Warp & Weft

By Medea

Chapter Ten

Willow savored the luxury of shared peace with her Mates as the three of them strolled along the sidewalk, past restaurants and late-night bookstores, movie theaters and 24-hour laundromats, all bustling with life. This was how things were supposed to be: the tide was definitely turning.

This particular street was familiar to Willow. Indeed, there was a pattern to their meanderings this evening, an echo of a cherished night she had spent with Angel when he had been her strength and her guide, but not yet her lover. They had walked almost until dawn, sharing thoughts and memories and laughter. She was still new to the night, then, frightened and tempted by the possibilities that simmered within her. The significance was not lost on her. Willow could feel the same sense of wonder in Angel tonight. Something was suddenly *that* new for him, that frightening and tempting all at once.

"Alright, out with it," Spike demanded at last, breaking their companionable silence. He cast a sidelong glance at Angel. "You're damn near drunk on something, Red and I can both feel it. 'bout ready to throw you down right here and give the locals a show."

Willow felt the surge of Angel's happiness tingle along her senses, light sunlight dancing on water. Rather than answering Spike's question, the dark-haired vampire turned to Willow and asked one of his own.

"Is this what you feel? The connection? The completion?"

A spark of insight flashed in her mind as Willow surmised, "You had another dream."

Angel gazed back at her, the faintest traces of a smile toying with his lips and warming his eyes.

Spike, on the other hand, scowled impatiently. "What bloody dream?"

Willow chuckled softly at the blond's frustration, then listened as Angel recounted his dream conversation with Buffy. She soon understood that she could answer Angel's question with a simple "yes", but that would probably only serve to annoy Spike even further. But how could she or Angel explain what it was they felt, he in his dream, she through her ties to natural magic and in the very strength of her blood?

How to explain eternity?

"So you saw your Slayer," Spike drawled. "And she told you to be happy. What of it? Thought *we* were all the happy you needed."

They were near an alley. To Spike's surprise, Willow grasped him by the wrist and drew him into the dark, secluded passageway. Angel followed.

Sheltered from human eyes, Willow let her fangs drop and bit deeply into her own wrist. She extended her arm toward Spike and invited, "Drink."

A thin, scarred eyebrow arched curiously, but Spike needed little prompting to savor the potent elixir that coursed through her veins. His eyes slipped shut as his mouth closed over the wound and he began to draw his beloved redhead into him.

Willow smiled, then looked to Angel and gestured toward his wrist. Understanding, he offered it to her. As she sank her fangs into his flesh, he in turn reached for Spike and brought the blond vampire's wrist to his mouth.

Once they were joined, Willow closed her eyes and focused. She didn't want to overwhelm her Mates, she only hoped to help Spike understand.

Slowly, with the utmost care, she opened herself to the resonance of all things; to the living fabric of this realm that had sustained her when she was a lost, frightened minion, and that remained ever-present through her connection to the natural magic, like the ebb and flow of the tide; and to the still, small voice of ages past, which had walked with her from the moment she'd first tasted of Anubis' and Sahu's blood nine years ago.

Although her feet were firmly planted on the ground, Willow felt as though she were floating in a vast ocean. A fierce tremor ran through Spike, and a fainter one through Angel, and she knew they were feeling it, too. She let a few strains of timeless, ageless harmony weave through her and into her Mates, but eased them away from the precipice before they could be swallowed up by its boundlessness.

It had taken only a few moments.

Still, when they released each other's wrists, the three vampires were obliged to shake a little dizziness from their heads.

"That's what I feel, Angel," Willow explained, referring to his earlier question. She smiled at her blond Mate. "We feel it most strongly for each other, Spike, and we always will, but that's only the beginning, only the start of something that stretches far beyond us. Anubis and Sahu showed me while I was with them. They've been around so long, now, it's practically all they can see, all they can feel. It saturates them. And through their blood, it's crept into me -- and you."

Angel and Spike stared back at her with a mixture of strained awe, bliss, and dawning comprehension. Despite the reverance of the moment, Willow couldn't resist a slight jab at her two, sweet, *overprotective* Mates.

She grabbed Angel's chin between her thumb and forefinger and stared with stern bemusement into his startled eyes. "That's why there wasn't any reason to be worried about the Cup of Death. Did you think I'd spent those years with Anubis and Sahu without drinking from them even once?" She released Angel's chin after a final, scolding squeeze and said, "Whichever one of us went into the circle wasn't going to be alone."

"Your blood," Spike sighed somewhat woozily, "is bloody intoxicating, luv. You've gotten me drunk on it, 'cos that almost made sense."

He swayed, heavy-lidded and smiling, prompting Willow to wrap her arm around his waist to steady him. As she did so, Angel's fingers chucked her gently beneath her chin. She raised her eyes to meet his gentle gaze.

"If we sometimes forget that you don't need to be protected anymore, Willow, it isn't because we don't realize how strong you are," Angel murmured, slowly stroking his thumb along her jaw. "But once upon a time, you needed us, and old habits die hard. Then, you were gone. Spike and I love you, and now that we have you again, sometimes it's hard to fight the urge to keep you safe."

Mesmerized by Angel's words and by the truth in his eyes, Willow raised her face even closer to his, her lips a bare whisper from his, and confessed, "I'll always need you."

Angel closed the distance between them, devouring her mouth in a long, deep kiss. At the feel of Spike's hand snaking along her inner thigh, Willow broke the kiss and arched an eyebrow at her blond Mate.

Spike smirked and eyed his companions suggestively. "So...seein' as we all have *needs* we could be tending to..."

And with that, any further plans to wander the streets came to an end.

*****

No triumphant fanfare sounded to announce that they'd won the battle against their adversaries. There was no clear sign, no dramatic turning point, to signal that the black market had been defeated. Most disappointing of all, there was never a single showdown with the human power brokers who controlled the organization. As was all too often true with such organizations, those who knew little and controlled even less bore the brunt of all attacks. Those who wielded the true power remained safely anonymous, and quietly shifted their operations away from any area where operations became troublesome.

Thus, many months after Andrew Murdoch had first alerted the Trinity to the problem, the black market ceased operating in Los Angeles, fading away with a whimper, rather than a bang.

Even as they informed the clans that hunting practices could return to normal, and that there was no further need for reconnaissance missions or sabotage, Willow, Angel, and Spike acknowledged a grim truth: all their efforts had made almost no impact on the vast, global network that was the black market trade in human life. The situation might have improved in Los Angeles, but elsewhere, the abductions, the grisly vivisections, and the sale of body parts continued.

They were tiny flies who had left barely a ripple on an ocean of corruption and self-interested, profiteering carnage.

But it was something.

And even small ripples could become waves...

*****

Rupert Giles, Head of the Watchers Council, was relaxing with a glass of scotch in the small garden behind his modest home when a noise put his senses on the alert. It was faint, almost imperceptible, and any other human being might never have heard it. But he'd been guardian to not one but two Slayers, had spent the prime of his life on a hellmouth, and traveled in the company of vampires. He realized at once that he wasn't alone.

"Whoever you are, you may as well come out before you completely trample my peonies," Giles announced.

He didn't even flinch when five vampires faded out from the shadows and arrayed themselves before him in the circle of light given off by his lantern.

The leader, a brawny, fair-haired male whose wire-rimmed glasses looked conspicuously out of place on such a rugged figure, addressed him.

"Rupert Giles?"

"Yes."

"I am Philip Jones--"

"Ah, yes," Giles interrupted, idly sipping his scotch. "Your clan ranges through the West End, I believe."

The fair-haired vampire arched an eyebrow, but nodded. "And you are still the Head of the Council, are you not?"

"Yes, and now that we all know who we are...?" Giles prompted.

"We know about your connections to the ruling clan in Los Angeles. You've worked with our kind before," Jones began, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Very closely, as a matter of fact. Do you have a point?"

"A proposition," Jones countered.

Giles gestured toward a nearby chair. "Have a seat. Would you care for a scotch?" As he said this, he slowly rose to his feet, gingerly coaxing stiff, aging joints to cooperate as he made his way to the back door. When one of Jones' minions roughly intercepted him, Giles batted his hand away in irritation. "Oh, please! Do I look like I'm fleeing in abject terror to the safety of my home?"

"Scotch would be fine," Jones answered, silently ordering his minion to stand down.

Several moments later, Giles returned with another glass, which he filled almost to the rim and offered to Jones.

"Now, let's hear this proposition, shall we?" Giles said after he and his vampire guest had clinked glasses and swallowed a deep draught.

"News has been spreading about a rather...interesting...alliance between vampires and mortals that was successful in ridding Los Angeles of an organization that has started to become troublesome to the clans of London..."

*****

//Two Weeks Later//

"It's started," Willow murmured with hopeful awe as she read her latest e-mail from Giles, in which he described a tentative alliance he had forged with some local clans to fight the black market's operations in England.

Smiling, she clicked to her next message -- this one from Xander. Slowly, her smile faded and she sighed.

"Why the long face, luv?"

She looked up to see Spike saunter in with two, long-stemmed wine glasses filled with blood. He offered her one, they saluted each other, and each took a sip.

"Oh, it's Xander. Edgar is starting to grate on his nerves. The job he's in right now doesn't really offer him enough of a challenge. He's kind of wallowing in misery and dragging Xander and Anya right down with him. Xander has been trying to find him something in a lab, but Sunnydale isn't really known for its cutting-edge research facilities," Willow rambled.

Spike looked thoughtful, but said nothing for several moments.

"What?" Willow prompted.

"Oh, dunno," Spike shrugged. Once again, he fell silent and his eyes took on a sad, distant look. Willow was about to prod him again when he said, "I might know someone who can help him out."

"Who?"

A wistful smile crept across the blond vampire's face. "Old friends. And I figure I'm due for a visit."

*****

Nervously, Spike stood with Edgar on the porch of a house he knew well. Could find in his sleep. A house filled with happy memories turned bittersweet. One he hadn't visited in recent years. Not since--

"Spike?"

The front door was held open by a gray-haired woman whose familiar face summoned up a host of conflicting feelings. Loss. Regret. Affection.

"Hullo, Leah," he managed in a rough, low voice. "May we come in?"

A pained smile lit her face even as traces of moisture glistened in the corners of her eyes. "Of course you may, Spike. You're *always* welcome in our home."

The blond vampire didn't miss the significance of her stress on the word 'always'. Megan's mother knew exactly what he was, had known since their very first encounter in a barn when Megan was just a little girl. But Spike knew she wasn't referring to the fact that he'd already been invited in long before, and could cross the threshold at will.

She was reminding him that he was still family.

As he stepped inside, he gestured for Edgar to follow and explained, "This here's Edgar. He's got himself a bit of a situation. Roy here?"

"Right here, Spike."

Spike turned toward the voice of Megan's father, who approached with the slight limp he'd retained ever since his mishap with a testy Rotweiler eight years ago. Occupational hazard as a veterinarian, but it still struck Spike as ironic that with all the nasties on the Hellmouth, it had been an ill-tempered dog that had gotten its teeth into the Slayer's dad.

"It's good to see you, son," Roy greeted him, the genuine warmth in his voice tinged with sadness. "It's been too long."

Spike's gaze fell to his boots. "I know."

After a short silence, he looked up and launched directly into a concise explanation of Edgar's predicament and his need for a job better suited to his talents than what the git Xander had been able to muster.

"He's got experience in labs. Thought you might be able to use someone who knows his way 'round a microscope," Spike offered.

"Microscopes?" Roy chuckled. "These days, it's all done with computers. Just how long ago were you turned?"

At Edgar's puzzled stare, Leah broke in before her husband could make any more teasing remarks about Spike's vampire nature. "Roy, sweetheart, why don't you and Edgar go to the den and talk about your practice? You should tell him about the joys of cat urine and manic Rotweilers so he knows what he's getting into. I'll make Spike some cocoa."

With that, Mr. MacKenzie and Edgar adjourned to the den, while Leah ushered Spike toward the kitchen. The blond vampire sat at the table in awkward silence for the few moments it took her to punch a few buttons on the microwave and produce a steaming mug of chocolate comfort. He kept his eyes down, unable to bear looking around the room at the many reminders of his beloved Slayer.

"We've missed you, Spike," Leah MacKenzie's voice snapped him out of his melancholy reflections as she sat down and placed a cup of cocoa before him. "You haven't been back for a visit since the funeral."

"Couldn't. Hurt too much," Spike acknowledged. He let out a soft, sad sigh. "I know that makes me a coward."

"No," Leah corrected him firmly but lovingly. "It makes you *you*. You always did think it was your job to be strong, to handle everything on your own," she reminisced, smiling shakily even as she sniffled back tears. "I remember some of the tirades Meg would go on about how stubborn you were, how you tried to protect her -- coddle her is how she put it, I think." Chuckling softly, Leah imitated her daughter's voice, "As if she wasn't the *Slayer* and plenty able to kick your ass."

Spike's jaw clenched at the familiar phrase. He'd been privy to the same tirades. "But I didn't protect her," he gritted out in bitter self-recrimination. Raising his head, he stared helplessly at Leah and whispered, "I failed her."

A pained, compassionate gaze met his as Megan's mother gently rested her hand on his cheek. Feeling his insides crumble, Spike slowly slid from his chair to kneel before her and rested his head in her lap.

"I failed her," he repeated.

"No, Spike, you didn't," Mrs. MacKenzie comforted him, stroking a soothing hand over his head. "Far from it. You made her so happy, so very happy. Her father and I knew we'd lose her someday." Her voice choked slightly. "We hated it, but we knew. She was a Slayer, and we understood what that meant. But we also knew how lucky we were that she lived as long as she did. And that was largely due to you."

"It wasn't long enough," Spike protested vehemently.

"No, it wasn't," Leah agreed. "It could never have been long enough for us. But what time she did have was precious. Don't bury it." She gently lifted Spike's head, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "Don't bury us."

Before Spike could stammer another apology, Leah's gaze shifted toward the wall. The blond vampire followed her gaze to a familiar photograph. He could remember everything about that moment. Meg stood in front of their apartment. It was the day they'd moved in together. Her smile shone so brightly, she practically glowed, but she wasn't looking at the camera. No, her face was tilted away, over her shoulder, as she beamed exuberantly at the empty air.

Right where he'd been smiling down at her, arms tightly wrapped around her waist. Unseen to the camera.

"I'd forgotten about the problem with cameras when I took that," Leah smiled fondly as she spoke. "They don't do you justice. But every time I look at it, I know you're there. I know the absence isn't real." She clasped Spike's hand in hers. "Please don't make it real, Spike. You're part of our lives -- don't forget us."

Spike closed his eyes and smiled. A faint trickle of tears glistened down one cheek. Opening his eyes, he covered Leah's hand with his own and murmured, "I promise."

Leah's smile broadened and she kissed him on the forehead. Spike settled back into his chair and was in the middle of a deep draught of cocoa when Edgar and Roy joined them.

"I think we're all settled," Roy announced. "Edgar definitely knows more than enough to analyze stool samples from house pets. And I've been filling him in about life in Sunnydale. Figure he should know a thing or two about local survival skills."

Before Spike even had time to dread the impending drop of the proverbial other show, Edgar asked in a queer voice that would have been appropriate to Alice after her tumble down the rabbit hole, "Spike, did you and Willow know there were vampires in Sunnydale before she thought of sending me here?"

Spike couldn't suppress an ironic snort, while Leah and Roy let out a few, wry chuckles.

Edgar stared at the three of them in confusion.

Poor sod. Always seemed to be a few beats behind the joke.

*****

It wasn't until the following evening that Spike returned from Sunnydale, having spent a much-needed day with Megan's parents.

He found Willow at her computer once again, and wondered if she ever left the bloody thing. Narrowing his eyes, he realized there were tears in her eyes.

"What's wrong, luv?"

His question seemed to trigger the release of pent-up grief, and he had to steady himself as her distress flooded through their bond.

"It's Giles," she whispered.

Instantly, Spike was kneeling beside her, wrapping a comforting arm around her waist. She let out a soft, hiccuping sob. A moment later, Angel appeared in the doorway, evidently summoned by his Mate's anguish, his expression taut with concern.

"Willow, what is it?" Angel asked. Willow merely shook silently and buried her face in Spike's neck.

The blond vampire peered at the computer screen, where an e-mail message from Wesley Wyndham-Pryce lay open.

"...currently in the Council's intensive-care facilities," Spike read out loud. "He's showing some signs of recovery, but it's still too soon to tell."

Spike and Angel stared at each other in shock.

Willow raised her tear-stained face from Spike's neck.

"Giles had a heart-attack," she explained quietly. Gazing at her Mates with determination, she said, "I want to go to London."

~Fin~

Continue to 'The Watchers Tale'