DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss’, of course, and the chapter title comes from Shakespeare’s “Sonnet XXVI.”
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: In “Legions of True Hearts”: Buffy went to England for a summer break with Giles and Willow, only to get embroiled in a scheme to revive a turned Slayer. She started having dreams of William Freston, only to be thrown back in time to be with him for real. The human incarnation of Spike, William grew in confidence in Buffy’s support, and the pair fell in love, while doing everything they could to solve the mystery of April’s presence in London. Back in the present, Willow was forced to team with Esme, the witch who’d revived April, and together they introduced Spike to the picture, who remembered nothing about what had happened in the past. Eventually, with the help of Rose, a Watcher guardian, Spike’s memory was returned, Buffy was returned to the present, and Esme’s magic was taken away from her and placed inside Willow.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Where “Legions of True Hearts” was about William and Buffy, this fic will explore Spike and Buffy, and the aftermath of everything that happened in London, both in the present and in the past. While he is not the primary focus of this particular story, it’s my sincerest hope that the heart of William will pervade, for Buffy’s sake, for Spike’s sake, and for their potential future.

*************

Chapter 1: To Thee, I Send This

The air writhed with shaven beats, cadences stolen from carnal rhythms that whispered their promises to unsuspecting ears with every pulse. It breathed in an echo of life, and undulated into the darkness to seek out the unwary, to draw them in with its professions of power, to suck and drain them of all energy before flinging them back out to the dawn.

It was merciless.

It was intoxicating.

It was…

…really, really loud.

The small group stared up at the brick edifice of the factory, watching the stream of people lined up outside the door with mixed reactions, the music a cacophonous blur against their ears.

“Whose neato keen idea was this again?” Willow asked.

“I believe the words, ‘confronting the demons of our past’ came out of your mouth,” Xander replied. “How many days have you been in that psych class now?”

“Don’t forget, ‘It’ll be fun. It’s not just about vampires any more,’” Buffy chimed in.

Willow’s nose wrinkled. “And you listened to me because…?”

“Because the Bronze is closed for renovations after that vamp attack last week.”

 

“And it’s Friday night,” offered Buffy.

“Don’t forget free drinks.”

The last came from Oz, who tightened his hold around his girlfriend’s waist when she turned to look at him. “But we still don’t have to do this. Not if you don’t want to.”

She sighed. “I’m being a baby. I mean, so what if there’s enough bad memories attached to this place to make it its own Mexican soap opera? It’s time to make new memories, right? Good ones. Ones that are ultra-light on the kidnapping and terror, and uber-heavy on the fun and frolicking.” She glanced around at her friends in anxious hope. “Right?”

“Right.” She said it with far more conviction than she felt, but Buffy forced the smile to remain on her face anyway. Truth be told, she didn’t want to be here any more than Willow did. The memories weren’t the same, but the attachment was still there, and the last thing Buffy wanted right now was even more reason to think of Spike. She did that enough already.

When news of the nightclub had first been announced, there had been a lot of joking among the gang that at least they wouldn’t have to get used to calling it something new. Making the Factory into Sunnydale’s second hotspot made sense to Joe Q. Public---a techno exterior to take advantage of, huge and interesting interiors that would create a unique look for the club. The new owners didn’t even go wildly original with the name.

Beneath the Scoobies’ badinage, though, ran a current of apprehension that seethed in ways that singed the edges of their orderly world. Nothing could change the fact that the Factory housed some of the darkest moments in their history. A terrified Willow and Xander. An impaled Cordelia. A destroyed Oz.

Spike.

Not tonight, she vowed. Thoughts of the vampire pervaded every aspect of her life, eating away at her attempts for normalcy with a hunger like woodworm in a furniture shop. On patrol. In her poetry class. Taking a bath. Nowhere was safe, so when Willow had suggested the night out at the new club, Buffy had jumped at the opportunity to drown out the haunting rumble of his voice, to forget those blue eyes---William’s eyes---and the way the memories seemed to merge so that it was hard to tell which was William and which was Spike.

Maybe she wouldn’t have had such a hard time with the integration if she could just see the real thing. If she could just talk to him and settle the question once and for all.

But she couldn’t.

It had been seven weeks and two days since Buffy had left London and Spike behind. Seven weeks and two days since he’d vowed to stand by her, to hold true to a vow given by a man long dead of body even if not of spirit. Seven weeks and two days since he’d told her that he still loved her, using William’s words as his own though his claim for proprietorship carried with it the aegis of time.

Seven weeks and two days since Buffy had last seen him.

She kept telling herself it was a good thing that Spike hadn’t shown up in Sunnydale after all. Fewer complications. Less explanations. Xander still didn’t know the whole story about what had happened in England; for some reason, Willow and Giles were honoring Buffy’s unspoken wish to keep it private. She could go back to having a semi-normal existence, starting college and taking the strength she’d found with William to step forward with her life. Really, it was better this way.

At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

“So,” Xander announced, with an exaggerated clap and rub of his hands. “Are we doing this? Or do we plan on doing our frolicking outside? Because I’m thinking, there’s enough electric boogaloo on this side of those walls for us to get our groove on without actually having to step a foot into the Fortress of Doom.”

“We’re going in,” Buffy said determinedly. Looping her arm through Xander’s, she began pulling him toward the entrance with Oz and Willow right at her heels.

*************

They chose a table as far from the speakers as possible, and still, the girls had to lean in and shout, in order to be heard.

“Nothing alcoholic,” they both insisted, and watched Oz and Xander weave an awkward path through the mob of gyrating bodies toward the bar. The noise left them with little option but to sit back and observe, but the flashing lights and kaleidoscope colors soon gave Buffy a headache, and she turned her back to the rest of the room.

Attempting conversation was impossible. When Willow’s hand closed around Buffy’s forearm, tugging her off her stool, Buffy frowned. She only understood when her friend jabbed a finger at the garish neon sign across the room proclaiming the whereabouts of the restrooms.

They were both sweating by the time they got to the dark corridor, the swelter of so many moving bodies wreaking havoc with the air conditioning. Buffy’s head was spinning, her stomach queasy, and she was grateful for the blast of cool air that assaulted them when Willow pushed the door open.

“Maybe not such a good idea after all, huh?” Willow commented once they were inside.

Buffy shrugged. “It’ll be better once we get into the Friday night-ness of it,” she said. “It’s just that it’s a dance-y kind of place, not a talky kind.” She turned to look at her reflection in the mirror, wiping at the sweat that glistened on her brow. “I have a feeling I’ll be around here a lot, though,” she added. “It screams ‘vampire smorgasbord,’ loud and clear.”

Though she did her best not to look, Buffy’s gaze drifted down until she met the echo of her eyes in the glass. She’d taken special care with her appearance, selecting one of her more cleavage-daring tops in which to be seen. In spite of the make-up and let’s-party clothes, however, she couldn’t help but feel that something was still missing. There was a hollowness to her cheeks, a wistful hunger in the depths of her eyes, that attested to an unknown yen. Well, maybe not so unknown. If she’d lived in a world where denial wasn’t her best friend, she’d be able to identify it for what it was.

Loneliness.

It was hard to connect to a world in which the person who understood her best wasn’t around anymore.

“I saw Riley out there,” Willow offered brightly.

A tiny line formed between Buffy’s brows. “Psych TA Riley?” At her friend’s nod, she added, “So?”

“So…he’s nice.”

“We’ve been in school for all of a week, Will. What do you know that I don’t?”

“I ran into him at the library a couple times. He always asks about you. And…he’s nice.”

Buffy shook her head. “I’m not interested in dating right now. You know that.”

Willow’s smile faded. “But, you’re wearing your Buffy’s-bustin’-out-all-over top. I thought, you know, you’d changed your mind.” She gnawed at her bottom lip. “If this is about Spike---.”

“It’s not.” She said it with probably just a tad too much force, but vehemence was a good thing, right? It announced confidence. And sometimes over-compensation.

“It’s not,” she repeated, this time quieter. “This is about me moving on. That’s what this whole summer was about, remember? Letting go of the past and taking a bold step into the future, minus the vampire boyfriend baggage.”

For a long moment, Willow regarded her in solemn perusal, and then burst into convulsive giggles. “OK, I know you didn’t mean to be all punny,” she said, “but that was a good one, with the past thing.” She took a deep breath. “There’s no way you’re over William, and if Spike has said something to make you start second-guessing everything that happened between the two of you, you gotta remember, he’s a vampire and they’re not exactly known for being all truth-telling.”

Buffy turned away, color flaring in her cheeks. “I don’t know what Spike thinks,” she said, so quietly that even the acoustics of the tiled bathroom didn’t amplify her words.

The laughter immediately evaporated. “How? Unless all those letters are death threats or something.” Sudden panic rose in her green eyes. “They’re not, are they? Because if they are, we have to tell Giles---.”

“I said, I don’t know.” Buffy sighed. “I haven’t…actually…read any of his letters.”

Nobody knew about Buffy’s encounter with Spike on the banks of the river that last night in London. She’d deliberately kept that small pearl to herself, fearful of what the others might say about her potential lapse in judgment. Once they’d left European soil, even Giles had been surprisingly mute on the entire subject of what had happened, and she honestly didn’t know what he would do or say if he found out what Spike had promised to her.

Then, a week after she’d returned to Sunnydale, the first letter had arrived. Buffy had come home from hanging out with Willow to find the envelope waiting for her, the script all too familiar, the return address emblazoned with the name, “W. Freston.” Her stomach had risen to her throat, tears threatening to erupt, and she’d begged off her mom’s questions with vague stories about a guy she’d met in London, promptly hiding the letter beneath her bed. She just wasn’t ready to face the anguish of revisiting the loss of William yet.

A week later, another arrived.

The following week, there were two more.

They just kept on coming, with increasing regularity, until not a mail day had gone by over the past two weeks where one didn’t show up.

Still…they remained unread. All of them.

The postmarks varied. Though the first had come from England, the rest seemed to be trekking around the world, and Buffy found herself tracing the colored postmarks in wistful contemplation until the dye came off on her fingers. If she imagined really hard, she could picture the exotic places he was seeing---glittering sand, the Champs de Elysees, swarthy merchants in the middle of a crowded marketplace---but always, the question of what he was doing, who he was with, floated to the fore as a murky filter, and the envelope ended up with the rest.

The longer Sunnydale remained Spike-less, the harder it got for Buffy to even consider reading them, and they gradually moved from under her mattress to a box at the bottom of her weapons chest.

She thought William would’ve liked the irony of that.

Willow knew about the letters because they followed Buffy from home to the dorm. How he knew where she was living---unless he was in Sunnydale, had been there all along, and the letters were just some twisted game he was playing with her emotions---Buffy had no idea. But Willow had been the one to retrieve the mail that first day, and since it was the only real envelope amidst a mishmash of pizza place flyers, notices about the Factory opening, and a reminder from the university health clinic about their free condom giveaway, it had been impossible for her not to see the return address.

Now, Willow looked at her best friend with the same confusion she’d sported on the flight home from London. “But…aren’t you curious about what he’s trying to tell you?” she asked. “Buffy, I know you don’t really want to talk about it---.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

The silence that followed her sharp retort amplified the void, both that of the restroom and the cavernous fissure that had separated the two girls since their return to Sunnydale. They had tried so hard to ignore it, having their dorm assignments changed so that they could room together, doing all the old Scooby stuff in a vain attempt to capture at least a moment of their pre-London innocence. Xander’s return had helped, in a small way. But each was lost in their own world of issues, neither able to breach the walls that divided them, whether it was Buffy’s confusion and loss about William/Spike, or Willow’s desperate struggles to find a new balance in her consciousness, now that she had Esme’s magic simmering under every breath.

Buffy was the first to break, turning away to twist the tap and splash some cold water across her face. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I shouldn’t---.”

“No,” Willow interrupted. “I shouldn’t have pushed. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“I guess we’re both pretty sorry, then, huh?” Buffy offered her a wan smile in the mirror, and was relieved when it was returned. Taking a deep breath, she decided it was time she stopped trying to pretend she could handle this on her own. Maybe some of the more innocuous details would be enough to start the process.

“Spike remembers everything,” she confided.

Willow blanched, but there was no surprise in her eyes, just a sad empathy that stabbed even deeper. She should’ve said something sooner, Buffy realized; of course, Willow would understand. That’s what best friends did.

“It was my spell, wasn’t it?” the redhead asked. “The true love one. It was about getting you back, not about Drusilla at all.”

Buffy nodded. “Rose did a forget spell on him. He told me when…when I saw him. The night before we left London. We…talked.”

“Just talked?”

“Certain things got said.”

“Good things, or bad things?”

“Confusing things, mostly. And some nice things,” Buffy conceded. “But definitely high on the confusing.”

“But…I don’t get it.” Willow’s fingers were playing with the tassels on her sweater, but her gaze remained level. “Why wouldn’t you read the letters? Maybe it’ll give you the closure you need. If they’re all stalkery, then it should be even easier to get past it, don’t you think?”

“And what if it makes it worse?”

“And what if it makes it better?”

Buffy’s lips pursed as she regarded the earnestness of Willow’s face. What use was the time she spent with William if she wasn’t even strong enough to look at a couple of letters? He’d offered her courage in the form of compassion, and here she was, too afraid to look over a few sheets of paper that were probably nothing anyway. What was the big deal?

The big deal was that Spike had them. William’s words. And he’d proven to her on the banks that he wasn’t afraid of wielding them.

They were the surest weapon to wound her, if that was what he wanted.

But did he? Want to, that is. All his vows, and all his protestations, and the fact that he’d deliberately returned to London to seek her out before she fled back to the Hellmouth…they testified for a man with no interest in hurting her. He’d had more than one opportunity, and he’d passed on all of them to promise her that he would always be her chief advocate, that he would forever do everything in his power to help her. But, if that was true, why wasn’t he here?

Perhaps the answer rested in the letters.

The opening of the door allowed the barrage of music to slither inside before the girl who entered let it glide closed behind her. Buffy waited until the new arrival disappeared into one of the stalls before speaking again.

“Would you hate me if I bailed?” she asked.

“Are you going back to the dorm?”

“Yeah. You’re right. I just…I need to know.”

Stepping forward, Willow wrapped Buffy in a quick hug. “I’ll tell the guys you had a slaying emergency.”

“You could tell them it was a feminine emergency,” the Slayer said with a small smile. “That’s pretty much guaranteed not to get questioned.”

They parted ways on the other side of the restroom door, and Buffy slipped out the back entrance she was glad the new owners hadn’t eliminated. That’s one advantage to being familiar with the old building, she thought as she stepped into the cooler night air. Easy in, easy out.

The music resonated against her back as she began the long walk back to the dorms. Her stomach still roiled from the anxiety contemplating Spike’s correspondence always invoked, but her spirit felt lighter. Answers were of the good. Knowing what Spike’s plans were was even better. And maybe Willow had guessed it and they were just a bunch of empty threats about trying to kill her again, that he’d been stupid in England and that he’d finally come to his vampire senses and hated her again.

Deep down, though…

…She really hoped not.

*************

Though dawn was just a few hours away, the faint strum of a guitar floated through his open window, its melancholy tune winding a path along Spike’s bare arms, endeavoring to coax his pen to cease its motions and join in its languor. For a moment, he hesitated, tilting his head to listen to the delicate strains, and found himself transported more than seventy years back in time, listening to Andrés Segovia from a Moscow theater box, the scent of the girl Dru had brought with them as an aperitif filling his nostrils. That had been a good night. Peaceful. One of the few Dru had allowed him before demanding some new distraction to keep her occupied.

The ink began to flow again, smooth and silken over the paper he’d brought with them. With their hasty departures, he could never be sure whether he would have the right supplies at their next stop, even if Barcelona was nicer than most for what he wanted. He’d nicked the best pens he could after the debacle of those ballpoints in London, too; these flowed with a more lustrous stroke than those other cheap nibs, making his script seem just a little bit more meaningful.

Of course, it would’ve been better if he’d had some kind of confirmation that it was being appreciated. In spite of his now daily missives, he had yet to hear from Buffy. The doubt as to the sincerity of her words on the banks was beginning to eat at him.

No matter what town his boot set foot in, he saw her.

In Paris, there had been the girl he’d followed for half an hour through Marais, because she’d been wearing a white sundress that billowed around her legs so strikingly like Buffy’s had in the dreams.

In Dougga, when they’d been surprised by the vampire gang coming out of the amphitheatre ruins, he could hear the echoes of her instruction in the Rhodes-Fanshaw back garden, commanding him not to drop the point of his sword as he fought the demons back, and it was her joyful laughter that filled his ears when the last dusted away on the wind.

In Kutno, he’d been transfixed by the dark waters of the Ochnia for an entire night, the memory of Buffy leaning against his chest on the banks in London indelibly weighting his flesh, and only abandoned the lull of the lapping waves when the pink began to inch along the horizon.

There were moments when he considered stopping the letters. Usually, those came when his nose caught the scent of a delicious hunt and he talked himself out of it because he feared how Buffy would react if she found out he’d continued killing indiscriminately. Or when he found an empty box, and realized she still hadn’t answered him. That’s when the flashes of bloody bitch and cold-hearted cunt threatened to overwhelm his resolve. If she didn’t care about what he was doing, why was he bothering at all?

But he knew the answer to that, just as he knew that he would continue to write. A century before, William had made a promise to the woman who chose to believe in him, who offered her strength as his own and asked for nothing in return. Even if she was the Slayer, and even if she detested everything he stood for now, it was inconceivable for Spike to consider reneging on his vow. He loved Buffy with every fiber that was William, and every impulse that was the demon; to stop would counter everything that made him, him.

Setting the pen aside, Spike’s gaze scanned quickly over the letter. It wasn’t as long as his notes usually ran; their late arrival at the hacienda had meant he only had a few minutes to unpack before going out again to meet up with their contact. He’d been grateful when the meeting ran short so that he could return to his tasks, though it would’ve been better if their contact had given them more concrete news.

“They’re only rumors,” Baltozar had said around his cigarillo. He’d exhaled directly into Spike’s face, probably expecting a reaction, and then shrugged when none came. “You would be chasing after ghosts to follow them.”

“Funny, but in the world I travel in, ghosts aren’t usually treated so lightly,” Spike had drawled. Pushing the envelope across the table, his eyes had been steel as he met Baltozar’s brown gaze, the debate warring in the Spaniard for a full minute before he picked it up.

“I make no promises.”

“Not askin’ for any. But if I find out you’ve lied to us, I’ll make you eat that fag of yours…right after I burn your tongue out with it.”

He’d left straight after. The rest was the boring footwork and Spike didn’t have the patience to follow through on that. He’d be there for the final confab, and if there needed to be a bit of a fracas, he was the vamp for the job, but until it got to that point, he had better things to be doing with his time.

Like finishing his letter to Buffy.

He was addressing the envelope when he heard the front door of their suite open, though he didn’t bother rising from his seat. It still gave him a little thrill when he saw Buffy’s name above the dormitory’s, images filling his head of her strolling across the sunlit campus with Red, her books hugged tightly to her chest. She had a brain she didn’t get to use nearly enough, and though she wouldn’t know a good poem if it stabbed her with her own stake, Spike was secretly pleased that she was finally getting the opportunity to show to the world that she was more than a beautiful, finely-honed weapon.

He just hoped she lived long enough to be able to take advantage of the education. If he had any say in the matter, it would be a good long time.

“William?”

Spike’s skin crawled at the sound of his real name. As each of the last fifty-one days had ticked by, revenants of his human existence had crept more and more into his waking thoughts, twisting his daily routine into a grotesque mockery of his pre-revived-memory unlife. Some of it was welcome, but there were times when he wanted to rage against the chains that now seemed to fetter him.

No time for raging now. Not when he could smell her approaching the closed door to his room.

“William?” she called out again, knocking as she did so.

He didn’t reply, but instead waited for her to enter. She always did.

“Told you a hundred times not to call me that,” Spike drawled when he heard the door slide open.

He took a small satisfaction in the slight rise in her heartbeat. “I’ve…been out with Baltozar,” she stammered, ignoring the censure of his words. “I think you’ll be pleased with what I found.”

Slowly, Spike twisted in his chair to gaze at the doorway. She was dressed in what she called her “field fatigues”---khaki trousers, flat-heeled boots that stopped just shy of her knees, and a simple white blouse that was currently limp and stained with sweat. After a particularly vicious demon in Machynlleth had yanked out a huge lock of her hair, she’d gone out and cut it short, but even her blonde bob appeared lank and disheveled. At least she’s not bothering with the crossbow anymore, Spike thought as he regarded Lydia in speculative attention. Stupid cow.

“We’re not barking up the wrong tree again?” he commented. “It’s about bloody time.”

Her eyes glittered behind her glasses. “Not only is it not the wrong tree,” Lydia said, “but I would venture to say, we actually have the right branch this time.”

It was the barely controlled excitement in her voice that woke him from his apathy. “She’s here?” he demanded, rising to his feet. “You’re sure about that?”

“As sure as I can be without actually seeing her with my own two eyes.” She gestured toward the open window. “If you wish not to be caught by the sun, I suggest you come with me now. We can’t be certain that she hasn’t learned of our arrival and fled already.”

Grabbing his coat from the back of the chair, Spike was halfway to the door before he remembered the letter. “Hang on,” he said, and quickly crossed back to fetch it.

“We don’t have time---,” Lydia started, but stopped when she caught the deadly glint in his gaze. “Of course,” she said, and took the envelope from his outstretched hand. “I’ll make sure it gets there. As usual.”

He didn’t bother looking back as he pushed his way past her out of his room. Working with the Watcher wasn’t Spike’s first choice, but he’d not had a lot of options when the plan had come to him. She was smart, willing to accept his command, and had connections to people he didn’t. Plus, she made it possible for him to stay in contact with Buffy while he sorted this out. Without Lydia, Spike would never have even known that she’d moved out of her mother’s house.

For the briefest of seconds, the thought that perhaps Lydia wasn’t actually posting the letters darted across his mind, but just as quickly, Spike dismissed the notion. Yes, it would explain why he’d not had any response from Buffy, but why go to such pretenses as alerting him to the Slayer’s new address if she wasn’t actually following through on his requests? Not to mention the fact that she was more than aware he would rip her throat out if he found out she was double-crossing him. No, the letters were most definitely being sent; he just wouldn’t dwell on the reasons they weren’t being answered.

Perhaps it would be better this way.

If this truly was the end of his search, it wouldn’t be much longer before he was in Sunnydale proper. And with the gifts he intended to bring to her, Spike held deep-rooted hope that Buffy would see fit to look past her fears and give him the benefit of the doubt.

She’d believed him in London. He was sure of it.

He could make her believe him again.

*************

His muscles were weary, his mind fogged from exhaustion, but the promise of his own bed kept Quentin’s step steady as he walked up the path to his home. It was regretful he’d had to leave the concert before the second movement, but such was the dangers of having the world’s safety foremost in his priorities. When peril struck, it was his responsibility to be at the ready, whether others believed that true or not.

The reports were perplexing. Demon activity had dropped significantly in several high-density locations, and while the enterprise of rogue hunters hardly merited anything more than a clinical notation in Council records---for tracking purposes, should the hunters’ motives end up proving less than noble---the fact that one of the sectors of lowered population was the Sunnydale Hellmouth had been enough cause for alarm to necessitate a junior Watcher contacting Travers. All accounts of Buffy Summers’ slaying told that she was still fulfilling her duties, but there had been no noticeable increase in her results. That could only mean another party was responsible, or there was more to the Slayer than was being relayed.

After the events with the crystal collection and the released April, it had been the Council’s universal opinion to keep a closer eye on Buffy, much to Travers’ relief. She’d proven to be even more unpredictable than he’d originally thought, and while he admired her ingenuity, the fact that she’d aligned herself with William the Bloody in order to ultimately defeat April made her dangerous. Apparently, though, their efforts weren’t intensive enough.

Reaching his front door, Quentin frowned when the knob turned easily in his hand. It was too late for anyone in the household to be up. Why would…?

The thought vanished as he crossed the threshold, his face implacable when his eyes came to rest on the tiny form sitting in the Wainscot chair in the foyer. “Have you decided to master new skills to balance the loss of your powers?” he asked, his voice cold. “In case you’ve forgotten, breaking and entering is a punishable offense, Esme. You lack the means to cover your tracks any longer, remember?”

Slowly, the old woman rose to her feet. Though her eyes were sunken, they were still clear, her chin still proud. “And here I thought you’d be glad to see me, Quentin,” she said.

Turning his back to her, Travers began unbuttoning his overcoat. “I’m tired,” he said, “and you’ve exhausted my patience. I don’t have the means to play whatever game you’re intent on playing this evening.”

“But that’s just it,” Esme replied. “You are not the only one who is tired.” She waited for him to look back at her before continuing. “If your offer still stands, I’d like very much to take your deal.”

 

*************

Chapter 2: With Golden Quill and Precious Phrase

For the longest time, Buffy stood and stared at the edge of the chest poking out from beneath her bed. She had thought of nothing else during the long trek back to the dorm, every possible permutation of what they could contain reeling through her head. More than once, she had changed her mind, diverting her course into one of Sunnydale’s cemeteries to get her mind off of them, but with each vampire attack that ensued, her feet inevitably returned to the path to campus, the lingering question of Spike’s intentions flooding back to blaze in ever brighter glory.

It was ridiculous to be so nervous about them. She fought demons. She averted apocalypses. She faced greater dangers each and every single moment she was out on patrol.

But that was her body that was in peril then, not her heart. And the one thing being with Angel had taught Buffy was that her heart was infinitely more fragile.

With a deep breath, she knelt at the side of the bed, grabbing the handle of the chest and sliding it out from its shelter. Her hand was trembling as she undid the clasp, and by the time she’d lifted the lid, Buffy’s pulse was racing within her veins. Stop being such a baby, she scolded herself. Letters. They’re just letters. If you didn’t want to know what they said, you should’ve thrown them away when they arrived.

Pushing aside the stakes and sundry weapons, she bared the uppermost shoebox at the bottom of the chest. There were two boxes, the growing frequency and thickening envelopes necessitating the expansion into a second when the first got too full, but it was the bottom one that she wanted. There, the first of Spike’s letters was waiting to be opened, tucked carefully at the back of the pile as if it knew that one day, Buffy would be ready to see it. Only after she had read it would she know whether or not it would be necessary to read the rest.

Climbing onto her bed with the box in one hand and Spike’s letter in the other, she curled her legs beneath her as she looked it over with a critical eye. It was slim, the envelope generic. He’d kept the exterior simple, but when she held it up to her nose, the barest aroma of cigarettes clung to the paper. Buffy’s eyes closed. Another inhalation, this one deeper, and she was no longer sitting in her dorm room. Instead, she was wrapped within the circle of Spike’s leather duster that night by the river, her cheek resting against his chest, feeling the vibrations in his muscles as he talked about the parts of London that he’d missed. Odd how his accent had seemed to smooth in those wee hours of the morning, not quite so rough, just a little more refined.

She hadn’t been sure, though, whether it was because he no longer felt the need to pretend, or if he’d done it as a panacea for her pain over losing William.

Maybe the answer lay within the letter.

*************

Dear Buffy,

I hate airports. Do you have any idea how much glass goes into making them? Glass that lets the sun in, and keeps it bright as day. Well, as bright as jolly old England can get. Ironic that the day you fly out, the sun decides to make its presence known. Not even Heathrow could make it possible for me to see you off. Next time you hop the pond without me, could you possibly consider taking a redeye? Better yet, don’t go.

You probably didn’t expect to see this letter from me. Honestly, I’m a little surprised to be sending it. But after our talk on the banks, and knowing we both remember just what it was that brought us together in the first place, maybe trying this with written words isn’t such a bad idea. I get the chance to edit out my own failings, and you get the choice to not listen if you don’t want to.

I hope you do, though. Haven’t we proven we can rise above the differences? I meant what I said. I’ll always mean it.

You’ll have noticed I’m not in Sunnydale as I promised I would be. I haven’t changed my mind; I still have every intention of coming and helping you in any way I can---and don’t for a second think that that wasn’t a damn hard sentence for this vampire to see in black and white. But I’ve been thinking about everything---about what happened to us before I met Dru, about why that witch was so hungry for my help. I think there’s more to this than either of us might be aware. I’m not exactly known for paying much attention to big pictures, but perhaps it’s time for that to change. I want it to change, because if I’m right, then it will only be good for you. That’s all that matters to me.

I’m off to Wales in the morning, a little town called Machynlleth. I’ve had word there’s a book there that can help. I don’t want to go into details, mostly because I don’t have them right now, but rest assured, it’s all for the good. If this pans out, I’ll be with you before too long, with the means to support my vow to you. Do you remember? Don’t ever forget. I promised to never abandon you, and I shall keep that promise until I’m dust.

I love you, Buffy. That’s something else I ask you not to forget.

Yours always,

William

*************

A single page.

That’s all it was.

No vows of undying revenge. No furious diatribes where he denounced everything he’d said to her in London.

Just the continuing promise that he was coming. That he hadn’t forgotten.

That he still loved her.

Buffy wasn’t sure if she was relieved about it or not. She’d been stalwart while reading over the letter, but when she’d approached its conclusion, something inside her chest had loosened, a soothing glow beginning to radiate outward to the numbness of her fingers. And then she’d seen the closing, and the knot had returned, uncertainty rearing its ugly head to barrage her with doubt.

Yours.

William.

She wanted to shout that it wasn’t William, that William was dead, and that Spike had no right to claim the name when it wasn’t truly his. Her tongue was tied, though. Nowhere within the context of the note was there any indication of the more disturbing aspects of the vampire’s personality, and nothing he wrote betrayed any of the words he’d offered her before. He didn’t tell her what exactly he was doing, but the tone, the obvious caring that permeated every phrase…that was someone she recognized, just as easily as she recognized the flowing script.

William.

Buffy’s gaze returned to the top of the page, reading it more slowly this time, weighing what he said with a thoughtfulness she hadn’t allowed on her first pass through. He’d tried to see her at the airport. Why? Had he wanted to stop her? Did he just want to say good-bye? And what could he possibly gain in this search of his that could help her? What was with the cryptic comment about Esme?

There was only one way for her to find out.

Setting the letter aside, Buffy reached into the box for the next envelope, noting the Wales postmark as she pulled it out.

Did you find what you were looking for, Spike?

She had a funny feeling that the answer was no.

*************

Dear Buffy,

I’d hoped to start this letter with details about my arrival in Sunnydale, but hope’s an evil mistress, determined to make my life just a bit more miserable than it already is. Machynlleth proved less than what I was hoping, though I did manage to actually see the book before it got set on fire. Remind me to never attack an angry P’lirsa demon. They have a penchant for pulling hair and a tendency to go flame-happy when pissed off. My coat has a fresh new burn along the back hem to show for my efforts.

I’m not giving up, though. As much as I want to be with you again---and I’m more than aware that using “with” before I’ve even had a chance to hear from you is presumptive, but I’m remaining optimistic that we can hold true to what happened between us in London---I think the fruits of our search are worth the wait. All that I ask is you be patient with me. You were before, once upon a time.

I had a dream about you last night. We were back in the park, and you were telling me about your return to the Hellmouth. At first, I’d had hopes that something had happened and you’d found a way for us be together in that fashion, even if I haven’t encountered any mysterious witches or drunk any funny tea lately. It was only after you started kissing me that I realized it was only a dream. There was a freedom to the way you touched me that hadn’t been there on the banks. It was more reminiscent of the way you touched me when we first met, before you found out that I was real. That’s how I knew it was all in my head. As much as I may want otherwise, I know you’re not in that place. Not yet. Though I hope you will be some time again.

Dreaming of you made me want to see you all the more. Since I’m currently waiting for sunset to come and the evening train to arrive to take me back to London, seeing you is obviously impossible. I’m going to ask a favor instead.

Write me back.

Tell me to fuck off. Tell me you have dreams, too. Tell me you don’t know what the hell to think.

Just tell me something.

I know you think I don’t have the right to ask for anything, and maybe you’re right. I don’t personally think so, but then that’s the beauty of our little relationship, now isn’t it?

I dare you to try telling me you don’t want to, though. Even if it’s only to tell me off, I know the desire to talk to me is eating at you. You miss our nights in the park. You miss me. Know how I know all this? Because the exact same thing is eating at me.

I love you, Buffy. Don’t think for a second that I’ve forgotten that.

Yours always,

William

*************

She stared at the page for a long moment before setting it aside to scan the second piece of paper the envelope held. They were instructions on how to write Spike back, not by conventional means but with some kind of supernatural post box. The return address was somewhere in London, but Spike’s note assured Buffy that it would reach him, no matter where in the world he was.

“A little trick I’ve picked up,” he wrote. “Helps out when you know you’re going to be incommunicado for a time.”

He kept on writing. Even after he didn’t hear from me.

For the first time since considering the letters, a pang of guilt stabbed in Buffy’s gut. He was right, of course. How many times had she contemplated talking to him over the past seven weeks? Even when she’d tried burying herself in the mundane, he’d been there, hovering in the periphery like a watchful ghost, just waiting for the opportunity to get through her defenses and remind her of what she was missing. If she’d only started reading the letters from the first, maybe much of the anguish of the elapsed time could’ve been avoided.

Had he grown angry with her failure to respond?

Picking up the next letter, the first thing Buffy noticed was the difference in the paper. The envelope was thicker, heavier, obviously more expensive, and where the ink on the first two had looked just like any other pen, this soaked into the weft with a luxuriance suggestive of his poems from a century before. He’d switched his tools, choosing those more like the ones she was familiar with from her encounters with William. Was it deliberate? What game is he playing?

The faintest hope that it wasn’t a game made her fingers tremble as she carefully tore the envelope open.

*************

Dear Buffy,

I’m in Paris now. You’ve never been, right? It’s a shame you didn’t get the chance while you were in England; taking the time to cross the Channel isn’t any worse than hopping from state to state in the US

It’s hot as hell here, and the tourists are out in full force. I used to love this time of year in the city, but now, having this many bodies around is just one more obstacle for me to get past. I spent two hours last night following a trail, only to end up losing it in Marais. To make matters worse, I saw a girl who reminded me of you, and I ended up in a goth bar getting completely and utterly pissed because everything just seemed to be going wrong. No trail. No new clues. And most importantly, no you…

*************

Dear Buffy,

I woke up this afternoon wishing I’d never thought of this stupid plan. Every second it takes me to find her is another second I’m not with you. Why do I think she’ll listen to me anyway? I must be off my box, but something makes me hope I can get her to see reason. My non-fighting skills may be a tad rusty, but hopefully they haven’t completely atrophied. Of course, I haven’t been able to convince you yet to write me back, so maybe I’m just fooling myself.

I miss you. Without you here, I’m starting to feel lost again. I hate not having a purpose…

*************

Dear Buffy,

We’ve found a new lead, so I’ll be on my way to Tunisia once the sun goes down. I know my last letter was maudlin. Be a love and throw it away? If I’d been thinking straight, or not hungover, I would never have posted it in the first place. You don’t need to listen to me whinge just because of a minor setback. And you’re completely in your right to take your time in writing back. You’re probably too busy with your mates wasting the last bit of summer to worry about me anyway. It’s as it should be. Red had quite a scare there with her magic booster shot; she’s probably still adjusting to being so powered up…

*************

She stopped reading, her eyes jumping back to the top of the page to stare at the first word in the letter.

We’ve.

It was the first time in any of the half-dozen letters she’d read that Spike had indicated that he might not be traveling alone. It made sense that he would enlist help in whatever quest he’d given himself, but the fact that he hadn’t bothered to specify who it was made Buffy pause.

Was he with Drusilla again? Was his plan really an elaborate scheme to get back at her?

Even as she thought it, though, Buffy knew it was folly. Every letter ended the same way. I love you. Yours always. There were too many references to his missing her, and his disappointment in not hearing from her for it not to be genuine.

On the other hand, he was deliberately hiding his traveling arrangements from her. And though he’d hinted at trying to find this mysterious woman, Spike had yet to give her any concrete details on what exactly he was trying to accomplish. Did he think she’d try and talk him out of it?

So many questions. Her head ached with trying to keep it all sorted, but the weight of the pain was minuscule compared to the twisting confusion inside her chest. Reading the letters, her emotions were all over the place---amusement, anger, sympathy, frustration. She wanted to hate him and just throw the remainder of the boxes in the trash.

At the same time, she wanted to find him and give him hell for making her wait so long for him to come back.

*************

…hate this country. Tunisia is just one big sandbox, with sunlight stretching unnaturally late and without cover so that I can’t even leave the hotel until well after sunset. I have sand in more orifices than I thought I possessed; it’s unnatural for a vampire to have to be scrubbing in the places I’ve been scrubbing.

I didn’t find what I was looking for, but at least I got a good fight out of the bargain. I came here because there’d been rumors of something strange happening in Dougga, strange being good for what I had in mind. Dougga isn’t a proper town anymore, so you know. It’s actually the country’s biggest set of ruins. Roman, I think. I seem to recall someone telling me that on the trip there.

A band of vampires had set up house in the bowels of one of the amphitheatres, and jumped us when we were poking around, trying to find the entrance to a catacomb we were told existed. The fight was a good one, though it would’ve been better if you’d been there. The bunch were more organized than these bands usually are, and had the swords to back up their swagger. Lucky for me, they didn’t have the skills to match their weapons, and I walked away with a new sword of my own. You’d like it, though I think it’s probably too long for you to handle comfortably.

I did pick something up for you, though. Don’t worry, I didn’t get it from the vampires I dusted. I got it off one of the merchants down in the square. They do beautiful work here, and since you’re not around to appreciate it, I thought I’d share what little I can of this godforsaken country with you…

*************

Unfolding the second piece of paper she’d removed from the envelope, Buffy’s eyes widened at the glint of silver that was taped to the ivory parchment. It was the most delicate filigree bracelet she’d ever seen, so intricately woven that it moved like liquid metal where it hung loose. Before she could remove it from its moorings, though, she saw the script that was elegantly laid out above it…

And froze.

She was still sitting like that five minutes later when a key turned in the lock and Willow slipped inside the room. The redhead opened her mouth to speak, but at the sight of the tears running silently down Buffy’s face, her lips clamped shut, and she rushed forward to sit on the edge of her friend’s bed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently, reaching out to stroke Buffy’s arm. Glancing down, Willow saw the paper she gripped, and frowned. “Is Spike being a poophead?”

Wordlessly, Buffy shook her head, handing over the page. She remained silent even as Willow’s mouth made a tiny O, pulling the bracelet from the tape to look at it more closely.

“He sent you this?” she asked.

“From Tunisia. Where is that, anyway?”

“Africa. Wow, this is…it’s beautiful, Buffy. But why are you crying? Did he kill someone to get it for you? Is that why you’re upset?”

“Read what it says above it,” Buffy replied.

She watched as Willow scanned the words, hearing them resound inside her head as clearly as if William was there himself to read them aloud. Even after all that time, she knew most of it by heart, most especially the last verse.

“But I was lost in a place ‘tween the sun and moon,
Where firm and figment merged this June,
And even beyond that place ‘tween moon and sun,
My love that burns for her is legion.”

How could she forget that night he’d asked if she would’ve married him? And then again, to hear Spike whisper the intent of the last line so intimately…it had just been too much.

When she was done reading, Willow handed the bracelet and paper back, her eyes now solemn. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “I can tell he wrote that.”

William wrote it,” Buffy corrected. “Spike’s stealing it.”

“Well, technically it’s not stealing if it was already his---.” She cut herself off at the flash of fury that brightened Buffy’s eyes. “But that’s not what’s important,” Willow hastily added. “What’s important is…what exactly?”

“I don’t know.” The confession made Buffy crumple. Dropping the letter to the blanket, she pulled her legs up to hug her arms tightly around them. “He loves me. I’ve only gotten through seven of his letters, but the one thing that’s coming through loud and clear is that he loves me. How can he do that? He doesn’t have a soul, and he’s evil, and I’m not supposed to look at him and think that he’s William. That’s not the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Is he? Like William, I mean. I thought, from what the journal was like and how you described him, well, Spike’s not exactly known as the sensitive type. Except for, you know, crying like a baby when Drusilla left him. But then he kind of lost all of his sympathy points with the kidnapping and broken bottle threats.”

“See? That’s what I mean. Evil, with a capital E.” Buffy fingered the bracelet. “But then…he writes these things, and he swears to me that he’s going to help as soon as he gets here, and I get all confused.”

For the first time, Willow stiffened. “He’s coming here? Why?”

Buffy chewed at her lip. She knew it was perverse, but she didn’t want to share the reason. It was a promise William had made, and regardless whether or not it was Spike who was keeping it, they were words that had been meant for her ears only. She kind of wanted to keep it that way.

“I don’t think he’s a threat,” she said instead, sidestepping the intent of the question. “If he wanted me dead, he’d be sending me things more deadly than his poetry.” Slowly, she picked up the bracelet, playing with the clasp before carefully setting it on her nightstand. “Did you guys have fun at the Factory?”

“Not that I don’t realize you’re only asking because you’re being all evado-girl, but it was kinda fun, once we got past the ookiness of it being the Death Star Incarnate.” Willow gestured toward the open shoebox. “Are you going to finish reading those? I don’t like seeing you crying, but maybe one of them will have the answers you’re looking for.”

“In the morning, I think. Right now…I just need some sleep to process it all.” Uncurling her body, she scooted to the edge of the bed, hesitating only to give Willow a quick hug. “I’m sorry,” Buffy murmured. “I don’t know why I’m being all emotional about this. They’re just letters and some poetry. No big, right?” She smiled brightly as if to prove her point, though it failed to completely reached her eyes. “Spike’s going to have to do a lot worse if he thinks he can get to me so easily.”

*************

The pungent scent of blood assaulted him long before he saw the black trickle beneath the front door, and Spike broke into a run, his boots echoing across the stone in the road as he raced around the corner of the tiny house. “Go check on her inside!” he barked, not even bothering to glance at the Watcher struggling to keep up with him.

“What?” Lydia cried. “Why?”

He didn’t have time to answer her. The street was deserted, the stench of death fresh, which meant that the responsible parties had to have left through the back. Vaulting over the low wall, Spike skidded across the damp grass as he swept his gaze around the back garden, listening for telltale hearts, straining to sniff out any unwanted guests. There was nothing. Only the faint traces of humans, too long gone for him to quickly chase and seize, came back to him.

Turning to the hacienda, Spike approached the back door, wondering if he was going to be able to enter. He was pre-empted from trying, though, when it creaked open, and a weary Lydia gazed at him in sadness.

“We were too late,” she said softly, stepping aside to allow him entrance.

Even with the warning, he hesitated at the threshold, lifting his hand to test the barrier anyway. His shoulders slumped when it passed straight through, and he followed Lydia into the house, knowing with every step and whiff of blood what he was going to find.

She led him into the small front room, stopping just inside the door. “I haven’t touched anything,” she murmured. She paused before adding, “I’m sorry.”

The body was splayed across the tile before the front door, as if she’d been trying to escape and hadn’t quite made it to the exit. It was the first time Spike could remember seeing her white hair not in a braid down her back or piled in a knot on top of her head. Instead, it pooled around her face, hiding it from view, the ends staining red where it dragged in the blood that had flowed from her body.

Slowly, he stepped forward, noting the book she must’ve been reading dropped haphazardly to the floor. The Zohar? What in hell was she doing reading up on the Kabbalah? Boredom, he reasoned as he neared the body. He’d certainly read a diverse bit over the decades in his attempts to stay entertained.

Crouching down, Spike pushed away the hair that covered her face, and sighed when Rose’s unseeing eyes stared back at him. He’d known already she was dead, but seeing it in such naked display leadened his heart. A pang of sorrow pricked at the edges of his awareness, but he shoved it aside. The seer had made her feelings for him---as a vampire---more than obvious; just because William had had a soft spot for the lady didn’t mean Spike had to.

Still…the last thing he’d wanted was to see Rose dead.

“What does this mean?” Lydia was hovering at the doorway, unwilling to broach the haven that was not her home. “Should I start making arrangements for us to return to London?”

Spike’s eyes were cold when he swiveled his head to glare at her. “You think that’s it?” he demanded. “You really expect me to give up this easy?”

She seemed flustered by his statement, and pushed her glasses up her nose as she attempted to retain her composure. “Rose is the only member of this so-called group of women---.”

“Nothin’ so-called about it. They’re real.”

“Nevertheless, she is---was, the only connection you had with them. Do you really expect to unearth their secrets about the Slayer without her aid?”

The bint had a point. Without bothering to answer her, Spike turned back to Rose, deliberately distancing himself from the emotions that were swelling inside his gut. He’d spent the past seven weeks trying to find her, convinced there was some kind of connection between her and Esme’s quest for some sort of Slayer power. Rose had told them that her responsibility was to see that the Slayer line was kept pure, by watching over the Watchers who guided them. Plus, she was powerful. How could Spike not hope to tap into some of that for Buffy?

Disappointment made his vision blur, his veins scorching from the fury that was erupting inside. He hadn’t done this to fail. He couldn’t fail. Failure meant that he would be going to Buffy with nothing, that he’d wasted almost two months away from her and could only return to her side as a kicked puppy with its tail tucked between his legs. How could he ever hope to convince her that they could have a future, that he could still be the man she needed at her side, if he couldn’t do this one thing?

Forcing his thoughts to steel, Spike refocused his attention on Rose’s form. A circle of scarlet stained the back of her blouse. Whoever had killed her had literally stabbed her in the back. How bloody ironic that the seer couldn’t even see her own death, he thought. I wonder who she pissed off this time.

His nose suddenly prickled. Stiffening, Spike inhaled deeper, sorting through the scents until he found the one that had infiltrated his spiraling mood, his head tilting and turning to hone in on its location before he straightened with a sharp crack of leather. Two steps was all it took to reach it, and the toe of his boot nudged the cigarillo that still radiated heat from its smashed tip.

“Baltozar,” he growled. His eyes flashed yellow as they met Lydia’s, and he’d crossed the room, his hand a steel vise around her throat as he shoved her against the wall, before she could react.

“Out with the wanker all this time looking for her, huh?” Spike snarled. He ignored the scratches she left in his hand as she clawed to free his grip. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t snap your neck right now, bitch.”

 

 

 

 

*************

Chapter 3: The Crow or Dove

He was cutting off her oxygen and he knew it, but somehow, Spike couldn’t find it in himself to care. He’d lowered his defenses and allowed himself to trust the Watcher, even when his every instinct told him it was reckless to align with her in the first place. Now, faced with the prospect that she had been playing him for a buffoon all along, he felt like a bigger fool than William ever had.

“I…didn’t…” Lydia gasped. Her nails etched scarlet lines into the back of his hand, desperation driving her to struggle, and she was fighting to lash out with other parts of her body, writhing as she tried to lift her knee in defense.

Spike was having none of it, and pressed into her, smelling the sudden rush of her desire as it bloomed beneath her fear. “No more lies,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m tired of bein’ your bloody patsy.”

She shook her head as violently as his hold let her. “Not,” she croaked. “Please…Buffy…”

Only that name could shake his determination. Narrowing his eyes, Spike relaxed his grasp just enough to allow the air to pass into her lungs, watching as she gulped for the reprieve. “What about Buffy?”

“She…she wouldn’t…forgive you.”

With a growl, he let her go, whirling on his heel to prowl around the room as Lydia crumpled to the floor. Bitch was right. Though it hadn’t been discussed, Spike held no illusions that his continued killing would be a sore point with Buffy, and if word somehow got back to her that he’d offed a Watcher to boot, he could say sayonara to any kind of future they might have together. Leave it to Lydia to play into his desire to have that kind of life with the Slayer.

Though she rubbed at her bruised neck, Lydia took special care to keep an eye on the pacing vampire, visibly shrinking every time he came near. “I didn’t have anything to do with this,” she managed to say. “I left Baltozar in the square to go get you. He must have come back here on his own.”

“Not on his own,” Spike said. “There was someone else here with him. Could smell it when we got here.”

“And you thought it was me?”

“Who else would it be?”

It was his fury’s fault. Incensed that Rose had been killed before he could speak with her, Spike had lashed out unthinkingly, even when he knew in the back of his mind that the other who had been here with Baltozar had not been Lydia. He’d spent too much time with the Watcher not to recognize her scent in an instant now, and though he suspected the other to be a woman, it was impossible for it to be his companion.

Lydia cringed when his fist slammed into the wall, plaster shattering around Spike’s hand to dust his arm in white ash. “I thought we’d moved onto trusting each other,” she said, only to choke back a muffled cry when he returned to hover over her.

“You might’ve been sacked by ol’ Quentin,” Spike said, his voice a barely controlled growl, “but that doesn’t take the Watcher out of you, luv, and last time I checked, I was still a vampire. So, no, I don’t trust you, just like you shouldn’t be such a Pollyanna ‘bout why exactly you’re tagging along here. I needed your contacts, and you wanted your story.”

“Buffy---.”

“Say her name one more time, and I’ll tear your throat out, consequences be damned.”

The muscles in her neck tensed as she held firm against his anger, her eyes glistening behind her spectacles. “I didn’t know,” she said, reiterating her claim to ignorance. “Why would I have brought you to him if I thought he was going to do this?”

“You tell me.”

She actually stopped to consider his request. “Baltozar Marroquin is a mercenary for hire. Perhaps our interest sparked him to pursue his own investigation and he found something worth killing her for. After all, William, that’s what he does.”

“Lovely company you keep.” But her words were quickly deflating his mood, leaving Spike empty and frustrated and fervently wishing he’d never come up with this cracked plan. If he’d never launched this foolhardy search for her, Rose would still be alive; he just didn’t know why it was the Spaniard had needed to kill the seer before Spike could speak with her.

“I didn’t want this.” Lydia had completely regained her composure, though her hands kept flitting to her throat, as if she still didn’t quite believe he’d tried to strangle her. “I wanted to find her as badly as you did.”

“Which is why you were so quick to suggest we hop back to jolly old. Right.”

“Only because I know how eager you are to return to the Hellmouth.”

The last of his resolve crumbled, and Spike sagged, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor opposite her. Resting his head in his hands, he pulled at his hair, trying to ignore the churning within that heralded his failure. “She doesn’t want me there,” he rasped, his voice a harsh testament to the pain he could no longer contain. “Don’t know why I’m even bothering. It’s not me she wants. It’s that ponce William. The one she could wrap around her little finger with just a flash of leg and a smile.”

“You don’t believe that.”

He lifted bruised eyes to stare at her. “Then tell me why she hasn’t written back. Tell me how she can just ignore everything I’ve told her. She knows I love her, that I’d do just about anything for her. That’s what this whole bloody idea was about. If she didn’t want me there---.”

“She would’ve told you.” There was a sympathy in Lydia’s eyes that was all too familiar, and Spike had to duck his head again in order not to get scorched by it. “Since when has Buffy Summers refrained from stating her mind? If she didn’t wish your presence, I believe she wouldn’t hesitate to let you know.”

Tears stung behind his eyelids and he burrowed the heels of his hands deep into the sockets, as if to press the weakness into submission. He’d had such high hopes. Finding Rose would mean going to Buffy with something definitive to offer, whatever power it was that the seer and her ilk were so keen on protecting. Now, his only tie to that power was severed, a cold corpse like any other, and he was left with only the detritus that was the old woman’s nomadic life. Of what value was that? How could he hold his head up and stand by the Slayer’s side as her equal if he couldn’t satisfy this one little mission?

“I’ll go see Baltozar today,” Lydia offered quietly. “I’ll pretend not to know about his involvement here. Perhaps I can learn something that would be useful.”

“I should just bloody well give up,” Spike muttered. “That’s what you want. Know you’re only hangin’ about so that you can get more dope for your book. This won’t exactly help your romantic adventure marketing angle, but maybe you can just make a bit of something up instead. Give it a touch of spice to make up for the botch I seem to be so good at.”

“Now that sounds like the William you’ve been complaining about these past seven weeks.” Her voice had hardened, a clipped edge slicing through his malaise to jerk his chin up in astonishment. “Have you forgotten you’ve told me what happened?” she continued. “I know of the changes the Slayer rendered in your human self. You’ve admitted as much, and don’t tell me they were the blatherings of a drunken sot. Contrary to what you may think, I’m not so enamored with the mystery of William the Bloody to not know when a man---or demon, as is your case---is spilling the painful truth like a newfound spring. So, you can sit there, feeling sorry for yourself, attempting to convince yourself of facts you know aren’t true. Or you can get up, clean yourself off, and get back to the hotel before the sun rises so that you’re prepared to face another night of searching for the answers you want. Personally, I’ll be spending my day looking for reason behind Rose’s death. I’m not willing to concede just yet.”

It was the longest speech he’d ever heard her utter. Usually, when Lydia started talking, Spike left the room or found some cruel thing to say to shut her up. He’d enlisted her aid for her malleability and her contacts, not for the company. He wasn’t even aware that she’d been listening on those occasions when he returned from a bender, convinced it was all a big sham. He was going to have to be more careful about what he said, or there would be even more secrets out in the open that he wished to remain hidden.

“So, this self-righteous streak…” he said wryly. “Is this something they breed into you Watchers? Maybe a course at the Academy called ‘The Ins and Outs of Acting Superior?’”

She blushed. “I merely---.”

He waved her silent. Lumbering to his feet, Spike cast one last glance at Rose’s inert form before throwing his shoulders back, tilting his head to audibly crack his neck. “You should give the place a onceover, as long as you’re at it,” he said. His tone was back to being business-like; time to pick himself up out of the blood of Rose’s death and accomplish something that would actually benefit Buffy. “Maybe there’s some hint lurking about in regards to what the tosser was after.”

He didn’t see her nod, but Spike knew she was agreeing with him, even as he took long strides toward the front door. When he reached the book Rose had dropped, he hesitated, bending over to pick it up and flick through its pages before stuffing it into his duster pocket. Religious studies weren’t exactly his thing, but if it was important to the seer, then maybe it held import for him as well.

“Don’t make presumptions about the circumstances in Sunnydale,” Lydia said as he opened the door. She’d already turned away when he looked back at her, her expression hidden. “If this matters to you, then that’s what’s important. The rest…will sort itself out.”

*************

She found herself standing outside the Factory, its windows black and blank, all remnants of the earlier fete scattered on the ether of memory. By all rights, she should’ve been back at the dorm, curled into her narrow bed and waiting out the night with restful dreams, but images of Spike in the faraway corners of the world that he’d described in his letters kept invading what should’ve been her nocturnal peace, and Buffy had slipped back into the night, restless and hungry for any modicum of amity she could find.

Trampled flyers littered the walk, a slight breeze ruffling edges that weren’t glued to the concrete from the weight of too many feet, and Buffy kicked at a loose sheet as she wandered around the corner of the building. This hadn’t been her original purpose in traversing Sunnydale’s paths at this hour, but her earlier instincts still screamed that this would be a new feasting place for the local demon population. As long as she was out, she might as well give it a pass to see how things were holding.

The results were disappointing, though. The empty alley gaped back at Buffy in desolate solitude, sucking her further into its depths as her eyes scanned the shadows. The faint scent of alcohol and cigarettes hung in the air, tamped butts scattered along the ground, and suddenly, all the images she’d been holding at bay became more than suggestion---

---the red cast from the end of Spike’s cigarette outlining his profile---

---the cotton of his shirt against her cheek, soft from wear, the smoke clinging to the weave with a determination so indicative of him---

---making her knees tremble, and driving her to perch on an overturned box before they gave out completely.

She should go back to the dorm. Do what she intended and get back to her single bed. Though it was the start of the weekend and she didn’t have to worry about waking for classes, Buffy knew she’d been short of good sleep lately, a combination of too much thinking and a stomach that seemed all jittery from the anxiety of starting college. Even if she didn’t want to sleep, she was pretty sure she could wake Willow and have a long overdue best-friends-fest; their tentative steps to try and cross the chasm that had yawned between them since London had been the highlight of her night.

Consciously, her fingers slipped to her left wrist, stroking the delicate silver that encircled it. OK, maybe just one of the highlights.

After the discovery of the poem and bracelet, Buffy had put away the rest of the letters to finish reading in the morning. It was all too much, especially when there was a tiny voice inside her head shouting in jubilance, released from the fetters she’d bound it in when she’d left William and Spike behind. “Told you so,” it kept shouting. “He loves you. He still loves you. You should’ve had faith.”

Regardless of the fact that its choice of words meant she now had George Michael shimmying relentlessly around in her head, the simple fact of its gloating made her want to give it the smackdown of a lifetime.

Still, there was a part of it that was right, which was yet another reason why Buffy was out and about instead of back in her bed. Dealing with the repercussions of another vampire being in love with her---and this one without a soul---had been torturous at first, hence her quick remedy of ignoring his attempts to reach out to her. With the knowledge now that Spike was merely interested in forging further contact---in a manner that was so quintessentially William---it was impossible to continue dismissing the truth, and time to start figuring out what it meant from here.

Starting with this one task.

Her hand slid into her pocket, fingering the smooth plane and sharp edges of the envelope. It wasn’t much---she’d only had a few minutes while Willow was in the bathroom---but the power of even the few words she’d chosen was starting to erode her will, indecision returning like an unwanted relative. Maybe she should wait. Maybe it would be better not to say anything until she’d finished reading the letters. Maybe---.

The air was forced from her lungs when the sudden attack from her side had her crushed to the ground, the vampire that had sneaked in under her radar pinning her from behind as his hand coiled into her hair.

Buffy didn’t allow the luxury of getting annoyed at her distraction slow her down. Instinct took over and she slammed her head backwards, feeling her skull connect with a bone-rattling crunch to the demon’s jaw, but all it did was elicit a furious snarl from him, his grip contracting even tighter as he bared her shoulder for an attack.

This was so not what she needed right now, Buffy thought as she tried to twist out from underneath him. He outweighed her by a good hundred pounds, as well as seemed at least a foot taller than her, if the fact that her backward kicks kept being met by fleshy thighs instead of knees or shins was any indication. She was about to switch tactics to something that might actually work when the charge of electricity sizzled through the air, followed immediately by a vibrating jolt that emanated from her attacker’s body.

The scrape of footsteps echoed through the alley as the vampire sagged against her, and before Buffy could push the dead weight off, it was gone, not in a cloud of dust as she might’ve expected, but lifted away as if it had been picked up like a doll. Leaping to her feet, she whirled in time to see two dark-shadowed hulks tote the unconscious demon the few feet to a waiting van, the vehicle starting to move before they’d even closed the doors.

“What---?” she started to say, but was stopped by a third person stepping in front of her, blocking her view of the departing van.

“Are you all right?”

He towered over her, his voice deep, and such close proximity showed Buffy that he was wearing army fatigues, his face smeared with greasepaint to mask his features. In his gloved hand, he held what looked to be a stun gun and Buffy realized with a moment of perfect clarity that it was that weapon that had taken out the vampire.

“What are you doing?” she said, instead of answering his question. She gestured furiously at the empty alley behind him. “Do you have any idea what your friends have taken away there? That’s not just a mugger, you know. That’s a---.”

“You shouldn’t be out so late,” he interrupted. He was backing away from her, his weapon still dangling at the ready in his hand. “The streets aren’t safe after dark.”

And then he was gone, swallowed up by the night while Buffy just gaped in disbelief.

Only in Sunnydale, she thought. Where every day was a monument of weirdness. And apparently, selecting Private Benjamin as its current fashion model of choice.

Returning to the street in front of the Factory, the Slayer took in a deep breath, dispelling that which she couldn’t do anything about with the undertaking she could. Her hand slipped into her pocket, the wrinkles and folds that now marred her letter evident beneath her touch, and her step turned firmly back in the direction of campus. There were plenty of mailboxes along the way. She should’ve just done that in the first place instead of stumbling across the Deathwish crew. Of course, this new development gave her something to focus on that wasn’t Spike, so maybe that was of the good. She would have to go see Giles in the morning to see if he’d heard anything about it.

And still…when Buffy stopped before the large metal box, it was the pale visage of Spike that loomed in front of her as she quickly slid the envelope into its depths before she could change her mind. The softer lines of William’s face ghosted over the vampire’s, and she had to swallow hard in order to squelch the sudden rush of emotion in her throat.

This would be easier if you were actually here.

I miss you.

Come back.

She just wasn’t completely sure all of her wishing was directed at the memory of a certain dead poet. She had a sneaking suspicion that the demon wearing his face and stealing his words was part of that wish as well.

*************

Willow knew the exact moment Buffy slipped out of the dorm room. She’d been pretending to be asleep, because if there was one thing she’d picked up on since getting home from the Factory, it was that Buffy was back in that weird place inside her head she’d been in before going to London. She wasn’t depresso girl this time, but serious thinking always seemed to drag Buffy down, and worrying about Spike most definitely qualified for cold sober contemplation.

As soon as she was alone, Willow pushed off her blankets and went to the window, watching the grounds below until she saw the Slayer head off into the darkness. A quickly uttered incantation set up the warning she would need to alert her to Buffy’s return, and she hastened to crouch beside her best friend’s bed.

She wasn’t going to read the letters. With her burgeoning powers, Willow knew it would be simple to learn their contents without Buffy finding out, but that was an invasion of privacy she wasn’t willing to commit. She did, however, need to know if they contained anything threatening. Spike was still a vampire, and being in the Factory tonight had brought back too-vivid memories of how he’d threatened her with the broken bottle, eclipsing the more recent recollections of their collaboration in London. If there was something Buffy wasn’t sharing---because of a need to protect William’s memory, or a certainty that she could handle any problem Spike might create---Willow wanted to know about it. She wasn’t willing to be the victim of some creepy conspiracy again.

The spell was simple. It wasn’t something she’d picked up in any of her reading, and it wasn’t something she’d been told about in any of her talks with Giles. It was something that was borne from the wake of her contact with Esme, a credence to magics that had previously been veiled from her. Though the Watchers’ Council had questioned her over and over and over again about the repercussions of the power transfer, there were certain details that Willow hadn’t shared; this---this ineluctable surety of spells that had escaped her understanding before---was just one of them.

Not even Giles was aware of how deeply rooted the magic had grounded itself in her. He watched her like a hawk, always taking careful note of her moods, her emotions, quizzing her almost daily about how she was feeling. Always, Willow skated around the truth.

“It’s tough,” she’d admit. “Because I don’t know how much is too much, and sometimes I don’t know where it’s all coming from.”

But that was far as she would take it. How could she possibly convey to him the constant surges that electrified her perceptions, that made the world shimmer in layers of power that she’d never witnessed before? She could see it everywhere now. People wore their power like cloaks. It was more than just an aura; this was both more minimalistic and infinitely complex than such a simple representation.

Sometimes, it hurt her head to look at everyone. Those were times she retired from the world and feigned exhaustion in order not to deal with it.

She was just starting to come to grips with the advantages of such an influx. The best, and easiest, was the basic knowledge that sprung to Willow’s fingertips when she so wanted it. Spells that had been beyond her ken now tumbled from her lips with practiced ease, very much like the warning spell she’d erected at Buffy’s departure. They filled her head with taunts and pleas for usage, but she rarely succumbed to their whim. Too often, they frightened her. It was better to stay on the fringes of such a power than to relinquish what little control she had and enter their realm of dominion.

The threat of an unknown Spike, however, was enough to draw her in, and she readied herself with the boxes to learn their intents.

She didn’t take them out. Taking the lids off the shoeboxes, Willow rested a hand on each, feeling the sharp edges of the paper slivering into her palms. Her breath deepened. Her eyelids fluttered closed.

And she concentrated.

Dark. Always dark. Like sitting in a room without any lights.

But the paper glowed. Gleamed. As if it was…

Effulgent.

And then it came rushing toward her, burning and careening and so so icy-hot, but it didn’t want to hurt, no hurt no wounds no more pain, and she couldn’t stop it, couldn’t keep it away, helpless against its determined force when it grabbed her hands and took her in and promised to make it all go away---.

Willow’s eyes shot open.

Whoa.

The hair was standing up at the back of her neck, tiny goosebumps pocking her flesh as she slowly withdrew her touch from the boxes. She expected to see her hands---what? Different, somehow. But they looked exactly the same, just slightly tremulous in the aftermath of the spell. Kind of like the rest of her, all wobbly on the inside from the sheer strength of what she’d felt.

She didn’t have to worry about being hurt by Spike. The only thing on his mind was Buffy, and the only thing guiding him at the moment was a depth of love that Willow suspected she’d only touched the tip of. His letters were soaked in it.

Swallowing to rid her throat of the knot that had formed there, Willow carefully replaced the lids on the shoeboxes, tucking the letters safely away just as they had been kept. No wonder Buffy was so confused about everything. She’d actually read his missives, had lost herself in promises that made little to no sense. If Willow got such a surge from just gleaning a taste of their intent, what kind of jolt would the Slayer get from direct contact with the words?

Her body was still shaking when she crawled back into her bed. That was the effect she got most of the time when she tapped into Esme’s power. It was just another reason why Willow wished that she’d never agreed to the trip to London in the first place.

*************

On the weekend, the city took on a different life, one that pulsed with the transience of tourists’ heartbeats, stank of the sweat of displaced thousands. So different from the staunch regularity of British routine, London during these two days bristled with a vibrant energy that would’ve served Esme well just a few months prior. She would’ve been able to reach out and tap into all those lifeforces, used those spurts of spirit to fuel any number of spells, and none would be the wiser.

Now, of course, she was relegated to watch from the sidelines, monitoring the city’s progression through the limo window as it rushed her to the Council’s private airport.

On the leather seat beside her, Quentin observed Esme with a wary detachment, his fingers drumming silently on the manila envelope that rested in his lap. She was weary of his distrust, even if it was deserved. She would be glad when she was no longer under his heavy-handed scrutiny.

“You’re certain you’re up to this?” he asked for the third time since leaving Council Headquarters.

It would be a relief to be free of his incessant questioning, as well.

“I have little choice,” Esme replied. Her dark eyes assessed his with a directness she knew he didn’t often garner. “If I wish to regain some purpose to my paltry existence, I have to play by your rules. You’ve made that very clear, Quentin.”

“I want to trust you, you know. I’m ignoring all of my advisors’ opinions in allowing you to do this.”

“Am I supposed to feel flattered by that?” She held a wrinkled hand to her chest, and bowed her head in mock obeisance. “Thank you for such an honor.”

Shaking his head, Quentin shifted his gaze to the passing scenery. “You will have only one opportunity,” he said. “I’ve instructed your partner in this to alert me to anything he deems suspicious. That means your best behavior, Esme. Anything less, and you’ll be flown back to London where you’ll serve the rest of your days in far less grandeur than you’ve been allowed thus far.”

“Anything without my powers is less than satisfactory,” she replied, her voice suddenly cold. “I’m merely doing this because I detest being so useless.”

He nodded. “It’s the first time you’ve been without magic since you were a child. Frankly, I’m surprised you lasted this long before agreeing to my arrangement.”

They lapsed into silence, the only sounds within the vehicle the irregular rhythm of the seams in the road. Esme’s fingers itched to cast a confusion spell at the Council Head, snap some of the smug overconfidence off his face, but even such a simple incantation escaped her abilities at the moment. That lack was precisely why she had finally acquiesced to Quentin’s offer. If she couldn’t utilize her magic herself, molding the young witch who now wielded it was the next best thing.

“Is the Slayer aware of my pending arrival?” she asked.

The twitching in his hands was the only hint of his discomfiture. “She will be told,” he replied. “In due time.”

She nodded, as if nothing else could’ve been conceivable. Without her powers, she knew she wasn’t in any position to compel the aid of Buffy Summers. However, it might just be that presumed weakness that would allow Esme to slip past the Slayer’s defenses. She was old, and she was infirm, and if she knew anything about Buffy, it was that the young woman harbored a protective streak a mile wide. Perhaps a deal could be struck.

Besides, it was Esme who was responsible for introducing William Freston into Buffy’s life. The fact that the demonized William hadn’t killed the Slayer---and vice versa---was proof enough that their harbored feelings ran deeper than the norm. Surely, Esme’s part in bringing them together would gain her at least a foothold within the Slayer’s circle.

After all, that was all she really needed.

 

 

 

*************

Chapter 4: These Curious Days

The delicate aroma of sugar wafted through the doorway when it opened, an expectant Giles caught in mid-bite as he stood there in greeting. Buffy’s mouth quirked at the sight of the half-eaten powdered donut he held in one hand and the white speckling around and on his lips, and bit her cheek to keep from laughing out loud as she brushed past him into his apartment.

“I see we’ve skipped straight to the Sugar Vanquishes All Evil portion of our slaying day,” she commented, her eyes falling on Xander and the two pastry boxes that sat open in front of him. She plopped down on the couch. “So which one is this demon susceptible to? Plain, jelly, or cream-filled?”

“We’re still conducting market research,” Xander replied before biting down into his own donut. “Help yourself.”

“Um, that would be no. I already had breakfast.” Truth be told, the sight of the donuts was making Buffy’s stomach unsettle.

“Where’s Willow?” he asked between bites.

“Picking up Oz. They should be here---.” A knock came at the door and Buffy twisted in time to see Giles open it again and reveal the two redheads. “---right about now.”

“Sorry we’re late,” Willow said brightly. “But we come bearing…” Her gaze caught the treats already laid out, and then jumped to the box she carried in her hand. “Oh.”

“No worries,” Xander said. He hopped to his feet and took the box from her hands. “There’s no telling how long this meeting could last. Better to be prepared than to worry about hosting our very own Donner Party.”

“Or be a South American rugby player stuck in the Andes,” added Oz.

Giles grimaced in distaste. “And on that particularly…unsavory note,” he said, “might I suggest we get to the matter at hand?”

The group lapsed into silence, each looking to the other as they waited for someone to speak. “Maybe the matter was on a foot,” Xander finally commented. “Anyone suffering from an ingrown toenail?”

“I’ll go first,” Buffy said. “Not that mine is apocalypse-worthy, but it definitely rates as wiggy.”

“This isn’t about Spike, is it?”

Willow’s blurted question took everyone by surprise, but it was Xander who jumped on it first.

“Spike? Spike’s back in town?” His head whipped around, surveying the agitation in the redhead’s features, the solemn masks put on by Giles and Oz. But it was Buffy’s darting eyes and flushed cheeks that held his attention and he faced off with the Slayer and repeated his questions.

“No, he’s not,” she assured. She turned to Willow. “And no, this isn’t about him. It’s about some weird vigilante group I ran into last night.”

She had to get Xander off the topic of Spike. The last thing she needed right now was to have to go over the events of the summer in greater detail, to witness the hurt on her friend’s face when he found out that he’d been kept in the dark about something as monumental as this. Willow was obviously regretting her too-quick assumption, and chewed at her bottom lip as if that would stop any more from spilling over her tongue. But Buffy couldn’t focus on her. If she did, that would only make Xander jump back to his original questions. And she just couldn’t answer them right now.

Giles was the one who came to her rescue.

“What vigilante group?” he asked. “Did you encounter something unusual while on patrol?”

Briefly, Buffy relayed the events in the alley behind the Factory, omitting the reason she’d left the dorm in the first place. “They got away in a van,” she finished. “By the time I had my head back together to think about following it, they were long gone.”

“And you’re certain it was a vampire that was attacking you?”

She nodded. “Had all the tinglies to prove it.”

“Maybe it’s just some local citizens trying to make a difference,” Willow offered. “After all, not everyone is completely blind about what goes on in Sunnydale. They could just be wanting to take a bite out of crime before someone takes a bite out of them.”

“I don’t think so,” Buffy said. “These guys moved more in sync together than a boy band. Plus, they had their little stun gun toys to zap the vamp with. That doesn’t exactly say fly-by-night operation to me.”

“Unless vigilante groups qualify for funding these days,” Oz said.

“And you say they didn’t kill the vampire?” This was the part Buffy had known would perplex Giles the most. “They merely…towed it away?”

“I saw it with my own two eyes. The only dust in that alley was from the people who came out from the Factory to smoke.”

The young people watched as the Watcher began to pace around the room, processing the information that had been shared. “It would certainly explain a great deal,” he muttered. “A great deal.”

“Someone’s not sharing with the rest of the class,” Buffy prodded.

Giles’ head snapped up. “What? Oh, yes, quite right.” He cleared his throat. “I received a telephone call from England this morning---.”

“No.” She cut him off before he could even finish the sentence. “You are not about to tell us that the Council has something to do with this.”

“No, I’m not. Mr. Travers called regarding another matter, but one of the things he mentioned was that there had been reports of lessened demon frequency in Sunnydale. Reports that didn’t add up to the ones I provided him regarding your slaying.”

“But that’s a good thing, right?” asked Willow. “Fewer demons means less evil in the world and more time for Buffy to have a real life outside of being the Slayer.”

“The Council’s not so certain about that,” the Watcher admitted. “While they’re often aware of the more prolific demon hunters, they haven’t been able to deduce who exactly is responsible for the lowered population here.”

“So tell them it’s these commando guys,” Xander said. “Problem solved.” He turned back to Buffy. “Which means we can go back to why Willow would think Spike was the issue you wanted to talk about.”

“The problem isn’t solved,” Giles said. “Mr. Travers’ primary purpose in contacting us was to inform me that two of the Council’s operatives would be arriving soon. And that I’m to give them my complete support in their new assignment.”

This drove the Slayer to her feet. “Just because you’re back on Council payroll,” she said, her tone brittle, “doesn’t mean they get the right to start riding slipshod over my life again. I’ve slipped enough shod from them for a lifetime.”

“Contrary to what you might think, Buffy, this isn’t about you.” He switched his spectacled gaze to the redhead sitting on the floor between Oz’s legs. “This is about Willow.”

“Me?” It was Willow’s turn to rise. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. The Council is still concerned about the effects of the magic infusion you received, as am I, to be frank. They’re sending two…experts to aid me in helping you integrate the new power more efficiently.”

“She doesn’t need Council experts,” Buffy argued. “She needs time.”

“She’s had time,” Giles countered. “And on this matter, I’m afraid I agree with Mr. Travers’ assessment. The longer Willow takes to come to grips with her powers, the more difficult it will be to make it a smooth transition.”

“But I am all transitioned,” said Willow. The color had risen in her cheeks, prompting Oz to stand and settle a soothing hand in the small of her back. “I don’t want to play lab rat any more for Watchers I don’t know. Hoops and mazes? Not so much with the fun, surprisingly enough.”

“You won’t be. I’ve made it very clear that I will be the one in charge of this, and as for the others, well…you know at least one of them, so it won’t be completely unfamiliar for you.”

The young people waited for Giles to elaborate, but when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to, Buffy sighed in exasperation.

“Please tell me it isn’t that Lydia,” she said. “I think both Will and I had our share of her in London.”

The Watcher’s mouth thinned. “No, it’s not Lydia,” he said. “He wanted to come to this meeting this morning, but I insisted that I tell you that he would be involved with this before he arbitrarily showed up.” He cleared his throat, his discomfort in stating the name obvious. “It’s Wesley.”

Eyes widened all around the group. “But he quit from Watcherdom,” Willow said.

“Actually, he was fired, but that’s neither here nor there. The Council has contracted him for this one assignment only, both because his knowledge of magic is almost as extensive as mine, and, well, because he’s already here. They thought it would be a more conducive environment for you, Willow, if you were comfortable with those guiding you.”

“You said ‘others,’” Buffy prompted.

“Yes, the third is a witch from the Council’s coven. Mr. Travers didn’t give me her name, though.”

With a dejected plop, Willow collapsed into the chair, her mouth drawn in a sulky pout. “And that makes just perfect sense,” she groused, “considering they couldn’t understand Esme’s magic when it was actually in Esme.”

“Actually, I kind of like the idea.” Oz perched on the arm of the chair, ignoring the surprise from the rest of the group to focus on his girlfriend. “You had a lot of power thrust onto you without any warning. I’d rather you had someone help you deal with it than watch you implode from trying to deal with it yourself.”

“But…it’s Wesley,” she protested weakly.

Oz shrugged. “Wesley came through when it really counted,” he said. “That’s enough for me.”

“If memory serves, Wesley ended up on a stretcher when it really counted,” Xander interjected.

“But he did try,” Buffy said. “Which already rates him higher than any of those jerks back in England. Not that I’m necessarily agreeing with putting you through the wringer again if you don’t want to be wrung, but at least Wesley’s a known quantity.”

They waited as Willow mulled over all of their words, finally granting them a small smile. “I guess I’m just not used to being important enough to fuss over,” she said. “But if you guys think it’s all for the best---.”

“That’s my brave little toaster,” Xander said with a wide grin. He clapped his hands together, rubbing them in anticipation. “OK, so that’s agenda item number two taken care of. Does anyone else have anything to talk about before Buffy explains what the deal is with Spike? No? Good.” He turned to the Slayer. “Spill.”

His brown eyes were ingenuous as he regarded her, but rather than soothe Buffy as they usually did, she began to squirm in unease. There was no way he was going to understand this. He’d hated Angel from day one, and Angel had had a soul. How could Buffy even begin to hope that Xander would be sympathetic about her encounters with William? Worse, how could she explain what had transpired between her and Spike? Only Willow was aware of those details, and that had been tough enough to share.

But she hated the thought of lying to him. When she’d hidden the truth about Angel’s return from the gang, it had taken ages for them to return to that place of trust they’d always shared. If she lied again, what were the odds that Xander would never forgive her this time?

She took a deep breath. “There’s a chance Spike is coming back to Sunnydale,” she said carefully. It wasn’t the truth as Xander wanted to hear it, but it wasn’t a fib, either, since she hadn’t actually had a chance yet to finish the letters to confirm or deny the statement.

“What?” Xander exclaimed. “Why?”

Buffy cast a furtive glance around, but none of the others seemed perturbed by her announcement. Of course, Willow already knew about the possibility, and Oz couldn’t be flapped if someone tied huge wings to his arms, but it was the non-reaction in her Watcher’s face that took her by surprise. She’d expected a scowl, or at least an “Oh, Buffy;” all she got was a duck of his head and an averting of his eyes.

“He…has unfinished business here,” she managed to say.

“And you know this how?”

“He told me.”

“When?”

Shit. She should’ve known he was going to go there. “When I saw him in London.”

“You saw him? And you didn’t stake him?”

Trying not to notice the incredulity in Xander’s eyes, Buffy folded her arms over her queasy stomach. “It’s complicated,” she said. “And I didn’t really have time, remember? There was that whole turned Slayer thing I was trying to resolve.”

“But you had time to have a heart-to-heart with the vamp who made our lives miserable for two years?” Xander shook his head. “Don’t tell me he pulled another sob story about losing the love of his pathetic unlife again. That’s too sad, even for Spike.”

“I told you, it’s complicated.” She repeated it through gritted teeth. Her stomach was roiling, her nerves like frayed rope. “What does it matter, anyway? He’s not here now, and we’ve got other issues to be worried about in the meantime.”

“It matters because he kills Slayers.”

“He’s not going to kill me.”

“How do you know that?”

And there it was. The million dollar question. The one she could lie through her teeth about and potentially lose Xander as a friend if he ever discovered the truth, or confess everything and still potentially lose Xander because of his vamp hate. It was a lose-lose situation, no matter what angle she tried to look at it.

She wasn’t even aware when Willow appeared at her side, her hand gently touching Buffy’s arm. “Are you OK?” the redhead asked. Buffy turned her head to meet Willow’s worried gaze. “You don’t look so hot.”

“I’m---,” she started, but it was in that moment that her stomach chose to revolt, and she bolted for the bathroom, slamming the door open and crouching over the toilet just in time for the remains of her breakfast to come rushing back up.

Her throat burned from the heaving, and by the time Buffy lifted her head, Willow had arrived with a glass of water, offering it without a word. She gulped it down, surprised that her stomach felt almost normal again, and glanced guiltily back at the others who had congregated at the open door.

“Sorry about that,” Buffy said. “I guess I must be coming down with some sort of bug.”

“You should go back to the dorm and rest,” Giles said. “From the sound of it, you haven’t been getting much sleep since your classes started. You won’t do anyone any good if you push yourself too hard too fast.”

“I’ll drive you,” offered Oz.

She just nodded. She didn’t want to tell them that she was already feeling better, that retching out the contents of her stomach seemed to do the trick to get rid of the queasiness, but Giles probably had a point. If she was getting sick, it was better to nip it in the bud now rather than get even sicker later on.

It also gave her a good excuse to lie around in bed, finishing off Spike’s letters. Buffy kept her head bowed so that the others wouldn’t see the satisfied gleam in her eyes. Rest was of the good, every way around.

*************

It wasn’t dusk yet, though it was very close to it, the long fingers of sunlight tinged in orange where they slithered around the edges of the drawn curtains. In the narrow line of the bed, Spike stretched, his muscles replete from the hours of slumber he’d gained even though his mind was not, and his eyes opened to stare up at the plaster ceiling.

He’d dreamt of the battle with April. Not the one at the Watcher’s house when he’d finally had the chance to snap that Nathan bastard’s neck. The one with Buffy back in the day, when a horrified Rose had hurtled the spell into the garden to try and protect her husband from the vampire’s clutches.

It had gone slightly differently in his dream, though. Instead of capturing the turned Slayer in the crystal collection, Rose’s spell had ricocheted back, her magic slicing into her fragile flesh like a knife through butter, and she’d fallen to a crumpled heap on the porch. Her blood was already dripping onto the steps by the time William could reach her, and his hands had turned scarlet the moment they touched her unbreathing body. It had only been the threat of losing Buffy that had torn him away, and he’d spent the remainder of the dream trying to get his Slayer to safety without the seer’s aid.

It was impossible to deny any longer the emotion gurgling within Spike’s gut.

Regret.

And grief.

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut again, Spike tried to will away the tears that had sprung in their corners as he remembered her from that fateful night. There was so much that had occurred that infuriated him, but that had all come after. During the course of those hours, when Rose had made it possible for William to show his strength in battle once and for all, and then afterward, when she’d maintained every composure as she ensured he got Buffy to safety, she had been golden, as formidable as his staunchest enemy but as compassionate as his own mother. He would always be grateful to her for giving him the chance to show his worth to Buffy, and, even more importantly, to prove his worth to himself.

She was a good woman

She shouldn’t have had to die that way.

Shaking his head, Spike leapt from the bed, cracking his neck and joints as he forced his body into action. Better to do. Better to not think. He had plans to make and a death to avenge.

He couldn’t wait to sink his fangs into Baltozar. That was one kill he planned on savoring the old-fashioned way. With hours and hours of torture. And maybe some disemboweling. He hadn’t enjoyed a really good evisceration since before Sunnydale.

He was freshly showered and slipping into a pair of jeans when he heard the suite door open. Grimacing when the familiar call of his name floated from the front room, he turned his back on the door to rummage through the dresser, pretending to be more concerned about which of the black tees to wear than Lydia’s impending arrival.

The knock came, along with the repeat of “William?” but Spike grabbed hold of his routine slighting and held firm; part of him was still pissed at the Watcher for her unsuspecting role in Rose’s death. Besides, she would just enter of her own accord anyway. Spike was convinced she was hoping to catch him starkers one of these days; in spite of her protestations to the contrary, she still harbored more than a passing attraction to him.

“I’m so glad you’re up,” she said as she stepped into the room. “I’ve so much to---.”

“Save it.” Settling on a shirt, he pulled it over his head, deliberately flexing the muscles in his back for her benefit, and then smirking unseen at the slight acceleration in her pulse. Fuck, she was so bloody predictable. It was a good thing this was a temporary arrangement between them. Any more time spent with the bint, and he’d be driven batty from the boredom.

“Did you find Baltozar?” he asked. He turned to his desk and began slipping his things into his pockets---some loose bills, his lighter. Spike’s eyes fell on the writing supplies carefully arranged in the corner, and mentally calculated how long he’d have to write his daily note to Buffy. It would likely have to be a short one this time; he had a feeling the night was going to be busy.

“No,” Lydia admitted. That got his attention, and though she paled at his angry scowl, she didn’t back away. “By the time I got to his place, he was gone.”

“Then what the bloody fuck are you doin’ back here?” Spike demanded. “I don’t keep you around for your company, you know. Find him.”

She ignored his gibe. “I already have. Or I’ve found where he went to, at least.” Stepping aside, she tilted her head toward the outer room. “Come. I’ve brought some things I think you’ll want to see.”

He followed her out to the tiny sitting room, his frown deepening when he saw the box sitting on the lone chair. “What’s this?” he asked, crossing to start pawing through its contents.

“Rose’s effects,” she replied. “Or at least, those that I thought would be of interest to you.”

It was a hodgepodge of items.

The first thing he pulled out was a journal that looked fairly new. A quick flick through it revealed entries detailing Rose’s life of the past few weeks. Spike sat that one aside to look at more closely when he was done.

The next he pulled out was a small wooden box, its top intricately carved. Lifting the lid, he saw an assortment of jewelry, including the simple band he remembered she’d worn when living her life as Mrs. Rhodes-Fanshaw. He quirked an eyebrow at Lydia.

“Nicking the valuables, too?” he commented. “Knew I’d have an influence on you, sooner or later.”

“Jewelry often has symbolic resonance when it comes to magic,” she explained. “And since Rose’s powers were still so unknown to us, I presumed it was better to be safe than sorry.”

He resumed his examination. Most of it meant nothing to him; Lydia had obviously been a bit overzealous in her acquisitions. But then, at the bottom, a worn atlas caught his eye, and his head tilted as he pulled it out.

Its cover was bent and wrinkled, the edges soft from frequent thumbings. Half the index page had been torn away, revealing the bottom half of the British Isles on the sheet below it. When Spike slowly turned it over, his gaze was immediately drawn to the graceful lilt of red script written over the Atlantic Ocean.

Machynlleth.

The world tunneled around him, fixing his eyes on the land mass of Wales. She’d known. Somehow, Rose had known he’d been looking for her. He’d always wondered why it was they’d always seemed to be one step behind the seer, and now he thought he understood. She’d watched him do it, every inch of the way.

Page after page, Spike watched the path of his and Lydia’s journey unfold. Every stop, every city, every country…it was all documented with the same crimson writing, an occasional note adding detail that only confirmed his suspicions.

Lydia watched him intently. “She knew,” she said softly.

“Can see that.”

“I think…I think she was leading us here.”

He looked up at that. “You spot a pattern I don’t?” Spike asked.

“Not there,” she said. Taking the atlas from his hands, Lydia set it to the side to pick up the journal he’d already discarded. She flipped it open to a recent entry, handing it over to him and watching him as he skimmed it over.

His lips thinned as the anger inside rekindled. “Son of a bitch!” Spike roared. He sent it hurtling against the far wall, the papers ruffling as the impact created a large hole in the plaster where it hit.

Even from beyond the grave, Rose was manipulating him like a puppet. Just like she’d stripped the memories of Buffy from him for over a century, she was leading him around by the short and curlies on what was inevitably a wild goose chase. Why? Why would she do this? What could she possibly have to gain?

And then he knew.

And the regret he’d felt at her death vanished.

She was keeping him away from Buffy. That could be the only reason.

“There’s more.”

The calm of Lydia’s voice cut through his rage, and Spike’s gaze swiveled to stare at her. “You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

Her eyes fell to the atlas, and she flipped to a page in the back. Without saying another word, she turned the book around so that it was right-side up for him, and Spike glanced down to see what it was she was showing him.

Zohar.

Written elegantly along the California coast.

It took only a few strides to return to his bedroom, to grab the book he’d taken from Rose’s and to open it up to the title page. There was the red ink again.

There was his confirmation.

To William.
I’m sorry I didn’t believe.
Don’t give up.
Rose

He couldn’t tear his eyes from the words. It was the last thing he’d expected to see, and yet again, his emotions were doing a tap dance into the realm of irresolution. How was he supposed to stay mad at her when she pulled a stunt like this? And what the hell did all of it mean, anyway?

“She’s still leading us.”

His shoulders slumped. He didn’t want to listen to Lydia’s over-idealistic assessments of the situation. He wanted to take a break from pointless searches for Slayer powers, and seers who could never speak plain, let alone play it straight when it mattered. He just wanted to bury himself in Buffy; if he couldn’t feel her within his arms or hear her voice against his skin, then he’d settle for the verse writing to her always seemed to inspire these days.

“Don’t care,” Spike said, dropping the book back to the nightstand. He crossed to the desk and settled in the chair. “Get out. Need some time to get my head back on.”

As soon as he felt the pen in his grip, some of the tension began to unknit from his limbs. This was his best escape for now. There was something therapeutic in the ink and paper, something that had been lost to him for years before recovering the memories of those fateful weeks with Buffy. He just needed that haven for a moment. It would inevitably help him resuscitate the will to see this through.

When he realized that Lydia hadn’t moved away from the doorway behind him, he said, “Thought I told you to get out.”

“You can’t hide from this.”

“Who said I was hiding?”

“You’re writing to Buffy, aren’t you? You do this every time you start to lose faith in what we’re doing.”

Spike squared the sheet of paper, taking a second to relish the heavy feel of the weft along his fingertips before picking up his pen again. “Sod off, Lydia.”

“But---.”

“I said, sod off!” His head whipped around, his forehead ridged, eyes gleaming in bright yellow from the frustration wending through his veins. She visibly jumped at the sight of his gameface; it was the first time he’d turned it directly on her since their first week together. It did what he wanted, though.

“There is more,” she said, her voice quavering as she backed out of the doorway. “And it is time-sensitive. When you’re ready to hear it, I’ll be in my room.”

Then, she was gone, and Spike exhaled at the sound of the door closing behind him. He wouldn’t make it a long letter. Though he didn’t want to admit it to her face, Lydia was right about one thing. He couldn’t hide from what he’d started, as much as the desire to do so may overtake him.

Setting the nib to the paper, he watched the sheet soak up the flow of ink like a man long-lost in the Sahara.

Dear Buffy…

*************

They made a striking couple as they strode down the Heathrow walkway. Both were tall, both dark, and they carried themselves with a feral grace that had people shying to the side to allow them to pass with a wide berth. As the clerk watched them approach her terminal, she unconsciously straightened, trying to draw herself higher than her normal five and a half feet, but she still had to look up to address them.

“May I help you?” she asked brightly when they stopped before her.

The man leaned against the counter, and the clerk’s eyes were drawn away from his swarthy features to where his sleeves rode up. Both of his muscled forearms sported tattoos; on the right was a sword with blood dripping from the blade that disappeared beneath his shirt, and on the left was a woman, hair long and flowing as she seemed to be bent backwards in supplication. The ink was faded, indicating the age of the marks, and it struck her that he must’ve got them as a teenager because he couldn’t be more than thirty now.

“We’re here for our connecting flight from Barcelona,” he said.

His words were heavily accented, though there was a refinement to his tone that she found incongruous to his appearance. He wore his hair shaggy, his sideburns thick and down almost to his jaw, and his clothing did little to hide his heavy muscles. Not good-looking, but…arresting, she decided. If he hadn’t spoken, she would’ve thought he was a laborer of some sort.

“Tickets and passports, please.”

The woman who accompanied him never looked up as the man passed over the documentation. She wasn’t as dark as her partner, but her features were just as strong. A long nose that was probably just a bit too big for her face. A wide mouth that was currently pinched tight in obvious tension. Like Julia Roberts, but not pretty, the clerk thought. She’d called girls like that in school, “horsey.”

As the clerk began to process their check-in, her gaze surreptitiously slid up, through her lashes, to watch the two speak, their bodies turned slightly away for privacy, their voices low.

“You can sleep on the plane,” he said.

“I don’t think I’ll sleep until this is over,” the woman replied. Hers was a different accent. Maybe East European, the clerk thought.

“You worry too much.”

“We’re still alive, aren’t we?”

The clerk tried not to let the effect of her eavesdropping show on her face, lifting her eyes back to the pair with a smile she’d perfected after too many years in customer service. “Everything was sorted for you when you checked in, in Barcelona,” she said, passing back their paperwork. “We’ll be starting to board in half an hour. Have a good flight.”

Without another word, the pair turned away to sit, and she noticed then the piercings on the back of the woman’s neck. Four silver studs adorned the shaved nape in a trapezoidal shape, a pixie haircut showcasing them for everyone to see, and the clerk was struck with sudden morbid curiosity in how they could be affixed into place. The Americans are going to have a fun time with these two at arrival, she mused, but as soon as the next customer came up for service, all thoughts of the odd pair vanished from her head. Her job put her into contact with a vast variety of people. Baltozar Marroquin and Havi Aronowicz were just two more faces in the merging crowd.

 

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