Wesley Wyndham-Price looked like hell.

*And for that brilliant insight into the human condition, Rupert old man, you should be knighted.* Giles scolded himself mentally for his idiotically banal observation; of course the man looked like hell. He’d lost the woman he loved, watched a being he didn’t understand take over her body and continue existence in her shell. The man was living a waking nightmare.

It had been some years, but still Rupert Giles knew that in those dark days after Angelus had murdered Jenny Calendar, he himself had worn this same grotesque mask of grief tempered by emotional strength and British reserve. Truth be told, there were days he was certain that the mask was still very much in place, no matter how much living he had attempted to put between the past and the present. Sad to say that Angelus had killed much more than Jenny; in a very real way that Giles was only beginning to understand, Angelus had also killed his ability to love fully, to trust implicitly, to withhold judgment, and (in no small way) to believe in his slayer. Some crucial part of Giles’ belief in Buffy had died that night along with Jenny, and he realized only far too late how bitterly unfair to her and others that had been.

But none of these morose ruminations would help the drained husk of a man standing before him, staring out the window onto the cold dark streets of residential Los Angeles in the early morning hours. He very much doubted that Wesley would ever love or trust completely again, but that didn’t seem as much the issue; the man before him no longer wanted to even try. It was obvious from every aspect of his person, from the way he held himself to the way he avoided physical and visual contact at all costs; Wesley Wyndham-Price was in the world, but no longer of it.

Giles had no idea as to what this man’s personal voyage had been since he had left Sunnydale a priggish Watcher defrocked of his Council collar, but whatever it was had made him hard as steel. Unfortunately for Wesley, the same fires that gave him his hard edges had apparently made him brittle, and the stress fractures of years of a life too fraught with strife had widened into full-blown chasms. Only time could tell whether there was iron enough inside to allow Wesley to find his way back up from the depths, but as of this moment Giles’ gut instinct was, tragically, that there was not.

Willow, too, was appalled at Wesley’s condition, though for far different reasons. She had seen him only last year, and although their conversation hadn’t forced her to put him at the top of the Willow Rosenberg Conversational Indicators of Craziness scale, he hadn’t exactly bottomed out on the ‘normal’ end of it, either. He had been so hesitant and yet so hard-edged and rough, such a strange combination of the Wesley she had known and the Wes he had become. She hadn’t been lying when she told him that he had been to a dark place, though he had thought she was only placating him, and she had hoped that perhaps he had managed to put it behind him. She realized now what she must have seen; the dark hadn’t been left behind, not by a long shot. It had still been there, lying in wait for an opportunity to be unleashed.

Willow herself had existed for months in that same stasis, letting her friends believe that she had dodged the black magic bullet when all it took was one very real copper-jacketed projectile to bring it all ripping to the surface. Her love had been taken by man, Wesley’s by the supernatural, and the loss had driven them both to near insanity. Not for the first time she shuddered inwardly and said grateful prayers to the Powers for sending her Giles and the Coven; she had no doubt that had they not intervened, she would have ended up very much like Wes was now. She felt that she had an obligation to both a fellow-sufferer and to a friend—take the good deed and pay it forward. Heal Wesley as much as possible, show him that tomorrow was still there for him.

Wesley, for his part, was all too aware of the close attention being given him by Rupert and Willow and was infinitely grateful that all of the others had gone to bed, leaving just the three of them to their discussion. He had a feeling that he was becoming a character study for Rupert and a project for Willow, and strangely it was only the first idea that truly disturbed him. It chafed just under his skin, the feeling that he was constantly under observation and testing, being watched for his reactions to increasingly cruel stimuli. That part of the analysis of his feelings didn’t extend to the two in the room with him, of course; even in his embittered state, he couldn’t be that uncharitable. Nevertheless, the close attention was raising his hackles, and he had to force himself into slowing his breathing and calming himself.

Staying silent, he stared out the window and allowed himself a moment to reflect on this virulent hatred of being a bloody spectacle. The irony of being a Watcher who hated being observed was not lost on him, but he found it somehow impossible to laugh, the oppressiveness of the situation being enough to rein in his personality. The feeling of being watched and being tormented had been there from the first day at Wolfram and Hart and had only intensified over time, and he had never felt more smothered by it than on the day Illyria had stripped Fred out of her own body. That was the day that he had realized that not only had they not outrun or outplayed the devil, they had delivered themselves right to its door and allowed it to observe weaknesses, insecurities and personality glitches. They had freely provided every possible bit of material the firm had needed to bring them to their knees, and up to that point only Fred, the most innocent of them all, had paid an eternal price. It was impossible not to wonder when the bill would come due for the rest of them. Small wonder he’d not slept since.

He started violently when he felt a hand on his shoulder; entranced by the empty street and the bleakness of his thoughts, he hadn’t even sensed anyone’s approach. Turning quickly on his heels, he looked at Willow and took in the soft, sympathetic smile gracing her face. *Dear girl. She really is trying,* he thought, returning the smile with a hesitant one of his own, his cheeks almost aching from the effort. He hadn’t been much inclined towards smiling lately; when Fred had died all desire to be happy had disappeared, and the very thought of joy anywhere in the world had been disgusting. Somehow now the impulse was getting easier to see as acceptable, perhaps because he was beginning to believe that he might not be altogether abandoned to his grief and betrayal.

“Wes, do you wanna maybe talk to Giles and I about Illyria? I mean, I know it’s not easy… and you only have to tell us what you think we need to know… I mean, we don’t have to get way personal…but… well… but if they need my help with whatever it is they’re doing, I need to know what I’m getting into… and I need to know who and… well, what she is,” Willow finished, wincing sympathetically at the pain that had again masked Wesley’s features.

Wes took a deep breath and walked to the tapestry-upholstered sofa in the corner of the study, seating himself across from Giles. Looking about, he couldn’t help but think that everything the Council touched seemed to be as stuffy and rarified as the aura they had tried to create for themselves. Heaving a deep inhale, he squashed the desire to flee that memories of the Council had provoked and turned his attention to Willow. “What exactly would you like to know?”

“How did Illyria get to Wolfram and Hart from the Deeper Well, Wesley? What of her guardian, of Drogyn?” Giles asked, unable to stop himself now that he was so close to getting the answers he had longed for since his aborted phone call with Angel weeks before.

“Apparently Illyria’s release from the Deeper Well was pre-ordained. Angel and Spike traveled to the Cotswolds to discover what they could, and Drogyn told them that there was nothing he could have done to prevent the disappearance; he in fact hadn’t noticed that she was no longer there until such time as Angel and Spike appeared. They tried…” Wesley broke off for a moment, trying to catch his breath. “Drogyn was prepared to cast the retrieval spell, but to pull Illyria back to the well would have destroyed everyone she touched between Los Angeles and her tomb. Fred’s life would perhaps have been spared, but at the cost of millions of others; there would have been chaos unleashed upon the world… she would never have wanted that in her name, for her sake,” he finished almost inaudibly, staring at his shaking hands before dropping them to his knees in an effort to keep them still.

“When Angel called me, Wesley,” Giles began gently, needing to explain to the younger man exactly why his conversation with Angel had been so rancorous, “he wouldn’t give me any sort of detail. He demanded Willow, but would not tell me why he needed her or what he hoped she could accomplish. Our trust of him… well, diminished severely when we learned he had taken over the very law firm he had been fighting for years. I myself haven’t exactly felt any sort of affinity towards him since… well, quite honestly, since Angelus reawakened, really. I was always able to overcome my mistrust, however, by telling myself that he was working towards redemption, righting wrongs and protecting the innocent. His link to the Powers through the visions only seemed to confirm that. His takeover of Wolfram & Hart, coupled with his loss of the guidance of the Powers, indicated strongly to all of us that something was deeply amiss, and it was decided that we would treat any request from him as highly suspect pending further inquiry.”

“We didn’t want to say no, Wes,” Willow added. “I… I really liked Fred. In a lot of ways she was a lot like me and we got along really well… not that I wouldn’t have wanted to help if it had been somebody else,” she hastened to add, hating that even now her tendency to ramble was running away with her. “I don’t think any of us was really completely comfy with Angel after Angelus,” she resumed, “even Buffy, if she’s being really honest with herself. But Giles is right—as long as he was fighting the good fight, it was easier to be all ‘go team go.’ But the visions went away when Cordy went into the coma, and you all took over the evil empire, and everything was all topsy-turvy. And then he got all weird and demand-y with us, and I was a little scared. All the black magic is still in me, Wes, and if he got ahold of it… it wasn’t something we could chance. But I’m so sorry,” she finished softly.

Wesley sighed and leaned back against the couch, resting his head against the bare wood along the top of the frame. The bit of discomfort kept him solidly anchored as he thought about what they had said. He realized with no small amount of shame that he hadn’t even thought about what it meant that the visions had expired with Cordelia’s illness. Doyle’s death hadn’t stopped them, and there were certainly candidates for transfer—he supposed that the Powers could have even used Spike or Lorne if it had been necessary, or simply sent someone altogether new—but the cold fact remained that they hadn’t. Since their move to Wolfram & Hart, the Powers had been uncharacteristically silent.

“You were right,” Wesley answered finally, straightening and meeting Giles’ and Willow’s eyes in turn. “Although I failed to see it, you were right. And I can’t help but think…” Wesley paused, eyes widening as he realized the probability of his next statement, “I can’t help but think that perhaps their lack of assistance during Fred’s… passing and Illyria’s resurrection were the Powers’ opinion on what we have done. Surely had we not fallen from their graces we would have been warned,” he continued, brain working overtime as he thought through the matter aloud. “They could have interceded or warned, but they chose not to… or perhaps they feared to. Perhaps we were meant to have Illyria—we need her for some coming conflict, and a warning would have endangered her.”

“In terms of coming conflicts… this plan of yours, Wesley,” Giles asked, academic mode firmly engaged and positively rabid for answers, “depends absolutely upon Illyria. Are you certain that she can be trusted?”

“As certain as I am about anything these days,” Wesley replied, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. “She attempted to raise her army and failed; they are long since dead, and her sole disciple is no longer an issue.”

“Can you be certain of this?”

“I put a bullet through him and watched his blood drain from his body, Rupert. I’m quite certain he was effectively neutralized,” Wesley answered, an air of confidence he did not feel cloaking the words to mask the guilt. If he had expected recriminations, however, he would not find them from the two in the room with him; each had taken human life, Giles with an eye to the future and the greater good and Willow for vengeance. Neither was certain into which category Wesley’s actions fell, but they were both hesitant to make the judgment call.

“Illyria, being an Old One, has a certain relationship with time—she’s not bound by it, as we are. So she will walk forward through time, following Angel’s path. That is the plan, yes?” Giles asked, running down his mental checklist of questions. At Wesley’s affirmative nod, he continued, “I’m assuming you asked after the matter of free will—how we might be certain that what Illyria sees is actually what will come to fruition. Were you satisfied with her response?”

“Of course I asked, although the answer to that question involved some rather unflattering ruminations on mankind and our inability to see beyond our own noses, as it were. As to the response, I’m not entirely certain I’m comfortable with taking definitive action based on what still seem to me to be mere possibilities; perhaps we should hold back until we’re certain that what she has seen is in fact coming to pass, that he is indeed following the path Illyria traveled. There will most certainly be a moment beyond which we cannot wait, but perhaps holding action until that point would be more, well, sporting, for want of a better word.”

Willow rolled her eyes and suppressed a grin as she watched Giles nod seriously in agreement; honestly, the two of them were so Watchery. Giles on his own was all Monarch of the Glen and Wesley was the rugged demon-hunting occult whiz, but put them together and there had to be at least a full can of starch in those stiff upper lips. Shaking herself from her internal monologue, she raised her hand and interrupted. “Um, guys… I might be able to help. At least, I think there might be something… kind of a mystical tracking spell, really. I mean, even holding off to see if Angel does what Illyria sees him do, we’re still not with him all the time to know what he’s up to… maybe the spell would help? Kind of a progress report on what he’s doing versus what we’ve seen he’s going to do.”

“That would be most helpful, Willow,” Giles answered, smiling gratefully at her. Really, she had come into her own as a witch of the highest order, and still the eager scholar in her survived and thrived on the challenges of this life they all led. He was so proud of her. “This would be something that you could cast…”

“Tomorrow, if we need it. Stuff’s all here in my extra suitcase,” she finished, yawning sleepily and stretching. “I really think I’m going on to bed, guys… jet lag and happy reunions and apocalyptic battles kinda conspire to wear a girl out.” She smiled at them, waved quickly, and left them alone in the study.

Giles headed instantly for the bottle of scotch on the sideboard, pouring two glasses and bringing one to Wesley. He took a slow sip before resuming his seat.

“Wesley, I know we’ve never been, well, anything but civil, really… but would you like to talk about… anything?”

Wesley looked up, touched and more than a little bit surprised, and gave another of his hesitant smiles in response to the kind look in the elder Watcher’s eyes. “I’m afraid there’s really not much I can say, Rupert. Winifred is gone, and Illyria is here. It’s devastating in its very best moment, but at this point there is nothing I can do but accept it. And as for Angel, this is not the first time I’ve felt the sting of his duplicity. I wish that it hadn’t happened, and I wish that the fact that it did hurt less, but these are the facts before me. It was facts we were trained to deal with, Rupert, not emotions; I suppose we both learned the hard way exactly why.”

Giles shared Wesley’s sad smile and nodded, and the two men returned to sipping their scotch in quiet contemplation. Giles was again the first to break the silence.

“Wesley, if I might… what do you think about… well, how is Spike?”

Wesley didn’t try to hide the shock on his face. “I was under the impression that the two of you didn’t exactly get on, Rupert.”

Giles sighed and stood, walking to the window. “We didn’t. There were moments of… well, comradeship, for lack of a better word, during the summer after Buffy’s passing. Before that as well, really. And then, after her return… she was so withdrawn from life, and I saw them drawing closer, saw him engage her… and I was almost… I was envious. Spike was the first to know that she had been forced to dig herself out of her own grave, the first to know that she had been in heaven, the one she turned to with all of her problems or for assistance. He was the only one of any of us who could involve her in life again. I left before they began their relationship; by the time I came back when Willow lost herself in the magicks, he had gone to Africa for his soul. Buffy has never said what caused him to seek the soul, only that it involved their relationship and was between the two of them.”

Giles emptied his scotch and poured another, leaning against the sideboard as he continued. He looked lost in his reverie, and Wesley thought it best to let the man work through what he needed to say. Everything he was hearing was information he had yet to receive, and he was more than a little intrigued by the blonde vampire who sometimes seemed to have Angel running scared.

“The guilt from the soul made him a perfect pawn for the First, and it attempted to use him in its plans. He fought back every step of the way, I see that now… it tormented him, tortured him, preyed on his soul, and still he fought. But when Buffy chose to remove his chip, all I could allow myself to believe was that now he was even more of a danger. The First was still controlling him and he was loose in a house full of potential slayers with no deterrent from killing them, except his soul. I should’ve known that to be enough, known to trust Buffy’s judgment, but after…”

“After Angelus you couldn’t trust in him. It’s understandable, Rupert.”

“That it might be, but I didn’t just want him out of the house. I conspired with Nikki Wood’s son to have him killed, and I did it all without Buffy’s knowledge.”

Wesley couldn’t contain his shock at this, and he looked at Giles with widened eyes. He knew enough about what Spike had done in the hellmouth and the way he’d saved Fred to know that despite the rough edges he was far from the evil he had once been. Wesley was only beginning to see just how much of a champion Spike had become; he deserved the title if for no other reason than that he’d sought the destiny for himself.

“I know, Wesley. I was a fool, and I damn near lost Buffy because of it. I did lose her trust and her confidence; she only just recently speaks to me without looking as though she’s trying to discern my plans. I didn’t want to believe that she loved him because of the legacy of Angelus; I didn’t want to believe that he truly loved her, because that meant everything we knew about demons from the Council was wrong. But I stood on the edge of that chasm with my Slayer still alive and I knew that it had to have been true; that he had loved her and that I’d nearly destroyed the world because I was a narrow-minded nit. The look on her face when Andrew told her Spike was alive, Wesley—I haven’t seen that level of joy on her face at any point in my relationship with her. I doubt she’s been that happy since she was called. And so help me, if Spike makes her that ecstatic with his mere presence in the world, I want her with him. I know at the very least that he’ll protect her with his life, and that’s…”

“More than you could say about Angel,” Wesley finished for him, knocking back the rest of his scotch. “To answer your question, Spike seems to be well, Rupert. Angel had told us none of the details of Spike’s last few years at Buffy’s side. We didn’t know of the soul or of his relationship with Buffy, or for that matter of his role in closing the hellmouth; all of that information came to us from Spike himself. He came back as a spectre, which I’m sure you heard from Andrew, and although we’re not quite certain how he was brought back to physical form, there seem to have been no ill side effects of the transformation for him. After Fred… he decided to stay and fight alongside us, that he wanted to do what was right, because she had worked so tirelessly to help him before he became corporeal. We haven’t exactly been welcoming on the whole, but he still seems to contribute with everything in him, and he’s carving out a place for himself.”

“He has a history of that,” Giles answered, mouth twisting in a sardonic grin.

“Quite. He has been crucial in working with Illyria, and she responds to him in what, for her, are friendly terms. He’s brash, rude, and tends to the annoying and abrasive; he’s also noble, brave, bright, and dedicated. That he sought his soul indicates to me that he is perhaps the most extraordinary creature I’ve ever come in contact with. If you truly want my opinion… All told, Rupert, I believe Buffy to be in very good hands; I would be hard-pressed to think of better. Including Angel’s.”

“Thank you,” Giles answered, giving Wesley a smile that made it more than clear that he had just allayed the trepidations of a father more so than those of a Watcher. “Considering the matter she was researching in my books on the plane,” continued Giles, rising from his position on the sideboard and moving back across the room towards the door, “I’m immensely glad to hear that. Shall I show you to your room? We are after all facing a rather stressful day tomorrow.”

Buffy and Spike lay, unmoving, for long minutes as they waited for the claim to take effect. Completely overwhelmed by the magnitude of what had just happened, neither felt any need to shift their positions; Spike remained semi-erect inside her as they contented themselves with slow, languorous kisses and teasing touches, small nipping bites to accessible skin followed by soothing licks. The contact was both intensely erotic and tremendously comforting, the touches of lovers secure in their relationship and the knowledge that they have their forevers stretched out before them.

Buffy tensed a bit as something inside her started to change—almost imperceptible at first, but steadily growing in intensity. Such a strange sensation, she thought—a niggle in the pit of her stomach that brightened to an almost incandescent heat before reducing itself to an all-encompassing warmth. She gasped as it took hold, realizing that it burned with the force of Spike’s love for her—as if she needed it, she now had physical proof of just how much he loved her, and it took her breath away.

Spike took in the slight unfocused look of her eyes and the little gasp of pleasure that she gave and realized that his claim had formed. He couldn’t help the cocky grin that shaped his lips as he took in the look of ecstasy on her face, although it widened into something much more boyish and awestruck as he felt her claim begin to take shape inside him. He hadn’t really known what to expect any more than she had, and the torrid rush that swept through him made him almost think he was alive again. The brief fire dimmed slightly to a glow that radiated through him, stoking both his passion and his affection and returning both in kind. He looked down at her, saw her watching him with such utter joy that he knew in an instant exactly what the claim was showing him. This was how she loved him—passionately, affectionately, completely and with such devotion it shook him to his core.

Buffy looked up at him and recognized the second he felt it, the very moment he could truly grasp every aspect of her love for him. She had long known how deeply he loved her, how he felt—he had spoken the words and performed the actions, leaving no room for doubt in his wake. He had mourned her passing and honored her death, guarded her sister and supported her friends; comforted her and loved her as best he could when love was something she couldn’t recognize; hurt her and been so devastated that he had sought and won his soul as recompense; given his life so that she might live. Everything he had done had borne out the utter limitlessness of his ardor and devotion.

Buffy herself had demonstrated no such clarity of emotion or deed, a truth of which she had been painfully aware while she had mourned his sacrifice. He had died afraid to believe that she loved him because she had trained him to never take her on faith, to never believe that the ground on which they stood together was any more stable than shifting sand. Now that he was back with her she was determined that he would never have reason to doubt her love again. She, too, had seen the best and the worst of him and come to the conclusion that he was one hell of a man. She smiled up at him and focused all of her energies on pouring everything she felt through their nascent bond.

He stilled and felt himself grow impossibly hard inside her as she used the bond for the first time, sending a bolt of adoration mixed with lust and joy coursing through him. He began to rock his hips gently against her, thrusting unhurriedly as he focused on transferring his own wealth of emotion to her. They exchanged wicked grins as her walls tightened almost painfully around him in response to the lust he had conveyed.

Oh, but this was going to be fun.

There was to be no delicate tenderness to this round of lovemaking. Now that vows of love and reassurance had been given and accepted, the frenzied hunger that had characterized their relationship until their most recent coupling was again making its presence felt.

Spike growled low in his throat as he rolled onto his back. He added an arched brow to the smile already gracing his face as Buffy’s lower lip jutted out into a pout before she began to rock her hips gently against his. “Expecting to get royally ravaged, were you then?”

“Well, I did have certain… hopes,” Buffy replied, the last reply more a moan than a word as she shifted until she was upright, the tip of his shaft pressing against her womb. “But if you’d rather not oblige me, I might have to make my own fun.”

“’m a bit spent at the moment, luv. You might need to drive for a bit. Let me get my strength back an’ all,” he teased, lascivious grin and lust-darkened eyes putting the lie to his words.

“Well, you are, like, really old,” Buffy snarked playfully as she rose up on her knees, sliding up until he slid out of her. They both groaned in protest, but she moved quickly to reposition herself, using tiny surges of her hips to slide her slickened lips slowly along the underside of his shaft. She gasped as the head of his cock brushed against her clit, then smiled as his eyes rolled back in their sockets. His hands flew up to grip her waist, and she was certain that she would have his handprints tattooed in livid purple on her flesh for at least a week when she was finished. *Good,* she thought rapturously as the rocking of her hips increased slightly in speed, keeping the friction intense but still controlled, focusing on her teasing. “Told you I’d make my own fun if I had to,” she said, voice husky as she slid one hand down her torso to flick and twist her clit gently. Unsurprisingly, Spike’s eyes followed her hand and widened as he took the sight that awaited his gaze.

“Christ, Buffy,” Spike gasped out. She had never done this before—let him watch her touch herself. He had done everything short of outright pleading… and bleedin’ hell how much harder he would’ve begged if he’d had even a clue of how mindbendingly erotic the realization of the fantasy would be. “That’s it, luv… show me… bloody… beautiful little… vixen… so wet… burning,” he panted, hands on her hips attempting to shift her faster towards a more frenzied rhythm.

“Ah, ah, ah, Spike. My fun, my rules,” Buffy teased, resisting his attempts at taking control of her game and maintaining her pace. She was imminently close to her orgasm, but she was trying to hold on; she’d never felt such a complete rush of sexual power as the one that had shot through her body when his eyes traveled from her caressing hand up to her face and back again. Why exactly had she never done this before?

A sudden wave of lust nearly knocked her off of him, and she looked down to see a too-innocent face topped by eyes positively glittering with their deviousness. “You sneaky bastard,” she gasped appreciatively, finding it very hard to complain about his use of the claim when it resulted in such absolutely sinful sensations. “Oh god,” she whimpered as she began to move her fingers faster, circling around her clit in a tease before flicking it directly.

She wasn’t going to be able to make it much longer, damn him… she closed her eyes and dropped her head back, letting him use his grip on her hips to control her sweeps along his length as she focused on the movement of her fingers. If she was going over, she wasn’t doing it alone… concentrating on the surges of pleasure resulting from their combined actions and the burgeoning heat in her belly, she funneled as much as possible through the claim before she gave over to the orgasm that wouldn’t hold off any longer. “Spike!” she cried loudly, giving over to mindless babble as both hands moved to his stomach, nails clawing at his abs as she fought desperately to stay upright.

It was the orgasm that snapped his control, tearing through her while the bond between them was still open. Spike’s commanding growl resonated through the room as he used his hold on her hips to flip her backwards onto the bed, rising onto his knees and thrusting forward into her at lightning speed. She shrieked as he rammed home, sending her into a second climax before the first had finished, and his powerful thrusts pushed her backwards across the bed until her head and shoulders dangled from the end. Grasping for purchase, she dug her nails into his ass, holding on desperately as she shuddered and stammered her pleasure.

“Absolutely… fucking… glorious… woman,” Spike ground out in time with his thrusts. “Perfect… little… quim… perfect… little… mate,” he continued, feeling Buffy contract around him and watching the bliss pass across her face. “Love… you… Buffy,” he groaned and stiffened, thrusting jerkily and feeling his balls tighten as release grew imminent.

Buffy turned her head and bared her neck, whimpering. “Please, baby… please… love you… need you.” She was beyond lightheaded as a result of both her position and the near-constant orgasms coursing through her, but god how she wanted him again, wanted his bite during this harshly passionate coupling.

Spike tried to pull back even as his demon came forward, but she wouldn’t let him; hands sliding up from his ass, she pressed his head against her neck and screamed as his fangs penetrated and just as quickly withdrew. He managed somehow to run his tongue along his marks and rasp out “love… mate… Buffy!” before giving over to pants, groans, and growls as his cock spasmed inside her clenching passage. Their mouths met and mated as fiercely as their bodies had as they spent the last of themselves and began to slowly come down from their pleasure.

It was Buffy’s girlish giggle that shook him from his torpor. Pulling his face back from the crook of her neck and leaning up on his elbows, he looked down at her and couldn’t help but join in her merriment. The rich baritone sound joined with her higher-pitched tinkling laughter and filled the room, making it instantly warmer from the joy contained within.

“You look a bit flushed, luv,” Spike commented between bursts of laughter. Being upside down for the better part of a shag had turned her a bit more than rosy in the face, and combined with the completely bedraggled look of her hair and the sweat that sheened her skin, she looked well and truly wanton and thoroughly ravaged. Who was he kidding—she looked positively edible.

“You’re one to talk there, luv,” Buffy teased back, gripping his elbows as he slid his hands under her shoulders and pulled her back onto the bed. “For somebody whose body stays at room temperature, it looks like you’ve gotten all sweaty. And your face isn’t exactly lily-white at the moment either!”

“Ooh… feisty little wench, aren’t you?” he asked, bending to claim her mouth in a remarkably chaste kiss. Brushing his lips softly against hers, he ran his tongue gently across her lower lip before pulling back. “What would you say to a shower, kitten?”

“I think I would ask if you thought I smelled,” Buffy pouted playfully, allowing him to nibble at her bottom lip for a moment before she pushed him off of her and stood. “Now up, mate of mine. You promised me clean. After clean will come snuggly talky bits and more shagging, so move it.” Buffy looked over at him, only to see him staring at her as he sat stock-still. “Spike? Honey?”

“Say that again,” he begged hoarsely, eyes burning heatedly into hers. “Say it again, Buffy. Please.”

Buffy ran her last statement back through her head, trying to figure out what he wanted to hear. It only took a moment for her to realize what he was reacting to, what he wanted repeated. He had said it before; she hadn't, not until now. She stood up and walked around the bed to stand in front of him, arms around his shoulders. “I said, mate of mine,” she paused, watching the beatific grin form across his features, “that I want to shower, and snuggle, and talk, and shag, though at least two of those can be combined. How does that strike you, my mate?” Her deliberate repetition of the word made the already enormous smile grow even wider, and she couldn’t resist brushing her lips against his. Taking his hand, she stepped back as he rose from the bed and pressed a kiss to his cheek before pulling away. “Now to the bathroom. Lead me, brave warrior.”

“Well, that was just... neat,” Spike crowed, watching lecherously from the bed as Buffy towel-dried her hair as she stood by the dresser.

“Neat?” Buffy asked, more than a little offended by the paltry compliment. “What do you mean, neat? This has been ‘great big night o’ naughty firsts’ for Buffy and it’s only NEAT for you?” she finished, hands on hips and eyes narrowed.

“Well, yeah, luv. Everybody starts somewhere below the top, you know... need somethin’ to work towards an’ all,” he taunted, baiting her as he stared absolutely transfixed at the naked breasts now perfectly framed by arms crossed in annoyance.

Buffy's mouth opened and her eyes widened; he could just see the rant of righteous indignation taking shape in her brain. After only a fraction of a second she snapped her mouth shut, narrowed her eyes, and moved towards him with predatory grace. “Spikey dear... seems like I’m one up on you and your little mind games now,” she said calmly, with more than a hint of mischief glinting in her eyes. “And you had better thank the Powers for that, too, because I can promise you I would happily be Mrs. Big Pile of Dust if I didn’t know from the claim that you were jerking... me... around!”

Spike burst out laughing at the mixture of annoyance, amusement, and affection gracing her features and reached out to wrap his arms around her waist. With lightning speed he tugged her down to the bed beside him as he himself stretched out, and she curled like a kitten into his side, head on his shoulder.

“Mean,” she grumbled playfully, biting his nipple as punishment before she moved her head back to his shoulder and tilted back to look at him.

“’m a bad, rude man, it’s true,” he agreed cheerfully, arm coming to rest around her waist and hand beginning to trace small patterns on her lower back. “But it was funny, you standing there all puffed up and righteous… kinda like the old days. ‘Sides, made your chest look exquisite.”

Buffy rolled her eyes at him and sucked in her cheeks in a failed attempt to short-circuit her grin. “So… anything you wanna ask me?” she teased playfully, knowing full well he had at least one question that he was nearly choking on.

Spike rolled up onto his elbow, facing her, and Buffy scooted up until her head was on the pillow. Looking down into her eyes, he was still amazed at the depth of feeling he saw there, and he mirrored the relaxed smile that she gave him.

“Buffy, you claimed me.” It wasn’t a question—more an awestruck declaration, really—but that was the only thing he really cared about at the moment.

“I told you I wasn’t letting you go again, Spike. When you were gone, it was—it was a lot like being yanked out of heaven again, really. I wasn’t warm or safe or complete anymore. All I could think of were those nights with you in the basement, when I felt like we could take on anything because we were together. I kept the picture in my mind of that night in the kitchen, when I told you I was there with you in that house—that look of joy on your face. I used it as proof that I had made you truly happy at least once… that I had been at least a little bit good for you, even though you put everything you had into being good for me.” The tears came unbidden, and she didn’t even try to wipe them away.

“Every time I tried to sleep I would hear you whisper ‘Honey, I’m home’ and feel you in my arms and I wouldn’t dare open my eyes again because I knew you wouldn’t be there. It hurt because you had died without believing that I loved you, because I had known for a while that I did—I just always thought there would be time later to tell you, to make some grand romantic gesture, and then all of a sudden there wasn’t any time at all. You gave everything you had to me, Spike, and I just took it all, but I never gave anything back but crumbs… and you made do. But they weren’t enough for you, Spike… you deserved everything I had, and I was too scared to let go and give it to you.” The tears came faster now, and she stared at him through flooded green orbs, begging him to understand, to forgive her for the way she’d left things between them for so long.

Spike reached over and wiped Buffy’s eyes gently with the pad of his thumb, ignoring the stinging in his own. “’s okay, luv. We’re here now… an’ you did the best you could then. Had enough on you without…”

Buffy silenced him by placing her index finger across his lips. “Don’t excuse what I did, Spike. Forgive me, if you can, but don’t say it’s okay… it’s not.”

Spike nodded, his own tears falling freely now, and he sniffed and scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “When did you… when did you love me? When did you know?” he asked softly.

“The night that Giles and Principal Wood… when I realized what Giles was doing I was so scared, and I ran faster than I ever had. I just knew—I had to get to you in time, and while I was running I realized that there would never be anyone else as completely perfect for me as you. We were made for each other, Spike. No one has ever understood me like you do, or even tried to… or even wanted to. I knew that if I didn’t get to you in time part of my life wouldn’t be worth living anymore. And that’s when I knew. I think I’d loved you even longer… I think I started to the day you took Mom and Dawn in… and when I came back and saw you with Dawn, watching over her… and when you had counted the days and you watched over me…”

Buffy trailed off for a moment, taking a deep, shuddering breath before she continued. “I think it’s safe to say I’d been falling for a while, but seeing you walk out of that shed I knew, and it took my breath away. I should’ve told you then, but I was just so relieved I couldn’t speak. Or that night in the house, but I was so numb, and I needed you so much… and I was selfish, again. I took from you and didn’t give back… but I tried to show you. I tried to let you feel it in my arms, even if I couldn’t get the words out yet. And when you told me it was the best night of your life, I thought that maybe you had felt at least some of it. But I wasted so many chances… was such a fool… and you didn’t know. You weren’t sure of my love, the way I was always sure of yours. I failed you.”

“Luv, you didn’t…”

“Please, Spike—please let me finish?” At his nod, she drew another shaky inhale and gave him a watery grin. “When Andrew told me that you were alive, or, well, here… I knew that I had a second chance—that somehow I’d gotten lucky enough to have the chance to do the right thing this time. And I knew that I’d been right—that there was no one else but you for me in this world, and that you felt the same way about me. So I told Giles I wanted all of the books he had with him on vampires, and when he asked what I wanted to know I told him I wanted to research a claim.”

Off Spike’s shocked look, she smiled at him, even managing a little giggle. “I wasn’t going to lie, and I wasn’t going to let him stop me, Spike—that was the first chance I had to do the right thing by you this time, and I did it. He just handed me the books—he had gotten them together when he heard Andrew say that you were back. He told me to think carefully but to listen to my heart; that he was proud of the woman I’ve become and trusted me to do what was best. So I did—I thought, and I researched, and I memorized the ritual and I figured out where I wanted to mark you, and where I wanted your mark on me. I wanted you as my mate, Spike—there could never be anyone else.”

Spike was elated and overwhelmed and… well, he was fighting off William and the urge to find pen and paper immediately. This was by far the most honest with her feelings he had ever seen Buffy, and he knew that she meant every word. Lying there face to face, he could see it clearly in her eyes, and he could feel it through the claim. He had no idea how to respond, or what to say. He closed his eyes and focused on his joy and sent it through to her, and as her gasp of wonderment parted her lips he leaned over and kissed her gently, a slow, sweet kiss that promised more than words ever could.

He pulled back reluctantly, eager to lose himself in her again yet needing to be as honest with her as he had been with him. Lying in bed on their sides, facing each other, talking quietly… it all just seemed so domestic; he had to let her know just how much their mating meant to him. “Buffy, no one’s ever really wanted me like this before,” he began, raising his eyebrow in a successful effort at shushing her as she opened her mouth to object.

“Home truths, luv… ‘ve never really belonged anywhere. As a human I was a right ponce. A good man, but not one of the crowd; was content to stay home and take care of mum and moon over birds from afar. The one night I didn’t, the night I tried to belong, I found Dru—well, she found me. An’ with her… well, she loved me as best she could, and God only knows I loved her, but I didn’t fit there either. Dru will always belong to Angelus, always ‘til she’s dust—he made her that way; but then she went an’ made me. He didn’t want anyone around that wouldn’t accept his authority, ‘n I’d had enough of bowin’ and scrapin’ when I was a human. I was good enough for her to care for an’ play with, an’ they both knew I’d take care of her, but I was more a lover than a mate. I was her diversion—not her world. Not like she was mine.”

Buffy simply squeezed his hand more tightly, letting him finally verbalize things he’d obviously been wrestling with for years. Once again she was amazed by the man in front of her, the sheer depth of feeling and devotion that he possessed. He really didn’t know any other way to exist than to throw himself into the world around him, to keep loving and hoping to be loved. So many years he must’ve felt so alone. She blinked back the tears that had formed and snapped her attention back to him. He wasn’t alone anymore.

“Then came the damned chip and me throwin’ in with you lot,” he gave a short bark of self-deprecating laughter before continuing. “Don’t think I’ve ever belonged anywhere less than with the Scoobies, but time went by and it started to feel right… well, less wrong… like I could belong. An’ then I fell in love with you, an’ I knew that my place was by your side… whether I wanted it, whether any of you wanted me, whether you ever accepted me… I belonged with you. Even after I… even when I woke up in that cave in Africa crazed with the guilt from the soul I just knew I had to get back to you, that with you was where I needed to be. An’ when you told me you believed in me, saved me from the First… all those nights after that when we would have these tiny moments—well, I knew you’d seen it too… that you felt how right we were, even if it scared the hell out of you. And so it was enough. I wanted with everything in me to believe you in the hellmouth, and in a lot of ways I did, but… Told you once I saved you every night in my dreams—didn’t stop when Red brought you back and I saw how shattered it left you. So I couldn’t have stopped what I was doing in that cavern—not when I was finally really saving you.”

Buffy’s tears were coming faster now, and she wiped quickly at them before wiping his away with delicate fingers. He smiled tremulously at her, and she knew that these words had been so long in coming for him… she could feel his relief that he’d finally gotten to tell her, that she was finally listening and accepting how he felt.

“I already told you ‘bout when I showed up in Peaches’ office, luv. He told me you didn’t really care about me, that even when you were with me you had been thinkin’ ‘bout him, that you’d never really love anybody but him… all these little nasties that I tried not to believe but that still cut so bleedin’ deep. Once I finally got my body back I was too soddin’ cowardly to find you… afraid it really wouldn’t matter to you, afraid you wouldn’t care. So to see you tonight, to have you in my arms… that means everything. But to have you claim me, to be your mate… God, Buffy, I don’t think I’ll ever come any closer to heaven.”

He closed the tiny amount of distance that remained between them, and their already tangled fingers clasped more tightly. “I love you with everything that I can ever possibly be, Buffy Summers,” he whispered against her mouth before teasing her lips open gently with his tongue.

Buffy moaned against his mouth and brought her leg up to drape over his hip, wrapping herself around him as best she could. Breaking the kiss for an instant, she murmured, “You are the best man I will ever know, Spike, and I love you with all of me.”

Their lips came back together, the pressure greater this time. He positioned himself against her and pressed forward, sliding himself fully inside her waiting channel in one strong, gentle thrust. Their hips rocked with no sense of hurry or urgency, slow thrusts and leisurely kisses allowing their exhausted bodies the pleasurable respite of connection once again. The outside world lost all meaning, and it could have been hours or only minutes that they surged gently together before their ardor overtook them. Their hands unclasped, Spike’s moving to cup Buffy’s breast and tease the tightened nipple while hers moved to trace the strong lines and contours of his face before running through his hair. Whispered vows of love broke into short strangled cries, muffled by their joined mouths, as they came together in a climax as gentle yet fully enthralling as their coupling.

Spike rolled them the half-turn to the bed, and Buffy’s head quickly tucked itself into the crook of his neck. He leaned down, pressing one last good-night kiss against her lips, and their “I love you”s were whispered while their lips still touched. Closing his eyes, Spike drifted off to sleep, imprinting this glorious night upon his mind as the best of his long existence. As she curled against him and closed her eyes, Buffy made the same change to her memories before following him into dreams.

Buffy woke first, stirring slightly and mumbling sleepily as her eyes drifted slowly open. At the feeling of the cool, firm flesh under her cheek and the arm banded tightly around her, she couldn’t suppress the elated grin that shaped her lips. It hadn’t all been a dream—he was real, and he was here, and he was her mate. She had an urge to sob with joy and relief, but she contented herself with a small silent prayer of thanks to whoever had sent him back to her and another silent promise to him and to herself to love him the way he deserved.

She snuggled closer, burrowing her head even further into his shoulder, and giggled softly at the little snorts and snuffles that he gave as he curled himself around her. His arm tightened, and he murmured a soft “love you” that had her peeking up to see if he was awake; head tossed back, eyes tightly closed, a small smile etched onto his face, the arm and leg not encumbered by her splayed widely across the bed—oh, he was most definitely still asleep… and he just looked so happy. He looked so boyish like this, so peaceful and calm, absent all the frenetic energy that characterized him in his waking hours. She had had a few opportunities to see him like this before the end of Sunnydale, memories that she had clung to ever since, but now she could truly take him in and savor the sight as the blessing it was. She slid one hand across his chest and grasped the hand that he had flung off to his side; linking her fingers carefully with his, she let her eyes drink him in for a few more moments before tucking herself back against him and surrendering to her drowsiness again.

The first sensation Spike felt upon stirring was warmth. He felt heated, inside and out, and it took him a moment to realize why: he had Buffy draped over the right half of his body, looking every inch the well-ravished woman. As well she should; kiss-swollen lips, bed-ravaged hair, luminous glow to her skin, and… He reached up with the arm banded around her waist to tenderly move her hair off of her shoulder and couldn’t help the possessive masculine grin. She was wearing his mark, would wear it for the rest of her life… and an exquisite one it was at that. He brought his hand up to his own neck, ghosting his fingers across her bite there; felt like his girl had made a hell of a mark on her own, even without fangs.

The claim was the glow he felt on the inside, this unbelievable feeling that burned inside him with love and gratitude and tenderness and joy. His little Slayer had taken him as her mate, had tied the rest of her eternity to him… tears of thanksgiving burned his eyes, and he blinked desperately to hold them back. He’d meant everything he had told her; he had believed far more of Angel’s bollocks than he’d ever intended to even let himself hear, so the fact that she’d come back for him, that she loved him… those were miracles. This was something else entirely… this was every bloody dream and fantasy he’d ever had come true, and he was still reeling from the fact that any of it had happened at all.

He well remembered the few nights in Sunnydale when she had allowed him to hold her as she slept; sadly, they had only come about when she was emotionally devastated or terrified. He couldn’t even remember now having nights when he didn’t ache to hold her, an ache that demon, man, and soul shared down to the very core of their essences. That may well be why the three nights in his entire existence when he’d slept with what could only be described as utter peace had been spent in her arms. But this night—he’d never sleep that well again, he was sure of it. The peace, the contentment, the joy… it was nothing short of incredible, and he was staggered by the blessing. Only weeks before he’d been incorporeal and running from hell itself… Buffy stirred slightly and blinked sleepily at him as her lips curved into a languorous smile, and he was completely overwhelmed. He traced her face lightly with his fingers as his chest began to shake with a mixture of laughter and sobs as he realized just how amazing his world had become.

Buffy watched for a moment, confused as he simultaneously smiled and sobbed, before she quickly scooted up the bed until their faces were even. Wiping his tears gently, she kissed his brows, his cheekbones, his nose, and his chin, dusting his face with delicate caresses until he stilled. She pulled back and smiled at him, once again reaching one hand down to link with his, and pressed a final kiss to his lips before she placed her head on the pillow next to him.

“’m sorry, luv… I’m sure you’re thinkin’ I’m a right ponce, with all the tears, but… it’s just so much, Buffy,” he murmured, still overcome but trying with everything in him to present a strong front.

“You don’t have to do this with me, Spike… pretend you don’t feel when I know that you do, or pretend not to feel strongly. I love your heart, Spike, and the way you feel everything so much… I admire that in you, and so many times since you’ve been… gone… I wished that I’d been able to be like that, just once. To just tell you how I felt because it was how I was feeling and leave the rest of the world on their own.”

“You’re doin’ it now, luv,” Spike said, giving Buffy a boyish smile so joyful that it melted her heart all over again.

“I am,” she agreed, returning the smile in kind, “and I will continue to do it for the rest of our linked existences, hubby.”

“Hubby?” Spike asked, scarred eyebrow raising teasingly.

“Well, yeah,” Buffy answered playfully, shifting until she was stretched out atop him. “I don’t figure that telling every random stranger who notices our big idiot grins that we just got mated is going to go over so terribly well, you know? So I figured since, ritually speaking, we’re now married all vampily ever after, that makes you my hubby,” she finished, smiling brightly and laughing out loud at the bemused expression on his face. “Oh, come on, Big Bad… you can be my mate, but you’re gonna go all commitment-phobe over the word hubby?”

Spike growled playfully and rolled her beneath him, running his tongue along his mark teasingly. “Not hardly, slayer. Just a bit surprised… since that’d make you my wife, then, wouldn’t it?” He chuckled for a moment, then took her mouth in a kiss that left her breathless before asking, “So I guess this means you’ll be wantin’ a ring, then, luv?”

“Nope. Got this nice little bite mark going on… plus I’ve still got a lovely little skull ring from the last time around… unless you want to buy me something shiny,” Buffy finished, the glazed look in her eyes making it clear that despite her words, shiny things would be most definitely welcomed.

“Right then, gorgeous. Sparkly baubles on order for Mrs. the Bloody as soon as we get all this other mess straightened out,” he chuckled, ducking his again to trace tender little kisses and nips down her throat.

Buffy pressed her head deeper into the pillow, exposing her throat to Spike’s delicate caresses. She gave over to the passion for a moment, losing herself in the feeling of his lips, teeth, and tongue against flesh now made forever sensitive by their joining. Reluctantly coming back to herself, she raised her head and pressed a lingering kiss to her mark against his throat before pulling back. “Deal. Work now, glittery goodness later. Now up, Mister. We need to go and get showered so we can make with the jumpy and find out just how much we need to kick Angel’s ass.”

“Well, I’m all for the brutalizin’ of Peaches, luv, but I thought there were other ways we could… well… ease into the day,” Spike murmured seductively, the tip of his hardness brushing against her slickened folds; it was more than apparent how both of them would rather spend their day.

Buffy arched upwards into him briefly, then groaned slightly as she pulled away and wiggled up the bed out of his grasp. She added this moment to the very long list of reasons why it sucked to be the Slayer. “No, Spike… we really need to go…” she whimpered, her protest coming out as much more of a plea than she would have preferred due to her own rampaging lust. God, she would gladly give Angel a second ass-kicking just for leaving her like this…

“I know, luv. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though,” he sighed disappointedly, and the tone of his voice made her reach down and turn his face up towards her. She burst into giggles at the outrageously pronounced pout that had jutted out his lower lip, and she crooked her finger at him, luring him up the bed.

“Look at that lip… gonna get it,” she teased, nibbling it gently before slowly deepening the kiss into a soft, loving caress. He pulled back first, giving her a smile that was somehow both heated and shy as he stood.

“So I’ll drop you by the Watcher’s, then, and see you when we come by for the debriefing, yeah?” he asked as he rummaged through the dresser, pulling out the ubiquitous t-shirt and jeans before turning back to her.

“Um, that would be a world of NO, Spike. Where you go, I go, remember?” Buffy reminded him, annoyance slipping into her tone.

“Buffy, we don’t know how this thing is gonna work. I’m gonna go with Blue just to be another set of eyes, but I don’t want you in this if we’re not sure… and we decided last night that we didn’t need Angel suspicious. You show up, suspicious is the least of what he’s gonna be, luv, an’ you know it!”

“I know all that, Spike, and I don’t care!” Buffy argued back, jumping out of the bed and wrapping herself in the sheet. “You don’t get to decide what’s safest for me, Spike, and you don’t usually try—that’s part of the reason I fell in love with you. But the same goes for me—I don’t get to make decisions for you. You think I’m all happy about you going with Illyria when we don’t know if this will work? I’m not, but it’s what we need to do. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to be there while you do it, Spike… I just got you back and I’m not losing you again! I can’t be miles away from you while you do this, wondering where you are and when you’re going to make it back. So if Angel gets suspicious… hell, even if Angel comes in all damage-bound, I could give a damn, Spike. You’re not doing this without me. Now get your undead ass in the shower before you ruin my happy day!” she finished, stomping her foot and looking for all the world like a very angry five-year-old.

“Buffy…” he started, his tone a mixture of annoyance and resignation; her raised eyebrow and the determined set of her chin, however, told him that he’d be better off saving his words and his breath for other arguments in which he stood a chance. “Fine,” he ground out, jaw tense. “But ’m not trying to make decisions for you, Buffy. ‘ve never done that, and now isn’t the time I’d start. I was just tryin’ to stick to the bloody plan and save you what is gonna be a soddin’ nasty confrontation with Peaches when the time comes ‘round. He’s not gonna be there today, but he’s the head of the firm, Buffy, an’ every eye in that place belongs to him. I don’t want to be apart from you any more than you do from me… hell, I don’t want to leave this soddin’ room, Peaches and the fate of the world be damned… but ‘s what I have to do. You want to be there, so be it. But the bitchy princess routine is puttin’ a hell of a damper on my soddin’ happy day, too, so can you drop it, please, and come here and kiss me?”

Buffy just gaped at him for a minute, racing to follow him around the bends of his argument until she processed his last request. Grinning mischievously, she tucked the sheet around her and crawled seductively across the bed, snickering to herself as she watched his eyes widen and his adam’s apple bob as he fought to swallow. Standing on the other side, she took the remaining steps towards him as predatorily as possible before untucking the sheet and opening her arms, wrapping them and the sheet around him. She tipped her head up just as his lips crashed down on hers, and she found herself grateful for her hold on him as she felt herself melt in his arms. Gods, but that man could kiss.

Spike raised his head and cocked his eyebrow at her, smirking at the breathless lust written in every aspect of her features. Good enough for her—playin’ that game with the master himself. Leaning down and giving her one last tiny kiss on the tip of her nose, he said, “shower, Goldilocks. Wanna come with?”

Buffy’s wide-eyed nod was his only reply.

_______________________________

Walking into Wolfram & Hart during working hours was a gauntlet that neither Buffy nor Spike was particularly eager to walk; steeling themselves in the elevator on the way to the executive floor, they gripped hands and drew deep breaths as the door opened onto the bustle of activity typical of the firm.

Not more than two steps out of the elevator, however, a resounding screech halted them both in their tracks. Turning towards the noise, they rolled their eyes simultaneously as they saw Harmony barreling towards them.

“WHAT are you doing? You know that’s the Slayer, you freak! I thought you were past all that twisted obsession… and you know that Bossie is so gonna kick your ass when he finds out!” Harmony finished, managing to look petulant and tremendously pleased with herself all at once. Just before she turned to flounce away, she looked at Buffy and added cattily, “I guess this is what you’re stuck with, Blondie Bear. I hope she’s good enough after the taste of me you just had.”

She hadn’t made it further than a half-step away before she found herself slammed face down against her own desk, Buffy’s hand fisted tightly in her hair. Spike had released Buffy’s hand as soon as Harmony had affected her best Sunnydale bitch look, having a feeling that nothing good would come from this; besides, those hands had just been reattached, thanks ever so, and he didn’t fancy losing them again due to a bloody catfight. He simply stood back and watched his love work, cocky smile on his face; he might be a master vampire in his own right, but it still did a man good to watch women fight over him.

Buffy bent to look her in the eye, smiling sweetly as she threatened her in a low, cold voice. “Harmony, do you need a little refresher course on what the Slayer is? ‘Cause it seems like you might have forgotten just what I’m capable of and how well I can kick your ass. Spike told me about what happened with you, and believe me when I say that I’m a thousand times better on my worst night than you could ever be. But if you step within fifty feet of my mate,” she paused for effect, suppressing a laugh at the ditzy vamp’s widened eyes, “I will make you pray for a quick death. I’ve been retired for almost a year, Harm… I might have forgotten a lot.”

Letting go of Harmony’s head, she backed up and again linked her fingers with Spike’s, taking in his grin and snorts of ill-concealed laughter as she tugged him towards Wesley’s office. Both of them heard Harmony’s muttered “Bitch,” but it was Buffy who turned around and gave her a glare that had Angel’s secretary whimpering and darting for the cover of her desk.

“Oh, and Harmony,” Buffy sang out cheerily, “if Angel calls and you feel the need to tell him anything about me, don’t. I want it to be a surprise. You get me?”

As she turned back towards Spike, and Wesley’s office, she couldn’t fight her laughter anymore. Illyria had watched the entire scene with her head cocked, clearly intrigued at the show of strength although ignorant of the motive behind it; Lorne, Gunn, and even Wesley, however, were flushed and snickering, as much at the conceited air surrounding Spike, as at the interchange between Buffy and Harmony. Buffy’s giggles grew as she took in Spike’s expression, and she shook her head as she dragged him forward towards the office.

“Come on, Big Bad Egomaniac. We have work to do.”

The light mood lasted only a few moments longer before remembrance of the task that lay ahead dampened out the laughter, and mouths so recently curved into smiles reshaped themselves into serious lines.

“How do we do this, then? Blue and I head in, ‘n the rest of you follow? Or united front all the way?”

“Perhaps it would be best if Buffy and I accompanied you and Illyria now, and Charles and Lorne might follow in a few moments? My attendance at these sessions is normal, and Buffy would logically not want to be separated from you, so our presence would be the least suspicious. Charles and Lorne, however… Perhaps you should go to your offices, make an appearance, and then join us in the testing laboratory,” Wesley suggested, and Gunn and Lorne nodded in agreement. They left Wesley’s office first, leaving the remaining four to their determined silence.

“Shall we go, then?” Spike’s voice seemed to break the spell, and as one, they moved to exit, Spike and Buffy in the lead with Illyria and Wesley following. The procession was silent and fairly grim; although Buffy and Spike initially tried to break the oppressive pall with a few playful whispers that fell strangely flat, they soon resigned themselves to undertaking what seemed to inevitably be a somber mission walk accompanied by only the muffled sounds of their footfalls on the lush carpeting.

The banging of the doors behind them echoed through the testing lab, and the four of them watched each other closely. It was Buffy that broke first from the silence, turning to Spike and murmuring, “Be careful, please.”

He reached up to cradle her cheek in his hand, brushing the fingers of his other hand tenderly against his still-livid mark and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I will, luv. Got you to come back to, don’t I?”

She nodded, smiling at him with misty eyes before pulling herself together and crossing to face Illyria. “I know that you probably don’t understand what’s going on between Spike and I, and I’m not sure that you care. But I will ask you, warrior to warrior: guard your troops. He means more to me than I can ever say, and all I ask is that you do your best to bring him back safely.”

Illyria blinked briefly, clearly trying to process the emotion that she could sense coming from Buffy, and finally gave a brisk nod. “I would not see him come to harm. I thought to keep him as my pet, but it seems as though you have assumed him already. Regardless of your ties to him, he has importance here, and he will return with me. You have my word.”

Buffy nodded resolutely and smiled in thanks, turning and mouthing her pet? at Spike, who just raised his eyebrow and smirked in reply. Stifling a slightly hysterical giggle, she returned to the shelter of his arms, looking up only when she heard the telltale banging that announced the arrival of Lorne and Gunn.

Wesley turned to Illyria, eager to put an end to both the stultifying silence and the uncertainty. “What do you need from us, Illyria? How shall we facilitate the shift for you?”

“You need do nothing. I can find Angel’s path well enough, and physical contact with Spike will be sufficient to bring him with me. Will the empath be included? His services could prove helpful to the half-breed in the interpretation of emotion and motive.”

“Lorne?” asked Wesley, willing to allow the demon to make his own decision in the matter. He well remembered how much Lorne disliked interdimensional travel and couldn’t imagine that a shift in time would be any more amenable. His services could be of use, but he would leave the final call to Lorne himself. Far too many decisions had been made for them already.

“I can help,” Lorne answered firmly. “I’ve gone walking through Angelcakes’ head enough times to know that I could help to ID what we’re seeing and what he’s feeling. I’m not sure I’d feel right if I didn’t go… I need to so I can put my own mind at ease. Let’s go, tartlets… let’s see what our boy’s going to try.”

Buffy squeezed Spike’s hand and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, letting him move away from her and towards the training circle in the middle of the room. Illyria stood in the center, Lorne and Spike to her sides. She closed her eyes, and everyone in the room could feel the power thrum through the atmosphere in the moments before a light burst forth from the god. Shooting her arms out quickly to the side, she placed one hand on each hitchhiker’s chest, and the light wavered only briefly before the three of them disappeared from the room.

Buffy stifled a sob and closed her eyes, focusing on the warmth inside her that was still burning strongly. She opened her eyes and met those of Wesley and Gunn, who looked as tense as she herself felt, before smiling tremulously. “Wherever they are, they’re safe. I can feel him.”

“Through the claim?” Wesley asked, clearly intrigued by the opportunity to investigate a vampiric claim outside the normal avenues of grimoires and compendiums. The bite marks had not gone unnoticed, merely unmentioned, although he felt that he could now allow the researcher in him a bit more leeway.

“Yes, through the claim,” Buffy answered, fingers unconsciously caressing Spike’s mark. “So now that we know they’re OK, it’s just a matter of waiting for them to come back.”

A few long minutes passed, the three of them standing in a comfortable, though tense, silence before eventually finding seating on the training equipment spread throughout the room. Buffy’s pained gasp drew their attention back towards her, however, and they watched as she clutched her stomach reflexively before looking up and meeting their gazes.

“Whatever they’re seeing—Spike is NOT happy.”

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