of him.  To get him out of my thoughts, out of my
life, out of my heart.  But I can't."

She felt the tears slipping down her cheeks.  "I can't, Giles.  And I
think there's a reason for it.  He will be a vampire forever.  Sometimes
he has a soul and sometimes he doesn't, but he's not just gonna wake up
human one day, and I have to accept that and deal with it."  She tried
to swallow the lump in her throat.  "I just wish I could have understood
that before."

Giles now wore an expression of unadulterated confusion.  "Buffy, what
are you-"

She cut him off.  "Giles, I'm going to stop him.  For once, for all, and
for good, I'm going to stop him."

*  *  *  *  *

"He's gone, gone, gone," Drusilla repeated mournfully.  "He's gone to
the fire that calls to him and sings to him louder than the stars do,
louder than the darkness does."

"We'll find him," another of the vamps nearby said.  "And we'll dust
him, like we should have in the first place."

"Let the fire that he's stepped into lead him to ash!"  A smile broke
over Dru's face, and a giggle escaped her.  "Ashes and fire, fire and
ashes," she sang softly.

"You won't," Angelus growled.  "You won't stake him, you won't torture
him, you won't even smack him around a little.  You'll just bring him
the hell back here and let me deal with him."

"But if the Slayer's protecting him-"

"I.  Don't.  Care.  I don't care how many of you are sacrificed as long
as he and the witch are brought back here.  I want them here.  Is that
clear?"

The other vampire looked furious, but nodded.  "That's clear."

"Good."  Angelus turned back to Drusilla, who had her lower lip stuck
out petulantly.  "Don't worry, Princess," he said, picking her up and
carrying her toward their bedchambers, "we'll deal with him.  We'll have
*lots* of fun with him."

"And then kill him?"

"And then kill him."

"And the fire?"

"We'll put the fire out, baby, don't you worry."

*  *  *  *  *

Riley stared into his girlfriend's cool eyes.  As hard as he searched,
he could find nothing in them, no signs of fear, of anger, of pain, of
anything except hard, cold determination.

She wasn't the Buffy he had fallen for, any of the multitude of
different personalities he had known.  She wasn't the slightly
out-there, ditsy freshman he had first known who allowed him occaisional
glimpses of something much deeper, much more dangerous and even
frightening.  Neither was she the Slayer he'd known-a regular action
hero, kicking evil's ass with a witty quip and that certain panache,
like a female, supernatural James Bond.  Nor was she the unbelievably
tragic girl he had seen only once or twice, a corageous, scared young
woman who had seen far too much in her short years.

She was someone totally different.  Someone who had resigned herself to
her duty, someone who could no longer spare any emotion, because to do
so would drive her insane and strip away all of her defenses, until she
was nothing more than a trembling, tearful shell of herself.  Someone
who had a job to do.  One that no one on earth could envy, and one that
no one could help her do.

And Riley wasn't entirely sure this was a side of Buffy he liked.

*  *  *  *  *

Anya held Xander gently, letting him lay there, silent and sad.  She
never said a word, not when her stomach began to complain of the fact
that it had had precious little to eat in the past day, not when the
shooting pains of cramps had begun to shoot up and down her legs, not
when her bladder had whined about the four cups of coffee she'd had last
night while going through volume after dusty volume of vampire lore and
gypsy legend.

Finally, Xander spoke.  "A...Anya?"

"Xander?"

"I...nothing."  She said nothing, but felt his arms tighten almost
imperceptibly about her, and returned the gesture.

After a few more moments, Xander spoke again.  "Um...should we go check
on Will and Buffy and everyone?"

She nodded silently, and tried not to flinch as she stood, and said
stomach, legs, and bladder began to bitch even louder.  Xander's hand
lingered in hers for a moment, then he hurried out, and she followed
after him quietly.

And ran straight into him as he stopped, dumbstruck, staring into the
sight that they found in Willow's bedroom.

Willow's clothes scattered on the floor at the foot of her bed.  Along
with someone else's.  Rose petals scattered about.  The lingering scent
of ozone, roses, and rain.

Oh, and of crazy animalistic sex.

Willow herself in bed.  Naked.  With Spike.  Naked, too.  A few
strategically placed sheets and rose petals.

Before he could say anything, Anya grabbed Xander, clapped a hand over
his mouth, and pulled him downstairs, closing the door as softly as she
could.

They burst into the living room, interrupting a Riley-Buffy chat.  A
very intense one, judging by the proverbial electricity in the air.
Apparently, she was finally explaining the situation to him.  The
*entire* situation.

Buffy stared at them, and Anya saw that she looked...strange.  Set.
Determined.  But...nothing else.

Finally, Riley broke the silence.  "Uh...yeah?"

Xander seemed to be having a bit of difficulty with the concept of
speech, but finally managed to force out a few words.
"Will...bedroom...Spike..."

Buffy leapt to her feet.  "What did he do to her?"

Xander's eyes were enormous.  "It's horrible.  Oh, God, Buffy, oh God,
you've gotta-"

The Slayer turned to Anya.  "Anya?"

"Willow and Spike had sex."

There was a Buffy-colored blur, and then it was just her, Xander, and
Riley.

"*What*?"

And a very confused Giles.

*  *  *  *  *

Willow suddenly found herself being yanked out of Spike's arms, and
cried out in protest.  She opened her eyes, and saw Buffy leaning over
her with a detached expression on her face.

"Are you okay, Will?  Did he hurt you?"

There was an enraged cry from the bed.  "Hurt her?  First off, in case
you'd forgotten, I can't, and second off, I wouldn't."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Buffy demanded, wheeling around and
staring him in the face.  "I want you gone.  Now.  I don't care about
the fucking implant, you're putting us all in danger by being here.  And
it looks like you've done enough damage already."

"Look, you stupid chit, it's noon out there.  If I go out there I'm
dust.  And if, by some miracle, the sun doesn't get me, the Poof will."

"I.  Don't.  Care.  I want you gone.  Now."

"Buffy, will you *stop* this?"  Willow dashed between her best friend
and her lover.  "What is wrong with you?  He hasn't hurt me at all!
He's been wonderful!"

"Yeah, I can tell," Buffy sneered.  "Since when do you care what the
hell happens to him, Will?"

"Buffy, we don't have time for this-"

"You know, I think we should, Will.  I think I can probably squeeze this
in on my schedule.  Because while you were having your fun with Spike
last night, a particular angel-faced vampire was ripping out the throat
of a certain werewolf."

Willow's face went ashen.  "What?"

It didn't escape Buffy's gaze how her old adversary's arms went up
around Willow, encircling her gently, barely even brushing her skin.
Nor did it escape her gaze that Willow seemed to unconsciously lean into
Spike's protective embrace.  Buffy had never seen Willow and Oz act like
that-and the irony of the situation was sickening.

Buffy let her voice return to its normal level.  "I...the police came by
this morning and had me ID a body they found last night.
Angel-*Angelus*-killed Oz."

"Bloody fine way for you to tell her, Slayer," Spike hissed.  "Some kind
of revenge?  It's hurting her a lot more than me."

Buffy stared at the two of them for a moment.  "I...I'll be downstairs.
Will, why don't you come with me-"

But Willow shied away from her friend's hand, drawing back against
Spike.  Buffy yanked her hand back as though stung.  "Okay, then.
Um...we need to talk."  She looked at Spike.  "All of us.  I have a
plan."

*  *  *  *  *

About twenty minutes later, the entire motley gang had assembled in the
living room.  Xander and Anya sat together, Xander's head resting on
Anya's shoulder, his arm wrapped around her waist.  Giles and Riley sat
in chairs, and Spike and Willow sat on the floor, legs crossed under
them, the only testament to their actions the night before lying in the
fact that each clutched the other's hand tightly.  Buffy stood, pacing
around, a tattered book in her hands.

Finally, she stopped.  "All right.  I found this book in the back of the
magic shop.  It belonged to Jenny, and it has a spell in it that will
restore Angel's soul to him once and for all-and much more completely
than it ever has in the past."

Every gaze stared blankly at her.  Xander sighed.  "Buffy, it's been a
long night.  Enough cryptic, just tell me what it does.  I probably
won't follow you otherwise."

Buffy sighed.  "It will make Angel human again."

This was met with silence.  Dead silence-more literally for certain of
the present company than for others.

Finally, Spike voiced what they were all thinking.  "But?"

The Slayer shot him a gaze that warned him to watch his step, but
Willow, encouraged by a squeeze on her hand by the vampire, spoke up as
well, her voice soft.  "He's right, Buffy.  Every spell that's come from
Jenny's group so far has had a pretty icky catch."

Buffy pursed her lips.  "Fine.  You're both right.  There is a catch.  A
couple of catches, in fact.  First, in the casting of the spell. It
requires the blood of two other vampires-two lovers.  One must love him
emotionally, the other must have loved him physically."

There was a heavy silence, and every eye went to the vampire beside
Willow.  Finally, he spoke.  "Dru is the emotional lover, and I'm the
physical one."

Buffy sighed.  "That was the original plan.  The spell requires that the
other two vampires-"

"That they be dusted," Spike finished for her flatly.  "Sacrificed.
Drained of all life.  Dead."

Buffy said nothing, did nothing.  That was confirmation enough.
Finally, Giles cleared his throat.  "What about the other catch, Buffy?"

She gritted her teeth.  "It's a spell to save his soul.  The spell
requires that a mortal kill him within an hour."

"Will he...un-die?"  Willow posed the question.

"No.  Just die."  Another heavy sigh.  "The plus side of things is
this-his soul will be saved.  And we'll never have to go through this
again."

"At what cost?" Anya asked, staring openly at Willow and Spike.

Buffy shot a glare at her.  "You know what cost.  Maybe there's a way we
can do it without killing Spike.  Or maybe we can find someone else."

"Not in Sunnyhell," Spike growled.  "Not now.  It's me or nothing,
Slayer."

No one missed the flinch that Willow gave, the accusing, betrayed stare
that crossed her face.  Just as quickly, she pushed it away, and
discreetly pulled her hand out of Spike's.
 

Chapter Five

Every moment marked
With apparitions of your soul
I'm ever swiftly moving
Trying to escape this desire
The yearning to be near you
I do what I have to do
The yearning to be near you
I do what I have to do

But I have the sense to recognize
That I don't know how to let you go

*  *  *  *  *

He couldn't meet her eyes.  At that moment, Spike would rather have
faced a room full of Buffys, of Angeluses (Angeli?), and of Drusillas
than meet Willow's eyes.

But what else was there to do?  This way...this way, it would all end.
This way, it could all be fixed.  This way, he would never have to deal
with any of it again.  Ever.

Ever.

He tried to steel himself.  It had been a lot easier to ignore their
pain in the past.

Abruptly, Willow stood.  "I...I'll be right back," she choked out, her
voice tight.  With that, she strode out of the room, headed upstairs.
He sat there for a few moments, then stood, and hurried after her.  When
Buffy and Xander made to follow him, he spun around.

"No.  Let me talk to her.  Try to make her understand."

Buffy stared at him for a moment.  "Maybe you'd better.  *I* don't
understand."

He let out a low snarl, and hurried after Willow, following her scent up
to her bathroom, where he heard the shower running.  Trying to calm
himself, he stepped in silently and was hit by a cloud of steam.  She
seemed to have turned the water as hot as her human skin could take
without being scalded, and was sitting, fully clothed, under the stream
of water that was pounding down upon her.

Spike stood there, unsure of what to do, and, finally, she spoke.

"I know you're there."

He nodded, reaching for the tap to the water.

"No!"  He yanked his had back at her outcry.  "Don't touch it.
Just...just go away."

"Love-"

"Don't you *dare* call me that!" she screamed at him, her voice
trembling.  "You don't deserve to call me that.  Just.  Go.  Away.  Just
leave me alone.  Buffy's right, you've done enough damage."

He grabbed her roughly by the wrists, and yanked her up.  She tried to
pull away from him, but he held her firm.  The implant was letting out a
few warnings in his head, but he ignored it.  "What the hell is wrong
with you?" he demanded.  "You're stronger than this.  There's a lot of
women I'd expect this of.  Buffy.  Harmony.  Hell, even Dru.  But not
you, Willow."

"You don't know me at all, do you?" she whispered, her eyes hard.  The
water pounded down upon the two of them, and the steam wafted up around
them, isolating them from everything.  It was as though the Powers That
Be had taken their union the night before and warped it, perverted it,
into something loathesome and hateful.

"This is what I was like in high school," she continued.  "You said it
yourself, I'm the same loser I've always been.  Everyone's just too nice
to break it to me.  Well, this is me, Spike.  This is the real me.  Now
go away, leave me to my weakness."

She tried to pull away, but he held tight, still ignoring the implant's
admonitions.  She turned her face away from him, but he grabbed her chin
and stared into her eyes.  "Stop this.  Just.  Stop.  It.  I *know* that
you're stronger than this.  And I refuse to let you turn into that
Slayer down there, whining about every little bloody thing that goes
wrong in your life.  You're right, I don't deserve to call you my love.
I don't deserve someone as beautiful and smart and sexy and powerful and
perfect as you.  But I will *not* let you just revert to that person you
claim you are, because she isn't you."

"Oh, you're a big help," she hissed.  "You're just going to let them
kill you so that she can be with Angel when she dies?  I thought I meant
more than that to you.  Hell, I thought *they* meant less than that to
you.  I thought you would-"

"Don't you understand?" he growled.  "It's the only way.  I have to do
this."

"You have to?  You *have* to?  You don't *have* to do anything now!  We
can keep you safe from Angelus-you can keep yourself safe from Angelus!
You do *not* *have* to do anything!  I just have to use the spell I used
the first time this happened-"

"And what if this happens again?" he demanded.  "What if something goes
wrong?  What if, what if, what if?  If he goes back to being Angel and
loses his soul again, what will you do then?  This is the only way,
Willow.  You can't let your life become an endless cycle of saving
Angel's soul."

"The only way?  I refuse to believe that, Spike.  I will not believe
that, because I have been told time and again in my life that what I
have seen is impossible, and I have seen people accomplish time and
again in my life what was the complete opposite of what we were told was
'the only way'.  I understand a lot more than you think I do.  But I
don't understand why you're doing this.  To me or to yourself.  You've
never been interested in playing the hero in the past, why the sudden
need to be the martyr now?"

"Martyr?  Is that what you think I'm trying to turn myself into?  I hate
to break it to you, ducks, but I don't care about them.  I don't care
about Angel *or* Angelus, I don't care about Buffy, I don't give a
bloody damn about the the ex-demon or her toyboy or GI Joe or the
Watcher."

She stared up at him, and, for once, he met her eyes.  Her hair was
dripping, as, he was sure, was his.  The heat of the water lent his own
cold body some warmth of its own, just as her body had last night.  With
the water soaking her face, he couldn't tell if she was even crying.  He
didn't want to make her cry again.  Not now.  But, somewhere within
himself, some part of him was hoping that she at least had a few tears
to shed over this entire situation.  Some part that was more selfish and
sadistic than the rest of him was praying to whatever entity it
worshipped that she would cry for him.

She whispered the words, so softly that a human wouldn't have been able
to hear them.  He was scarcely able to hear them over the sound of the
water.  But he saw her lips move almost imperceptibly, and heard the
words.

"Or me."

He stared her down for a moment more, and then allowed her this
victory.  He turned away from her.  The words he spoke held none of her
own.

"Or you."

*  *  *  *  *

He had hoped she'd hit him.  She'd beat him to a pulp and storm out of
his life, never again able to look upon him without disgust.

But she wouldn't do that.

She stood there for a few moments.  He could feel her eyes pinning him
like virescent searchlights, he a prisoner caught trying to flee.

Finally, she spoke again.  "Fine."

He turned, and found her eyes impenetrable.  He'd been allowed to flee,
but the doors were locked to him forever, a rigid barrier standing
between Adam and the verdurous bliss of the Eden he was only just
realizing he'd left.

Without a glance back, he grabbed a towel from the rack nearby, and
dried himself off as best he was able as he stormed out.

When he had left, she stripped the clothing from her body and turned the
temperature on the water up, until she could feel that only another
notch further and the shower would scald her fair skin.

And she hated herself for the tears that began to flow.

*  *  *  *  *

The glowing embers
Burning hot and burning slow
Deep within I'm shaken
By the violence of existing for only you
I know I can't be with you
I do what I have to do
I know I can't be with you
I do what I have to do

And I have the sense to recognize
But I don't know how to let you go

I don't know how to let you go

I don't know how to let you go

*  *  *  *  *

It was five when Willow finally came downstairs.  She sat down near
Spike, but never once looked at him.  Her hair was damp.

Finally, Willow spoke.  Her voice was cold.  "Let me see what the spell
will require."

Buffy tried to hide her shock.  So that was what she'd decided?  It
couldn't have been that simple.  "Will-"

"Buffy, just let me see the spell."

"Willow, you're just going to-"

"Yes.  Let me see the spell."  Her voice had taken on a raw, dangerous,
desparate edge, one that warned Buffy not to tread this ground-that
there was a rather large, festering wound there, and Buffy had come
bearing salt.

Unable to meet the eyes of any of her friends, Buffy handed the book to
Willow.  The girl scanned the page quickly, and nodded.  "All right.
I've got most of this stuff right here, but I'm gonna need some of the
Cruxweed from the magick shop.  They should have it somewhere in there,
but it's rather rare and pricey, so I'm gonna have to chip in for it."

"We can all chip in, Will," Xander said.

"No," she said shortly.  "I've wanted an excuse to check out some of the
properties it's rumored to have for a while, and I guess this'll be as
good as any."

"Properties?"  It was Buffy who posed the question, looking thouroughly
muddled.

"'Crux' is Latin for 'cross'," Giles said, frowning.  "If I remember
correctly, Cruxweed is a weed that was supposedly growing in patches on
Golgotha."

"Golgotha?"  This time, Riley was the confused party.

"A hill in Jerusalem," said Anya.

"Two thousand years ago, it was used as a site of public
executions-crucifictions," Willow said.  "I'm not as familiar with the
rest of the story, but the way it's told, Cruxweed is believed to have
extraordinary healing powers-even the power to resurrect the dead."

"So people are claiming that a *plant* is responsible for resurrecting
Jesus?" Buffy asked incredulously.

Giles rolled his eyes.  "Of course not, Buffy.  But, theoretically, the
plant will act as something of a channel between the spell-caster using
it and a vein of holy power-perhaps even as a link between the caster
and the Almighty Himself."

Willow nodded.  There was a heavy silence in the room for what felt like
hours.  Finally, Riley spoke.

"Okay, so...I get a bunch of my guys out there to track down these two
Hostiles, and then what?  Do I take them back to HQ, or is there some
designated spot where the spell has to be cast?"

"A crypt," Willow cut in.  "The spell must be cast in a crypt.  If you
have to knock them out, that's fine.  Be careful."

Riley nodded.  "I'd better get going, then.  Any specific crypt you had
in mind?"

Silence.  Finally, Spike rolled his eyes.  "Bloody hell, how much more
am I gonna have to contribute to this little project?  Fine, you can use
my place."

Buffy cast a worried look at Willow.  "That okay with you, Will?"

Once again, Willow sent her that hard, warning look.  "A crypt's a
crypt, isn't it?"

The blonde girl flinched slightly.  Ouch.  Out of the corner of her eye,
she noticed Spike cringing almost imperceptibly.  Hell, if it hadn't
been for her Slayer-enhanced senses, she probably couldn't even have
noticed.  "Uh...okay then.  I'll get going."

"I'm gonna leave now, too.  Do you want a ride to the shop, Buffy?"
Riley offered.  It was obvious to her that he was offering more out of
that damn omnipresent chivalry than anything else.  She felt
unbelievably bad for letting her feelings for Angel show so easily, but
right now there was a lot more to deal with.

"No thanks," she said quietly.  "I could use the air.  I'll meet you
guys at the crypt, too."

And, with that, she turned, anxious to flee from the weightiness of the
room's tensions.  As she escaped into the evening air, she inhaled
deeply, glad to breathe freely once more.

*  *  *  *  *

It was ten-twelve when Riley and his troops finally apprehended Angelus
and Drusilla.  They had fought their way through what felt like
thousands of Hostiles, and finally found themselves in the middle of
what seemed to be an enormous subterranean...ballroom.

In the center, the creatures who could only be their quarry danced
slowly, seemingly oblivious to the carnage around them as the Initiative
troops fought off the endless stream of HSTs pouring in after them.
They were quick, but Riley and his men were quicker-theoretically.

In practice, however, the men were tired, they had already fought off
scores of the vampires on their way here, and they were running low on
ammo.  Nobody had gone down yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Swearing to himself as he felled the Hostile he was currently squared
off again, Riley realized that it was time to end this.  He raced
through the room, towards the pair at the center.

*  *  *  *  *

An hour later, a tired, bloodstained Riley pulled his Jeep up as close
to the mouth of the crypt as he could.  He stumbled out, and collapsed
against Buffy, who lowered him gently to the ground as Spike hoisted
Angelus out of the back with surprising care.  After placing a hesitant
kiss on Riley's cheek, Buffy picked up Drusilla and followed behind
Spike.
 

Chapter Six

Mercy - pure and simple
Longing - cold and hollow
With sweet breath you'd come to warm me
But I held on too hard to only a memory
You lie there on the swollen ground
Deserted in your heart
Still longing for what yesterday's lost
And for all that tomorrow might bring
And for all that tomorrow might bring

The passion lost - taken, stolen
The dreams we had and we shared - shattered and broken
With kind words you'd come to soothe me
But I go blind and filled with fear
Would send you away from me
There's no hope in regretting now
All the pain that we could not see
We both knew what we wanted now
And we took it believing it free
And we took it believing it free

*  *  *  *  *

Angelus was lying, unconscious, in the center of the circle.  Drusilla,
also unconscious, lay to his right.  They wouldn't be out for much
longer, Spike could tell.

Willow seemed to know that.  She had created the circle around the three
of them using powdered cruxweed, and had placed a candle at each of the
four points, North, South, East, and West, along with an object to
represent each of the four elements-insence for Air, a dagger for Fire,
a cup for Water, and a clay bowl for Earth.  She had a brusque,
businesslike air as she went about the work.  She was in her element, it
was obvious.

Finally, it seemed, the preparations were finished-none too soon.
Willow finally turned to him, acknowledging his presence for the first
time in hours.  She threw a bit of powdered cruxweed on him and on
herself, and then motioned into the circle.  He pulled off his coat and
stepped in, lying down on Angelus' right side.

She began to chant in an ancient tongue, and he felt the stirrings of
something he hadn't felt since the previous night-but he had been too
wrapped up in the woman casting the spell to pay it heed.  A mysterious,
otherworldly power, transcending the barriers of labels like Christian,
Jew, Wicca, Hindu, or any other name.  A power that few could experience
and none could explain.

Willow stepped into the circle, and he felt the power building in a
maddening crescendo.  She held a silver chalice in her left hand, in the
bottom of which was more of the powdered cruxweed.  She held in her
right hand a dagger, a simple silver blade.  From her throat dangled a
leather pouch containing the last of the cruxweed in its powdered form.

As she sliced open Angelus' right wrist and allowed some of the blood to
flow into the chalice, there was a crash of thunder outside.  The tomb
was illuminated by a flash of lightning for a brief moment.  She reached
into the pouch and rubbed the cruxweed on Angelus' wrist.  His wound
vanished.  She repeated the process, slicing open Drusilla's left wrist
and catching the blood in the chalice before healing the wound.

As she sliced open Angelus' left wrist and caught the blood, there was
an even louder reverberation of thunder.  With the lightning, the circle
of powder surrounding the four of them burst into a silver flame.

And then, she came to him.

Her eyes were still hard, cold.  But this time, there was a difference.

He held out his left wrist obediently.  She sliced it open, but he
barefly felt the pain.  He watched idly as she caught his blood in the
chalice, and allowed her to rub the powder onto the wound.  The process
of healing the cut on his wrist felt strange.  It was soothing, cool,
and left him feeling peaceful.

Continuing the chant, Willow opened the unconscious Angelus' mouth just
as he was beginning to awaken.  She poured the mixture of bloods and
cruxweed down his throat, then down the throat of Drusilla.  Then, she
offered him the cup.

He drank the remaining potion, making a passive note of how strange the
blood tasted.

There was another flash of light, this one emanating from Willow.

*  *  *  *  *

It was as though time slowed for them once more.  He watched as Angel
slowly *changed* again, until it was not two heartbeats within the
crypt-those of Willow and Buffy-but three.

He saw the tears in Buffy's eyes as she stepped through the silver
flames, saw Angel's expression of joy, of confusion, of guilt, of every
emotion it was possible to feel.  He watched as the two embraced,
kissed.

As Buffy pulled out the dagger and, gently, slid it into Angel's
newly-revived heart.

The two of them sank to the ground, neither saying a word.  Angel
stroked Buffy's hair and collapsed against her.

And it was then that Spike realized something.

It was not two hearts that beat within the tomb, nor three.

It was five.

He turned to Willow, a question on his lips.  She was watching Buffy and
Angel without an expression, her eyes still hard.

But he didn't miss the single tear that slipped down her cheek.

*  *  *  *  *

Willow felt something brush away her tears.  It wasn't a hand-hers or
someone else's-it wasn't even lips.

Looking over at Spike, she realized exactly what it was.

A rose.

*  *  *  *  *

The life he had just regained was quickly slipping away from him, Spike
realized.  He saw in her eyes a single crack in the facade, and grabbed
her face, staring deep into their depths, posing a question of his own.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered.

"That's for me to decide," she answered, kissing him softly.

She fell into his arms, and he watched, fascinated, as luminous doubles
of Angel and Drusilla slowly rose up from their bodies, as their
breathing slowed and their faces grew ashen once more.  Angel became
once more a brilliant young man with a spring in his step and happiness
in his eyes.  Drusilla raced into the arms of her waiting family, and
Spike knew without a doubt that she was whole again.

The two of them then turned to each other.  There was barely a moment's
hesitation as they stared at one another, and then, they raced for each
other, embracing tightly.

Then, these smiling, happy beings turned to him.

*  *  *  *  *

Epilogue

There was another flash of lightning, and the crypt was dark again.  The
three bodies lay on the ground, cold as they had been before.  Willow
felt a stray tear run down her cheek, and brushed it away with the rose.

Buffy turned to her.  "Is...is that it?"  Her voice was soft, hesitant,
shaky.

Willow nodded.  "Just about.  I need to come back here tomorrow morning,
the next morning, and the morning after that to redraw the circle and
consecrate the bodies, but that's it."

Buffy had many questions, but, at that moment, she realized that now
wasn't the time for any of them-and some had already been answered.

She waited as Willow gathered up her tools and the book, placing them
into a tattered bag.  Her friend held the rose for a moment, the barest
hint of a smile on her face, then set it on the ground, next to her
bag.  She pulled on Spike's duster, slung the bag over her shoulder,
and, holding the rose gently, followed Buffy out without a second look
back.

*  *  *  *  *

Three Days Later

Morning was breaking over the horizon as Willow returned for the last
time to the site of the spell.  She might have shivered as her bare feet
brushed the blades of grass and swept the dew along with them, were it
not for the protection of a leather duster she wore.  The coat was much
too big for her, but she wore it nonetheless, running her hands along it
unconsciously.

She reached the crypt, and gasped.  The dried cruxweed fell to the
ground beside her.

The spot where Spike's body had lain was empty.  The pale bodies of
Drusilla and Angel were still laying there, preserved by the spell.

But Spike was gone.

Tears stung her eyes.  Had she done something wrong?  No, his body had
been human enough yesterday and last night.  And there was no pile of
dust where the body had been to attest to a vampire's fate.

So where was his body?

Sinking to her knees, she grasped at the cruxweed and held it to her
face, inhaling its smooth, soothing perfume as the coat wrapped about
her just as Spike's arms had so many days ago.  A tear, followed by
several more, slipped down her cheeks.

And then, something alighted on the top of her head as a breeze stirred
up around her.  She felt something, as light as a butterfly, land on her
shoulders, her back, her head again, her arms, her legs.

She opened her eyes, and found that she was covered in rose petals.

Willow gasped, and closed her eyes again, the tears continuing to fall.
Why was God or Jehovah or Allah or the Goddess or whoever was looking
down on her doing this?

And then, she felt a pair of warm arms wrapping themselves around her
waist, under the coat.  Felt a finger brush the spot on her throat where
her pulse was beating out a staccato rhythm, followed by a
butterfly-soft touch of lips.  Felt someone kiss first the top of her
head, then her forehead, and finally, softly, her lips.

She felt someone rest their forehead against hers, leaning into her.
Finally, she opened her eyes, and saw herself reflected in another
pair's bright blue depths.

A mellow voice, dry and caustic but at the same time rich and full,
lilted by a British accent, sounded out from the lips which had just
brushed hers.  "If you think you can get rid of me *that* easily, little
witch, you're sadly mistaken."

She stared at him in astonishment for a moment, then cast a glance at
the sun.  "But you're...it's..."

He was silent for a moment, and cast a glance at the joyful ochre orb
which hung above the horizon.  Softly, he planted a kiss at the nape of
her neck, and she heard his voice once more as his lips-his *warm* lips,
she realized-brushed against her skin.

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

*  *  *  *  *

"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumbered here,
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles do not reprehend:
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call.
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends."

William Shakespeare, 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'

read the sequal 'Sins Forgiven'

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