Chapter 10
“I’m gonna have to go with Lemon Meringue on that one… this makes dimensional travel look like a drive down the freeway during rush hour—slow if not particularly steady.” If possible, Lorne was somehow greener than he had already been, and he and Spike had taken a moment to rest their backs against the wall behind them. Illyria, as might have been expected, seemed unfazed by the shift, merely cocking her head in an effort to discern exactly where they were.
Quick glances at their surroundings found them in the observation deck of the training lab, watching Wesley and Angel who in turn were watching Illyria. If she found anything odd about observing herself, she didn’t let the disturbance show, merely turning her attention intently to the two men in front of her. Spike and Lorne followed her lead, and it didn’t take Spike long to realize that the vampire was seething with barely-concealed rage that Wesley was quite effectively ignoring. Casting a glance at Lorne out of the corner of his eye, Spike could see that the other demon was feeling the rage even more acutely than he was; he looked positively staggered, as though the sheer force of it was enough to sweep him from his feet.
Spike’s blood chilled as he heard Angel murmur “Serve no master but your ambition,” something his grandsire had apparently heard Illyria say, before telling Wesley that Illyria may be an important resource after all. The significance of Angel honing in on that particular pearl of wisdom may have gone unnoticed by anyone else—it was obviously not raising any particular red flags with the watcher, assuming he was actually listening to Angel at that point—but Spike knew in an instant that those six words could have been Angelus’ mission statement. He was certainly never one to be charitable to his grandsire's souled counterpart and his vaunted mission, but even Spike found himself stunned that Angel could be reverting, soul and all, to the self-important hedonism that had characterized his darker self.
Angel moved to leave the observation room, and Spike, Illyria, and Lorne followed closely behind. Moving unseen even though the office seemed to be bustling, they followed Angel’s lead and entered his conference room just as the door swung closed.
It was going to be beyond strange to watch all these little dramas play themselves out, Spike thought to himself, and they were hardly minutes into the entire excursion. He’d always been an outsider, always carefully watching, observing, analyzing the groups in which he sought membership from their peripheries; this, however, was something else altogether. This was watching the future and, in a sense, being powerless to stop it. Except that by the watching of it, they were gaining the power to stop it. Bugger the mental mathematics… it was bloody fuckin’ strange to watch your own future play out while you hung about in the corner like a soddin’ wallflower. There—got it sorted. Spike shook his head to clear his mind and then turned his attention back to the sights and sounds before him.
The three observers stood together as they gazed at the demon clan surrounding the pretty young pregnant woman, all of them gathered around the table at the head of which sat Angel. Hamilton stood in the corner, easily recognizable after his extraordinarily memorable introduction, but even had they not known him a few moments of careful examination and the notice of his extraordinarily condescending air and impeccable suit would have been enough to let them know that he was the new liaison to the Senior Partners; only someone with that much power could get away with that attitude inside this building. They watched as Angel went over some sort of adoption treaty, line by line, with the young woman, glossing over the explanation of the ritual sacrifice whose demonic name the three of them instantly recognized. The word was the key—the baby was not a messiah, but a sacrifice, and Angel was leaving that crucial fact out of his explanations.
As the young mother signed the contracts and handshakes were exchanged by those present, the fact that Angel had just brokered—with no apparent stirrings of conscience or soul—a deal that would eventually see a baby sacrificed by a demon clan hit home.
Illyria was unconcerned; this had little to do with her outside of the simple fact of her giving audience to the act, and infants seemed just a more pitifully mewling version of their full-grown alter egos. One less was nothing to her, just as one more forced no modifications to her calculations of the world. What this indicated in her calculations of the dark half-breed, however, was something else entirely; despite his protestations of protection of human life, he was willing to sacrifice it in its most helpless form. If nothing else, it was a show of brute force that was beneath a true warrior and thus insulting to her in its barbarity and lack of valor; there was no need to expend energies on the weak when there were far stronger to be defeated.
Spike found himself wishing that he could be much more surprised than he actually was; Angelus had always had a thing for the young, and the only baby he’d ever seen him treat with anything less than savage hunger was the one Darla had attempted to feed him after the soul. The remembrance made Spike’s own soul roil a bit, but he attempted to placate it with reminders of Connor; apparently Angel had done something right with an infant, because Connor had made it to full-grown. Of course, there was the possibility that that had more to do with Wesley than with Angel; perhaps if Wesley hadn’t taken the baby Angel would’ve devoured his own son the way he’d devoured countless others… and this way lay images that his heart, soul, and stomach couldn’t take. He stopped himself from thinking further, forcing the sights before him into short, quantifiable statements—Angel just sold a baby. Add it to the list.
Lorne sagged against the wall, trying desperately to reconcile the cold-visaged infant broker before him with the warm, loving new father Angel had been only two years before. Remembrances washed over him: the affection and tenderness that Angel had demonstrated towards baby Connor, the love that seemed to light his never-easy soul when he sang lullabies to his son, the fury and anger and crippling depression when Connor had been taken, the shattering of the vampire’s soul that had nearly sent Lorne himself into catatonia when he walked in on the half-mad vampire rocking a burnt stuffed animal and singing Irish lullabies. How had that vampire become this… monster in front of him? Surely he wasn’t… he hadn’t come to this, not on Lorne’s watch. How had he not seen? He clung to the hope that something down the path would be different, would explain this atrocity, would let him believe that this evil wasn’t still inside a man he still wanted to believe was his friend.
“Blue, think we’ve seen all we need to see here,” Spike prodded, more to spare Lorne further anguish than out of concern for himself or the mission. He didn’t want to stay and see any more, and he had known going into this exactly what Angelus could be capable of; the empath, however, looked as though he’d just taken a walk inside the darkest corner of the shared soul of humanity, and Spike didn’t fancy losing him, especially when they were still so early in their mission.
Illyria simply nodded, and Spike and Lorne moved to flank her instinctively; it might be time to move, but they weren’t out of the woods yet. They knew what to expect this time and tried to brace for the searing pain and staggering dizziness that accompanied the shift, but it still left them panting and scrambling for purchase when they finally came to a rest with solid ground once more under their feet.
The confusion as to their location ended when Lorne murmured “corporate jet,” but Spike found that he wasn’t nearly as okay with observing himself sleeping in a corner of the cabin as Illyria had been watching herself wander the training room. Apparently he’d gotten right pissed before he’d gone to sleep, he thought, looking at the mound of tiny liquor bottles that surrounded his feet. Rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of himself, he turned his attention to Angel, whom he could hear speaking in low tones at the other end of the plane.
He walked closer, and was able to make out both Angel’s end of the conversation and that of the… thing on the other end of the phone. What in the hell had Angelus gotten himself into that he was skulking about talking to the sodding Immortal on the telephone? Oh, it had been years, but you never forgot the voice of the man who’d kept you chained in a barn while he cuckolded you. But Angelus had been there, too, so why would… Angel’s “Make sure she’s away from the apartment tonight” and the heavily accented response, “Yes, I will take good care of your Buffy,” nearly brought Spike’s demon to the fore. Angel was pimping Buffy out to the thrice-damned Immortal? What the bloody hell… He found himself clenching and unclenching his fists and his jaw as he tried to remind himself that he couldn’t touch Angel here and therefore couldn’t rip the bastard’s head off his soddin’ worthless body… not yet, anyway.
“You are to take care of my Buffy for tonight only… you’d do well to remember that,” Angel growled into the phone. “Spike is with me and she is not to know that he’s alive… there was no getting rid of him once he found out she was in Rome, but she’s mourned more than enough over the bleached moron. Maybe this way he’ll lose hope… move on like a good little sap… I’ll have him back out by tonight, but she is to be away from her apartment and anywhere they might see each other until then, capisce? Ilona in our Rome office has your payment. You keep her busy, you persuade the boy and Dawn to go along with the cover story—she’s moved on, she’s happy, it’s hopeless for him—and you get paid; you screw this up and I will rain hell itself upon you.”
A wave of possessive rage washed over Spike as he witnessed this attempt to usurp his new mate, and he knew that it was coursing towards Buffy through the claim. He couldn’t stop it, and truth be told he had no inclination to. He reminded himself that Angel had no way of knowing that she had come back for Spike, that things had changed and this wouldn’t happen; even so, he had the need to reaffirm that she was his, though the waves of love and reassurance coursing back from her helped to ebb some of his fury. He found himself fighting the demon for control with every unnecessary breath; interfering bastard trying to keep them apart. So the Poof was paying the sodding Immortal to keep he and Buffy separated? *But I thought she never loved me, Angel. She was always thinking of you… Bastard. Some confidence you’ve got in the love of your ‘soulmate,’ you brooding ponce. Can’t believe I bloody played right into your hands ‘til she showed up here.*
Still, Spike forced himself to remember that it could be only Angel’s characteristic possessive jealousy causing him to enlist help in keeping them apart; the fact that he was using the bloody Immortal, however, smacked of something darker. Angelus had hated the git every bit as much as Spike had, if not more so, and they both knew that he had reserves of dark power at his fingertips. So why him to keep Buffy occupied? Buffy was a beautiful woman, and there had to be scores of men in Italy that wouldn’t have to be paid to keep her company. Unless she didn’t want to go out—unless she wasn’t moving on. Unless Angel wanted her completely snowed under until… what?
And what boy was he supposed to ‘persuade’? Andrew? He was the only one living with Buffy, besides Dawn… Oh, Spike was not liking this at all. Even the currents of calm and love that Buffy was conveying to comfort him, having sensed his rage but knowing nothing of the cause, weren’t enough to stem the black rage that was building, and he really wanted to tear the bastard’s head off. Angel was paying the bloody Immortal to fucking enthrall Buffy and Andrew and possibly even the Bit if she got in the way… all to keep Buffy away from Spike—to keep her under Angel’s thumb, even if she never realized. He was stripping the three of them of their free will, but he was sending Buffy out with a nit who had no morals or conscience and the power to enthrall her into anything… Fury was just not a strong enough word.
“Shiva, get me the fuck out of here NOW,” Spike growled angrily, and although she looked ready to take him apart piece by piece in recompense for the tone in which he was speaking to her, and Lorne looked not a little terrified of the now-barely controlled vampire, she merely placed her hands back on their chests as soon as Spike returned within her reach. This time, Spike welcomed the nauseating jerking sensation; it gave him something other than his rage to focus on and removed him from the temptation of trying in vain to draw and quarter Angel with his bare hands.
Apparently, however, the feeling of needing to rend and tear Angel wasn’t about to disappear anytime soon, he thought ruefully as they came to a stop in the corner of Angel’s office, their visit perfect timed to observe a conversation between Angel and the dapperly-dressed Hamilton. The stunned face of Wesley just outside the door told the three of them that they’d just missed a hell of a confrontation, but the conversation they were monitoring shot upwards in importance with the first words spoken.
“The Senior Partners were very pleased with your choice of sacrifice, Angel. There have been rumblings that it was about time you came on board. It’s no secret they weren’t happy with you before now.”
“And you don’t seem to get that I don’t care whether they’re happy with me or not, Hamilton. Happy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be… ask the good people of Sunnydale what happens when I get happy, and I’m sure they’d agree. I’ve told you what I want—in with the Black Thorn. Make it happen.”
“Well, the sacrifice was certainly sufficient… and a stroke of brilliance, really. To take arguably the most innocent of all of your people and turn them over to an Old One… well, that was genius. However, the Partners have some concerns about Illyria’s continued existence and would like for you to begin making contingency…”
The brief tortured glances exchanged by Spike and Lorne conveyed a world’s worth of emotion. Angel had murdered Fred. Just as sure as if he’d drained her, he’d killed her. And now, apparently, plans were in some stage of development for getting rid of Illyria as well.
“I told you I Don’t Care what the Partners think. They wanted a sacrifice, I gave them one. And a damned good one. What I do from here on is my business, Hamilton, not the Partners’, and not yours. If they want to know, they can come here and ask me, but my plans do not run through you, do you understand me?”
“You would be wise not to take that tone with me, Angel. I will not pander to you. I’ve already told you once that I’m not a little girl…”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not still a sniveling bitch, though, does it, Ham? You work for them, I work for them. Notice the way that hierarchy works? At no point in it do I report to you. Only difference between us is that I don’t owe my life, my immortality, or my balls to them. So if the Partners want info from me, they come to ME. You are my liaison with them, not the other way around. Now, about the Black Thorn.”
“Single-minded, aren’t you, Angelus?” Hamilton sneered, a bit of his ineffable cool slipping at the diatribe he’d just endured. Angel stood to full height, meeting Hamilton nearly nose-to-nose, and the face-off that resulted made the air thrum with tension. Not surprisingly, Hamilton blinked first, pulling back and biting out an “I’ll take care of it” before strolling angrily out of the room, nearly removing the door from its hinges as he ripped it open to pass through.
In any other context, Spike might have found it amusing to watch his grandsire rip into the seemingly unshakeable prick and get a response… but after what he’d just heard, he was finding it hard to stand. He’d loved Fred more than a little; sweet little bird doing everything she could to help him even though she didn’t even know him, and fighting Angel every step of the way besides. What was it she’d said to Angel in the hospital that first day she got sick? “Handsome man save me from the monsters,” he whispered quietly in remembrance, devastated by her faith in the person who had surrendered her willingly to the forces they were supposed to fight. Hesitantly raising tear-blurred eyes to meet Lorne’s, he took in the tears slipping down the empath’s cheeks and gave him what he hoped was a comforting smile. *‘s hard to remember how to comfort in a moment like this.*
Lorne felt as though he’d been stripped to the very core of his being; he didn’t know how much could be left of him after this. The physical ache inside him was growing greater, gnawing at the edges of his already-frayed emotions with teeth of steel-sharpened truth. There had long been times when he had hated feeling so much, had hated the access that allowed him to see inside people and reach the dark that lurked beneath even the brightest of lights. But to see Angel… Angel, whom he’d read so many times over the years he had memorized the windings of the interior paths like familiar roads towards home… Angel, whom he believed he didn’t need to read anymore because the bonds of friendship should be strong enough to allow him the necessary glimpses inside… to see his Angel so cold, so calculating, and so downright heartless made him wish for the first time that he could shut himself down completely. Just close himself off from the world, from the visions and the gifts and the glimpses, and live in a world where artifice was blinding and sufficient. He had taken beatings for this vampire whom he had called friend, endured torments and faced the sort of terrors he had shied away from for years, only to come face to face with the one darkness he had thought he could save himself and the world from. It seemed as though Angelus had never been as far away as he had always hoped and believed.
Illyria was merely concerned for her own existence. She felt nothing for the soul that formerly inhabited this shell; had it not been for the sacrifice of that soul, she would still be entombed for the ages. The departure of that soul may have caused no small amount of emotion in the others, but to her it was as necessary an evil as ever had there been; she would expend no base feelings for the loss. This cage of flesh was not a home; it felt artificial and overly structured and insufficient to contain the majesty and fierceness of her power. However insufficient it may be, though, it was still her current sanctum, and was pitifully vulnerable to outside attack. Whatever this half-breed thought to unleash upon her could potentially murder her; that could not be permitted to happen. Without waiting for signals from the others, she moved towards them and shifted. She had seen enough.
This time, the darkness of the cavern in which they found themselves combined with the physical sensations of the shift to make it even more difficult to acclimate to their surroundings. Spike shifted without thought, bringing the demon to the fore to aid his vision in the fire-flickered darkness of their current location. The room was ringed with robed figures and empty save for the one less richly-robed figure slumped in the small circle of light in the cavern’s center. His gaze flickered to the side only long enough to ensure that both Illyria and Lorne had adjusted to the darkness, but the moment’s inattention was nearly long enough for him to miss the entrance of another figure, this one in rapid forward motion through the wall of flames.
Tensing as the figure came to rest in front of the slumped body at the center of the room, Spike needed only a moment to recognize not only the coat but the general bearing of the newcomer; only one person he knew managed to lumber and swagger simultaneously. “Angel,” he growled, watching his grandsire pick up the shape in front of him and shake the hood back from the familiar face. “Drogyn,” Spike whispered, watching the man beg for his life and then springing forward only to freeze, realizing he was helpless to stop Angel from sinking his fangs into the Keeper’s neck. He stood still, mutely horrified as Angel drained the man and dropped the empty husk to the floor. He sank back against the back wall of the cavern, watching the rest of the ritual, mind racing to catch up with what he had seen. Drogyn… had deserved better. The man had been a warrior, a hero, a guardian, and he had been beaten, abused and reduced to begging for his life? The romantic in him bemoaned the fall of the noble guardian; the demon in him screamed for blood at the disrespect shown the warrior.
Blinking against the bright lights that suddenly filled the room, he watched the shadows melt, watched hoods removed and robed figures move to mingle as Angel was congratulated upon his membership in the Circle of the Black Thorn. His sacrifice was again celebrated, the violence with which he’d rent Drogyn’s throat and passed his final test was praised. There was nothing about this that was good, nothing reassuring; hell, Spike had stopped looking for goodness in anything they were seeing four stops before. These people were the inner circle of hell itself, the most forsaken ring of Dante’s Inferno… and Angel belonged to them now. He watched as the dignitary from the party greeted Angel, mistaking Angel for Angelus and congratulating him for his “return to form;” Angel’s response sent ice through Spike’s veins. Lips curved into a cold smile bleaker than anything that had ever curved Angelus’ lips, Angel simply nodded and replied, “It’s still Angel, Sebassis. But you never really know, do you? Maybe the soul just makes us more… creative. More cagey. Maybe it’s always been in me.” Spike remembered Angelus, and he had felt until recently that he had a pretty good handle on Angel as well. But now, as he took in the darkness of his grandsire’s eyes, the passionless voice and the domineering gaze, Spike realized that, on some level, Angel really had been just like this all along—and whatever had held the worst of Angelus at bay inside of Angel was gone.
Illyria seemed to know that they were done here, or was simply bored with what appeared to be a cocktail party. Within seconds they were facing themselves, listening to Angel convince them as earnestly as they had ever seen him that he needed them to help him to bring down the Circle of the Black Thorn, appealing to the “helping the helpless” line that had been their motto since they’d come together. They watched him repudiate everything they had just seen him do so gleefully. God, he was good. It was giving Spike a sodding headache, and apparently Lorne wasn’t doing much better with it; he could see the demon pinching the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache, and he felt a stab of pity for him. As difficult as this was for Spike, he had known going into it the depths of evil that lived inside Angel. Spike had, after all, learned how to be a monster under Angel’s tutelage, and though it chafed his soul to admit it, he had been a damn fine monster.
But Lorne—Lorne had believed in the soul and in the power of that soul to buy redemption, and had believed that the man and the soul combined could overcome the demon. He had never understood the situation as well as he should have, had never realized that the demon was in nothing near harmony with the soul and was constantly scratching away at Angel’s resistance. He knew these things now. He should have discussed the soul with Angel, discussed Angelus with Angel… done anything other than ignore the elephant in the room as he had always done. But it was too late for that—for questions, for investigation, for discussion; seeing Angel now that the resistance was gone, when the demon was in full control even though the soul remained intact—that’s what was tormenting the empath. Angel had found a way to bring the demon and the soul into balance, but at what cost? How could any of them have known that the only balance the soul would find with the demon was a common ground of mayhem?
Watching Angel say it had all been an act—well, now that was a trip. Spike had been a damn fine actor when he’d had to be, and he’d known Angel to have that same gift; but when the chips were down, Angel just didn’t have it. He didn’t have what it took to convince so many disparate groups of people that he was what they needed. Hell, he hadn’t even been able to convince Buffy that he was Angel and not Angelus for longer than a day. And he’d been keeping this act up for two months? This acting, here in this little showstopping performance, was Angel’s forte; quick, dirty moments when he could be whoever you needed him to be before the inner self that he could never fully repress began to slip through. No, Spike was certain that everything they’d seen had been pure Angel, no artifice… but this little show could have its own category at the Oscars.
But at least now they knew what the bloody Circle did, Spike thought wryly, listening as Angel explained that Cordelia had passed on knowledge of the group in their last kiss. She’d set him on the path, all right… but Spike sincerely doubted that the cheerleader or the Powers had wanted Angel traipsing down this particular road, becoming one of the Senior Partners’ bringers of evil upon the earth. And the bastard was willing to take them all out… had them all signing on for a fight he knew damn well they couldn’t, wouldn’t win. Where he led, they followed, and he was leading them into certain death. Despite knowing what he knew of Angel’s motives, Spike couldn’t help but be proud as he watched everyone in the room agree to the fatalistic quest; no matter what their leader proved to be, these people truly were heroes—and for once he was willing to include himself in that tally.
“Lorne, if you’re ready,” he murmured with uncharacteristic tenderness, and the demon looked away from the sight before him and nodded, a sheen of tears filming his eyes. Illyria reached out for them, and in a moment they were gone.
And in his apartment? Well, this was a dawdle… why exactly were they meeting in his apartment? Spike watched, snorting in amusement as Angel proclaimed that one of them would betray him. Always had been a pompous git, and what was it with vampires and crucifixion references anyway? Good on future?Spike for calling Angel on it, too… would’ve been right disappointed in himself if he’d let the old git get away with something so ridiculous. So this was the last big pep talk before their final day on earth, then? This was the mission meeting. Spike watched as his Lorne followed Angel and his future counterpart off to the side, watching as the demon grew slowly more furious until the rage was as palpable a thing as Spike had ever been in the presence of.
Lorne listened as Angel asked his future self to kill Lindsey, and tried to remember that violence here would do no good. He didn’t think he’d ever felt fury so acute in all of his life, and he wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it. How could Angel ask that of him? Lorne had been a steadfast ally, as stalwart as they come, but he had always drawn the line on killing—anyone or anything. He didn’t do it; his nature wouldn’t allow it; you simply couldn’t be open to all the pain in the world, all the best and worst that someone could experience, and then take life. The psychic blowback would be crippling—didn’t Angel see that? Or was that what he was hoping for? Did he need Lorne distracted so badly that he was willing to drive him insane? He wasn’t surprised when his future version accepted the request; when hadn’t Lorne done Angel’s bidding? He was a friend in need, and Lorne was nothing if not a steadfast friend; he knew even now that if his Angel—not this twisted, heartless creature in front of him, but the Angel he had thought he knew years ago—had asked this of him, he would have complied, risks to self be damned. And that was what made the betrayal of the request all the more grievous.
Angel and Lorne rejoined the others, and the distribution of assignments happened quickly, each of them given a task just an inch beyond what should be possible for them to accomplish, Spike realized with fury. Illyria and Spike might survive, although it wouldn’t be easy going for either; but to put Percy up against one of the most powerful warlocks in history? Or Charlie boy up against a pure-demon senator and her all-vampire staff? They were being handed off to certain death… for what? But once again he was proud of these people… proud of their bravery and spirit and sense of what was good and right, and he knew he’d feel the honor of their presence all the more acutely when they could finally return home.
He watched them file out to have their last perfect day; watched himself depart, leaving Angel alone in the apartment, and heard him mutter “Doesn’t matter if you’re the only one up for the Shanshu, William. After tonight, I’ll be in charge.” It was more than Spike had expected—what did he mean, Spike was the only one up for the Shanshu?—and it still chilled him, but he froze when he heard his grandsire humming under his breath as he walked to the door and closed it. His eyes shot to Lorne, who had slid down the wall to land in a crumpled heap of brightly colored silk on the floor as the sounds had begun. It hadn’t been much, but maybe…
Lorne looked up through eyes made even more red by the heartbreak and fury that lit them from within and said in a voice vibrating with emotion, “Illyria, anytime you’re ready we can go back home. My little Angel Dust there just told me everything we need to know.”
Chapter 11
Buffy, Wesley, and Gunn had relapsed into their comfortable but strained silence
following her revelation that the discoveries Spike and the others were making
were anything but good. The two men made a show of attempting to work on
paperwork, then gave up any semblance of productivity in exchange for an
extremely unfocused game of poker; no matter their attempts at distraction,
however, by the end of the first thirty minutes the burden of the delay was
obviously weighing heavily, etching itself into the tense lines of their faces
and the rigidity of their posture.
For a good portion of their wait, the stillness was generally punctuated only by
the sounds of papers or cards shuffling or by Buffy’s gasps as Spike’s emotions
rolled through her, dizzying in their intensity. She wasn’t exactly comfortable
with the way she became the center of attention every time some new wave of
feeling came into play, but she couldn’t make herself remain silent. She felt
his frustration, his annoyance, his scorn, his grief, his jealousy?, his
confusion, but above all else his rage, and her attempts at sending comfort
through the bond seemed to be successful only in mildly soothing the fury that
ballasted every other emotion. She was beginning to feel exhausted from the
attempts; she hadn’t exactly gotten a lot of rest the night before, and now she
was faced with the full brunt of Spike’s emotions. The man felt everything so
intensely, and she was floundering under the weight of it all; she was still new
to this ‘open to all emotions’ business, and he was wearing her out.
She hadn’t expected that what they would find would be good; she had, in fact,
been braced for Acathla-level badness, so she wasn’t terribly surprised when
everything she got from Spike seemed to support her preconceived notion of what
they were facing. Out of everything he was feeling, nothing was out of the realm
of what she’d expected except for the jealousy. What the hell was he jealous of?
And so jealous that it had made his mark tingle to the extent that she nearly
had to excuse herself from the room? Those were answers he’d be ponying up as
soon as he showed his face back in the training room… and she’d kissed him silly
and forbidden him to ever leave her side again. So she wasn’t doing so well with
the separation thing; she could admit it. She’d just gotten him back and he goes
time-shifting; not exactly the way a girl wants to spend her sort-of honeymoon.
Tonight was theirs, though. They’d have their briefing, they might even do
dinner with the others… but then the rest of the night was just the two of them.
She knew that they had a lot longer than a few nights… she’d meant what she said
when she told him that where he went she went… but she was overwhelmed with the
need to be near him now, to remind herself of everything she had nearly lost
forever so she’d never take it for granted again.
Buffy had been subconsciously running her fingers over the bite marks on her
throat for nearly as long as Spike, Illyria, and Lorne had been gone, and Wesley
found it fascinating. He longed to ask her if it helped, if it provided comfort
or allowed for a greater connection; he wanted to research a claim now that he
had a chance, because it had always been a matter of interest to him and the
available information had been scarce. But he and Buffy had never had that sort
of a relationship; he had been an object of scorn, even though he’d tried his
best to cast off his priggish Watcher skin and become a real, flesh-and-blood
person for her and her friends. He realized now that it hadn’t been enough, that
as much as he had believed he had set his childhood lessons upon their ear by
attempting to help his Slayer heal her vampire paramour, he had really not done
much; he had still bowed before the Council, still been cowed by their threats,
and still attempted to insulate himself from their wrath, very nearly at the
cost of Buffy’s life. He had, of course, failed, and the resultant dismissal
from the Council had sent him down the road that showed him what true change,
true development of character and purpose, really meant. It had been years since
he had been a prig, but he was fairly certain that, to Buffy, he’d been somehow
preserved in amber as a clueless twit. He should’ve known that if he could grow,
so could she.
Buffy had felt Wesley’s eyes on her, and she ran through the subconscious list
of ‘reasons people stare’ quickly in her mind; she was sure her nose was clean,
her mascara may have run but she was fairly certain that she had used the
waterproof, her clothes were all in place, and her hair wasn’t sticking up.
*Then what?* she wondered, realizing after a moment that her hand was in
constant contact with Spike’s mark. *Once a Watcher…* she thought to herself,
finally recognizing the gleam of potential discovery in his gaze and smiling
affectionately, remembering all the other times she’d seen that fire in Giles’
eyes. And at least Wesley looked engaged in something, like he was truly
interested in part of the outside world; she knew enough from talking to Spike
that Wesley and Fred had been an item and that she’d died right as everything
was beginning. Years of losses had made her wise; Buffy knew the pain of
fractured dreams and loved ones taken too soon all too well—had lived it over
and over. It was a relief to see that he seemed to be moving slowly back into
the world; she had committed mystical suicide after her mother’s death, and if
not for Dawn may have done the same after Spike’s. It had taken months after his
death to make her begin to care again in the smallest of ways, and even then she
couldn’t bring herself to be as involved as she once had been; she had wanted
the world to move on without her, to leave her behind, but last night had shown
her why it hadn’t. Determined to stoke the flame of engagement as best she
could, to keep him tethered at least a bit to the world in the hopes that he,
too, could find a little peace, she caught Wesley’s eye and gave him a lopsided
grin. Raising one eyebrow in question, she teased, “Go ahead and ask me, Wes.
I’m pretty sure your brain explodes or turns all blue or something if you hold
back like that.”
Wesley was stunned; he hadn’t imagined that she would willingly entertain any
conversation pertaining to her claiming, much less instigate such a conversation
herself. She had played every detail of her relationship with Angel so close to
her vest, revealing information on a strictly need-to-know basis; of course, now
he knew why. Everything about that relationship had been fraught with angst and
melodrama, and it seemed unlikely that she’d ever been truly happy with him,
though she had most certainly loved him. Angel’s strained relations with the
friends and family that were so crucial to her, coupled with his characteristic
aloofness, had doomed them in many ways. Her relationship with Spike, whatever
its beginnings, was obviously now more open, more mature, especially given its
now-eternal bond, and she obviously felt extraordinarily secure in their
feelings for each other; though she was clearly worried, there was still an aura
of calm around her, and he could hardly recall whether he’d ever seen her look
so relaxed and at peace. Giles had been correct; Buffy was undoubtedly very
happy.
He realized that he was simply staring at her now-bemused face, and shook his
head slightly to free himself from his reverie. “Terribly sorry. I was simply
thinking that you looked tremendously happy… if you’ll pardon the observation.”
“I am,” she answered, smiling brightly, and it was obvious that she was almost
eager to discuss the matter with him.
He wondered about that for a moment before he realized what a truly momentous
occasion the claiming represented; of course she was eager to talk about it. She
was a 24 year old woman who had just bonded herself to the love of her life for
eternity; eager was probably the least accurate word he could find to describe
how she must be feeling. “Would you like to… talk about it, Buffy? I don’t mean
to be intrusive, and you certainly don’t have to answer my questions. I simply
believe it to be a fascinating subject, but the literature is far from
comprehensive…”
“Oh, I know!! Do you know how hard it was to find a book that would even tell me
what the ritual involved, like the amounts of blood and the words I needed to
use? It’s all spread out over a dozen different books—there should so be a
database of this info, or something,” she finished huffily, and for a moment she
looked exactly like the teenaged girl whom he had first met.
“I doubt it comes up all that often,” he answered, fighting a smile, and she
looked up and grinned back at him.
“I think you might be right on that one,” she laughed. “But still, it would’ve
been nice. So what do you want to know? I’m a font of knowledge… for once. And
how weird is that?” she asked, winking at him playfully. She may have just been
getting to know him again, but she still hated seeing him so devastated, and the
heaviness of the atmosphere in the room was getting to her. She needed to have
some lighthearted moments while she battled Spike’s emotions, and it looked like
it couldn’t hurt Wesley to have a few, either.
“Yes… well… how does it feel? You seem to want to maintain contact with the
mark…”
“Oh… that’s a comfort thing. It makes me feel better… but to be fair, I’m not
sure if that’s because of the claim or because it’s a reminder that he’s here
and with me. The claim itself feels kinda tingly… in the good way,” she
answered, stopping for a moment to blush herself when she noticed that Wesley
seemed to be flushing a bit. “Sorry…um, not that kind of good… well, not
necessarily… although it is fun and tingly that way, too… I mean, it has its
uses… but that’s so not what I’m feeling right now… I mean, I do, but it’s not
the main thing… and oh, just gag me or something till they get back, please?”
she asked, having reached full blush as her explanatory ramble turned vaguely
pornographic. Gunn’s snickers at least made her pull her hands off her face, and
she decided that the sight of Gunn laughing and Wesley biting the insides of his
cheeks to keep from doing the same was worth her own humiliation. “Yeah, yeah…
yuck it up, boys. Babble Buffy’s in town.”
“You gotta admit, Blondie… it was pretty funny…” Gunn said between snickers,
unable to stop himself from laughing now that the tension of the situation had
been broken.
“It…really was,” Wesley added, allowing himself to laugh now that Gunn had given
over and even Buffy was giggling.
“OK, so I suck at this font of info thing. Long story short… claimy bite equals
big fun for people involved in said claim. It also means super-cool emotional
communication. It’s still new, so I’m not sure how far it’ll go… but I can feel
what he’s feeling, and he should be able to feel me, too, but he’s a little
occupied right now… I mean, we played around with it a bit last night and I am
so not going down this road again… anyway, we know it works both ways. I’ve been
trying to calm him down and help as much as possible, but he’s really pissed, so
how much I’m helping is anybody’s guess.”
“This is fascinating,” Wesley murmured, obviously running through a list of
possible questions in his head as he tilted his head in an effort to look more
closely at the mark. Buffy had just turned her head a bit to give him a clearer
view when she felt a sudden surge of adoration jolt through the claim, timed
perfectly with a deadpan British drawl.
“Leave you alone for a bit, Percy, and you’re already movin’ in on my girl?”
Buffy scrambled to her feet and flew across the room, landing with an audible
thump against Spike as he wrapped his arms around her and picked her up off the
ground.
“Miss me, Goldilocks?”
A kiss that would’ve knocked the wind from him was his only response, and he
allowed himself a moment to just glory in her presence again, to forget
everything he had seen and the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach and
just surrender to the pure love pouring off of her. She pulled away for breath
and smiled at him, tightening her arms around him in a quick hug before
shimmying back down to the floor.
“It was bad, wasn’t it?” she asked quietly, and her eyes flickered from Illyria
to Lorne before returning to rest on Spike.
“’Fraid so, luv. Think we oughta hold off ‘til the big group sing later on, but
don’t think it’d be oversteppin’ to say it’s one of the worst things I’ve seen.
If it’s all the same, though, let’s leave specifics ‘til later—they aren’t
pretty, and I don’t think anybody’s gonna be up for recountin’ them more than
once. ”
“Lorne?” Wesley asked, noticing the pallor that seemed to have descended over
the demon’s normally luminous skin.
“Wesley, this is a level of bad we didn’t see coming. At least when it was
Cordelia… it wasn’t really Cordelia. But this is Angel… really Angel, all the
way. Soul and all. Nobody’s riding shotgun with him.”
Lorne’s use of his actual name chilled Wesley to the bone; he could have counted
on one hand the times he remembered being referred to without a nickname to
soften the blow. The grim look on Spike’s face; the stricken air that seemed to
cling to Lorne; the quiet, if sad, acquiescence that colored Buffy’s features;
and the fact that even Illyria seemed disquieted all spoke to the apocalyptic
nature of the danger they were facing. That the danger was taking the shape of
trusted friend, colleague, ex-lover, grandsire… that just made it all the more
poignant, but it never crossed his mind to doubt that they would deal with the
threat. These were not frightened schoolchildren or naïve colleagues—not any
longer. Loss had made them hard, made them wise to the fact that evil in a
friendly guise was still evil; Angel would now be facing a far different group
than those he had betrayed and turned on in the past.
“So what are our plans?” Wesley asked, and if the air of calm purpose that
surrounded him surprised anyone, no one let on.
“Reckon we oughta work out specifics once the whole gang’s together and we’ve
got it all out in the open. But it might not hurt to start sharpenin’ some wood.
‘M thinkin’ a forest worth of redwoods for me, ‘n then whatever the rest of you
lot want.”
There were nods of assent and then just silence for a moment as they stood
together, mentally preparing themselves to continue their days pretending as
though the rugs hadn’t been pulled out from under them.
Buffy, however, needed more than ‘I’ll tell you later.’ She looked up at Lorne,
knowing that he knew the answer to the question burning inside her, and said
simply, “Does he lose his soul?”
Lorne’s eyes widened a bit, and he looked at Spike as though seeking permission
to answer. Spike wasn’t sure on the answer himself—he had his suspicions that
the Angel they’d seen was as soulful as ever, but he couldn’t help wanting to
know as well. He gave an almost unnoticeable nod, and Lorne answered, smiling a
bit sadly.
“He’s Angel right now, and will be for a while; he wouldn’t lose the soul for a
while. Not until we’re too long gone to do anything about it, ladyfinger. The
rest of us, I mean. You… well, you’re going to get to see Angelus, but not quite
the same Angelus you’ve seen before.”
“What does that mean?” she asked quietly, brow furrowed as she tried to decipher
his meaning.
“It means that for everything we saw, the soul’s not running the show anymore,
so the demon doesn’t mind it. Isn’t listening to it, but doesn’t care to get rid
of it either. At least for now. But later, cream cake, after we’re gone…” he
trailed off, nodding to indicate everyone but Buffy and causing her to grip
Spike’s arm even more tightly.
“The soul goes walkies.” Spike’s question came out flatter than he’d intended,
more a statement than a query, but a look at Lorne’s face told him he was right.
“Looks like you’ve gotten it, my little lamington. Now, I really think I need a
seabreeze or ten before I continue on with this day. I’ll be in my office if
anyone needs me… but trust me when I say you don’t need me until tonight.”
“Of course,” answered Wesley, deferring to the demon’s needs although he was
nearly desperate to find out the details for himself. Respecting that those who
had witnessed Angel’s actions during the shift might need time to synthesize
what they’d seen, he said simply, “So the rest of us should return to our
offices, then… finish out the day before we reconvene with Rupert?”
“That might be the best thing,” Buffy answered, glancing curiously at Spike out
of the corner of her eye. It was so strange… as soon as they’d gotten the big
‘evil Angel’ reveal out of the way, all the jealousy she’d felt through the
claim while he was gone came back full force, giving her this undeniable urge to
prove herself to him and setting her insides on fire with need. She knew he was
doing it to her on purpose… she just couldn’t figure out why.
“So then, we’ll all meet up in the carpark, yeah?” Spike asked, tugging Buffy
towards the door. She looked back at the others as apologetically as she could
manage given her excitement to get out of that room, too, and let Spike drag her
down the hall.
“Where are we going?” she asked, a little startled by the sheer predatory gleam
in his eyes as he glanced back at her.
“Peaches’ office,” he growled, never slowing his steps though she attempted to
stop and succeeded only in having her arm wrenched forward for her troubles.
Skipping a bit to regain her footing, she whimpered, “You don’t have to be all
shirty about it.”
“One of these days I’ll teach you how to properly use that word,” he laughed,
coming within view of the office. “And don’t whine… ‘s not becoming.”
“Oh I’ll show you becoming!” she squeaked, offended, as he barreled past the
obviously objecting Harmony and slammed the door to Angel’s office behind them.
In the matter of an instant she found herself pinned to the door by the entire
length of his body, the hand he had been using to guide her now used to pin her
to the hard surface behind her with both hands above her head. He leaned forward
and ducked his face into the curve of her neck, scenting her as he moved up
along her face and down the other side until he reached his mark on her throat.
“Spike?” she asked, the question a breathy moan that she didn’t even attempt to
make sound more commanding; frankly, she didn’t care why the hell he’d become
cave Spike just as long as he’d keep acting like this.
“Mine,” he growled, sucking roughly at his mark before pulling back to meet her
gaze and allowing his eyes to flash amber. He looked so much like the predator
he was by nature, the predator she sometimes almost forgot he was… and god it
made her hot.
She nodded, eyes wide and glazed with lust, and assented, “Yours, Spike.”
He released his hold on her wrists, but only for an instant; lifting her up and
over his shoulder, he stalked towards Angel’s desk and laid her out atop it,
watching her hair fan out behind her head as she stared at him, confusion and
desire warring on her face.
“What’s going on, Spike?” she asked as he hovered over her, and the look on his
face took her back to their first few encounters, back when Dru had been the
love of his life and her world had been all blood and peaches with Angel. He’d
admitted to her under the most pleasurable sort of torture that he had been
attracted to her immediately—that he couldn’t get her out of his head, and that
was why she’d pissed him off so much. Once she looked back through eyes older
than those of the teen she had been, she could recognize the look of feral lust,
the equal desire to devour and ravish that had transformed his face as they
fought. He was looking at her that way now, eyes shifting from blue to gold and
back so rapidly that it seemed one blur of color, and she couldn’t have said
which she wanted more; she decided she’d happily settle for both.
Her question received no answer other than the sensation of his hands sliding up
her skirt, and she caught her breath as she felt his fingers tease her clit
through her panties for just a moment before he ripped the tiny scrap of fabric
off of her body. She arched her hips upward, forgetting completely where they
were and that she should probably be arguing for a change of location, and
whimpered as his hands left her skirt as quickly as they had slipped inside it,
taking her panties with them. She heard the distinctive sound of metal rolling
smoothly against metal and dimly realized that Spike had opened one of Angel’s
desk drawers; she propped herself up just far enough to see him tuck the ripped
lace panties under some paperwork before shoving the drawer closed again.
“Spike… what?” she asked, only to have her question cut off by the bruising
pressure of his lips against hers as his tongue explored her mouth voraciously,
taking her in a brutal kiss that left her on the verge of collapse.
“Smell of you should drive the bastard barmy, love,” he murmured, tugging her
skirt up into a bunch around her hips before seating himself in Angel’s chair
and pulling her roughly to the edge of the desk. She started to lean up again,
the desire to see him overwhelming, but his guttural “Stay down, Buffy” held her
rooted in place, trembling with anticipation. She didn’t have long to wait; she
choked back a scream as he thrust two fingers inside her as his mouth descended
on her clit.
Buffy scrabbled for purchase on the desk, her fingers crumpling paperwork and
ripping files as she sought something solid to help her anchor herself. She
finally settled for putting her arms over her head and holding onto the side of
the desk, knuckles white as she thrashed against Spike’s talented mouth and
fingers.
God, just the taste of her… he wanted to tear Angel into tiny pieces just for
trying to keep him from the sweetness that was Buffy. He knew that he was being
rougher with her than he had been in a long while, but he simply could not
control himself. He needed to mark her, to reassert that he owned her, body and
soul, that it was his claim that bound her. Holding her down with his free hand
on her chest, he lashed his tongue against her clit as he continued to torment
her with his fingers, curling them upwards to press against the sweet spot
inside her. She tried again to raise her hips, and he merely growled and pressed
harder against her chest in response. The message was clear; she was going
nowhere until he was through with her.
Buffy had no idea what the hell was happening, but she knew that she never
wanted it to stop. She was sure that being pinned by a master vampire was
supposed to set off some sort of alarm bells, but she figured those had been
silenced by the claim; the only thing she was in danger of at this point was
death by orgasm, and she’d willingly chase that dragon if only he would… just…
She shrieked as his teeth teased her clit before he closed his lips around it,
nipping, licking, and sucking until she was sure she’d die if she couldn’t come
soon. Just as she sobbed helplessly, drowning in lust and begging wordlessly for
release, he slid another finger inside her and gave her clit one last hard suck,
then followed it up with a nip that registered just on the pleasure side of pain
and sent her shaking and gasping over the edge into release.
He heard the sound of wood splintering and raised his head, using his fingers to
extend her orgasm while he watched her face. She was incredible, radiant and
wild and flushed… and she had cracked Angel’s desk as she came. He was already
harder than he had ever been, but that discovery caused a new wave of
satisfaction to course through him, hardening him further; maybe it meant he was
a shallow bastard, but he gloried in the fact that she had cracked the Poof’s
heavy, solid desk because of the pleasure he had given her.
Buffy cried out at the loss of his touch when he abruptly pulled his fingers
from her, but quieted down as she found herself suddenly facedown on the desk,
balancing on only the balls of her feet on the floor and with Spike’s very erect
cock pressing against her folds. She didn’t even remember being moved. She
groaned his name as he thrust his hips forward, sliding his shaft between her
wet lips in a tantalizing promise; grabbing the damaged end of the desk again,
Buffy pushed back against him beseechingly and moaned happily when she felt his
hand fist in her hair.
“Whose are you, Buffy?” he asked, his voice hoarse and quiet, choked by emotion
and lust. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“I’m yours, Spike. Your mate. Your girl. Always your girl… please baby… show me
again… make me yours again,” she cried as he continued to tease her, now with
the head of his cock just inside her entrance. The pressure, the torment that
came from him being so slightly inside her and denying her more was positively
maddening, and she resigned herself to outright begging if that’s what it took.
“Spike… please… love you… you have to… please.”
“Please what, Buffy?” he asked, sliding his free hand over her hip to tease
faint circles around her clit as he eased just a fraction of an inch further
inside her.
“Fuck me… please fuck me, Spike!” she groaned in response to the exquisite
torment, trying in vain to push back against him. His grip on her hair helped
him keep her in place, and she decided that she’d be as obedient as possible if
it would ensure that these feelings kept shooting through her. God, this was
primal… this was something they had never had… rough sex, yes, but never this…
this completely primitive lust only just tempered by mutual adoration… and it
left her breathless and wanting. Her scream echoed through the office as he sank
fully inside her without warning, burying himself in one powerful stroke.
Spike was absolutely reveling both in the feeling of having her tight heat
surrounding him and the utter bliss of hearing the sounds she was making as she
rushed headlong into climax. He slammed into her roughly, each stroke more
forceful than the last, and her rapidly escalating whimpers and cries were doing
nothing to tame the demon that wanted to reclaim every inch of her all over
again. His senses were on overdrive, and every possible element of their
coupling seemed magnified: the sound of flesh hitting flesh, the soft pounding
noise as he drove Buffy into the desk again and again, the squeak of her hands
against the smooth surface as she tried to hang on, the silk of her hair in his
hand, the luminous glow of her skin, the smell of her arousal and the feeling of
her juices as he rubbed her clit, the absolutely sinful vision of his cock
disappearing inside her body.
Dimly, Spike registered that her breathing had changed into a familiar pattern
and he sped the motions of his fingers on her clit, smiling as her walls began
to clench around him. Her hands slapped desperately against the desk, powered by
the force of her pleasure, and every muscle in her body tensed as she strained
against him in an effort to push back as she gasped and cried out her orgasm. He
used his grip on her hair to leverage her upwards until she stood pressed
against him and quickly removed his hand from her clit, banding her against him
with his arm placed firmly her under her breasts. He tugged her head to the side
until his mark was accessible, and he began to tease his tongue and blunt teeth
over it, still slamming into her with bruising force.
“Say you’re mine, Buffy,” he rumbled against her ear, and the command was
accompanied by the sound of his bones shifting as his demon came forth. Buffy’s
knees trembled from the mere promise of his bite. She could hardly think through
the haze of lust and want that was clouding her mind—and the combination of his
fast deep thrusts and the pressure of the edge of the desk against her clit
weren’t helping her to formulate any sort of coherent thought—but she remembered
how much pleasure the penetration of his fangs could bring.
“I’m yours, Spike. Fuck, baby… please take me…”
Even had all the other noises gone unnoticed, the scream that ripped from her
lungs as his fangs tore into her throat would surely have notified the entire
building of what was happening, but neither one of them seemed to care. Each
pull of her blood into his mouth made Spike harder, made his balls tighten
further until he knew the end was imminent. He quickly retracted his fangs and
ran his tongue over the wound before pushing her back down over the desk and
slamming into her with a few more jerky thrusts, spending himself into her
wildly contracting channel.
Buffy didn’t think the pleasure would ever end; she was certain that she’d spend
the rest of her life convulsing in orgasm around Spike’s cock, pleading for his
fangs in her throat. She felt him pulse inside her, felt his fluids coat her
walls, and gave over to one last dizzying rush of pleasure as she heard him
growl, “Mine!” “Yours!” she moaned hoarsely as the contractions of her orgasm
finally began to slow, and her legs started to tremble from the strain of trying
to keep herself upright.
Spike felt the quaking of her muscles as he laved his tongue over his marks; he
was preparing to collapse into the chair, bringing her with him, when the door
burst open and Wesley and Gunn rushed through, crossbows in hand. His first
instinct was to protect Buffy’s dignity, and he tugged her skirt down as best he
could, trying to conceal both Buffy and himself with the fabric.
“Oh…. Oh dear lord.”
Wesley was bright red and obviously mortified, and Gunn was suddenly finding the
LA skyline outside of Angel’s office window to be of immense interest; both were
trying desperately to look anywhere but at the obviously interrupted couple on
Angel’s desk.
“Can I ask what the bloody hell you’re doin’ here—with soddin’ crossbows, yet?”
Spike growled, torn between annoyance and amusement but supremely thankful that
Buffy didn’t seem to be processing what was happening.
As Spike’s question hung unanswered, Buffy looked up lazily for a moment,
flushed a bit and dropped her head back to the desk. Spike saw her back begin to
shake and he thought at first that she was crying; soon, however, he heard the
telltale snort of her uncontrollable laughter.
“Oh god,” she gasped between guffaws and gulps of air, pushing herself off of
the desk until she was standing. Thankfully, she was mostly concealed—her shirt
had somehow remained on, and her skirt draped enough to cover her to mid-thigh.
“Guys, can you just, um, turn around?” she asked, bursting into fresh giggles as
they complied like meek schoolboys. Spike pulled out of her and tugged his pants
up, joining her in laughter as he fastened them before helping her to straighten
her skirt.
“Ok, guys. We’re… well, decent…I think… now,” Buffy gasped, coming around to the
front of the desk and sitting gingerly on the corner. She was more than a little
bit sore, but she was damned if she’d acknowledge it right at this particular
moment. Spike noticed, however, and smirked knowingly, arching his eyebrow and
curling his tongue behind his teeth in a wicked look that disappeared in
moments. Her eyes narrowed for an instant, and he knew he’d pay for that little
gloat very soon.
“I’m so terribly sorry,” Wesley murmured, falling back on old habits of extreme
propriety in the face of his mortal embarrassment.
“We heard the scream… thought maybe Angel…” Gunn added lamely, realizing now
that he should’ve recognized the difference between screams of horror and
screams of pleasure… he really needed to get out more.
“It’s ok… well, no it’s not… it’s horrifying,” Buffy answered, embarrassment
finally catching up with her. “But at least you were trying to protect me… us…”
“’s not a problem, mate,” Spike added, cocky smirk firmly in place.
The obvious male pride shining in Spike’s eyes and the hubris of his statement
seemed to break the ice, as Wesley rolled his eyes before chuckling quietly and
Gunn started laughing.
“Dude, at least I just pissed in Angel’s chair. But you… man, that’s fifteen
different kinds of evil,” he told Spike.
“You peed in Angel’s chair?” asked Buffy, nose wrinkled up in disgust. Spike had
been sitting in that chair… she made a mental note that she and Spike would be
buying him new jeans on the trip home.
“Lorne made me!” Gunn yelped defensively, and Buffy turned mystified eyes on
Wesley and Spike.
“What?”
“’s a long story, luv. Shorten it up: Lorne got a little too tired and started a
little inadvertent game of wish fulfillment; had Charlie boy staking his
territory, me as a rah-rah girl for the fiesta set, Percy there drunk as a
skunk, an’ Peaches shaggin’ the Senior Partners’ rep into the ground behind the
couch. Was funny.”
“Oooookay,” Buffy breathed out, obviously still confused but willing to let it
go. “Does anything normal ever happen here? Wait a minute—I thought the link to
the badness was a man? You said it was a guy… Angel was shagging a man in his
office?! Well, that’s… new,” she squeaked as she collapsed into hysterical
giggles again for a moment. Getting herself under control, she took a deep
breath and exhaled slowly, “Nevermind, don’t care. Let him shag Harmony for all
I care, if he hasn’t already. Apparently there’s WAY more backstory here than I
already know.” The four of them continued to look towards and away from each
other, eyes darting awkwardly, and finally Buffy cracked under the pressure.
“Well, thanks again for the save attempt, guys, but we’re all right… do you, um,
need anything, or….”
“We’ll just be going,” answered Wesley, standing and moving towards the door. He
wanted scotch.
“Yeah… we’ll be in our offices… you know, if you need us,” Gunn added, joining
Wesley in his hasty exit.
“’s right nice of you, but I think we were gettin’ on fine,” Spike replied with
a wicked grin and a wink, trying to let them know that there were no hard
feelings. Buffy’s hissed, “Spike!” and slap to his chest were followed by an
apologetic and embarrassed smile directed by her to the two men.
“Thanks, guys,” she added as they closed the door. She immediately collapsed
against Spike’s chest in hysterical giggles. “That was just mortifying,” she
gasped, and gave him another gentle slap to the back of the head when she
noticed the complete lack of shame in his demeanor.
“What?” he asked defensively. “’s not like I’m goin’ to apologize for makin’ my
woman scream, is it? Got nothin’ to be ashamed of… but you, you bloody banshee,
gave us away to everyone in the buildin’. Little trollop,” he teased, bending
down and kissing her breathless.
“Nuh-uh. No way. This is not fault o’ Buffy. This is ALL you… If you weren’t so
damn hot…”
“So you admit it, then. You have it bad for my tight lil body,” he needled, and
she grinned and nodded in response.
“I really do. Have you seen you naked? But, uh… you wanna tell me what all that
was about, Spike? Not that I’m complaining, because… well, just not gonna
happen. But it would be nice to know…”
“C’mere, kitten,” he sighed, leading her to the couch and sitting down. He was a
bit surprised when she settled on his lap, but decided that he had no complaints
with that arrangement. He fumbled for the words to explain the tidal wave of
emotion coursing through him, trying to figure out how to tell her what he’d
seen and why it had made him go mad with jealousy.
“Have you ever met a bloke named the Immortal, pet?” he asked, voice deceptively
calm.
“Ewww. Creepy sleazy guy… made Willy look like Don Johnson?” she asked, face
scrunched up into a fair approximation of her whiskey face.
Spike couldn’t help but laugh. “Think you mean Don Juan, luv… but yeah, that’d
be him. So I take it you’ve seen him around once or twice?”
“He kept trying to hit on me… and I was worlds of not interested, let me tell
you. He was sleazy… and a pig… but in the bad way… not like you. He just… wasn’t
you,” she answered, watching him carefully and trying to figure out what the
Immortal had to do with anything.
“So you would never have…”
“A universe of no. He never had a chance… no bleedin’ way,” she answered, the
last bit in a horrible rendition of his accent. Her tone may have been teasing,
but her honesty more than apparent in her eyes.
“In what we saw, pet… Angel an’ I were goin’ to Rome for somethin’ or other
business-wise, an’ I saw him on the phone with the Immortal payin’ him off for
keepin’ you busy while we were there… so you wouldn’t see me. Peaches an’ I have
history with him; he’s shackled us up, put us in jail, shagged our women… he’s
not to be trusted. But he can be dangerous, too, ‘sides just bein’ annoying…
he’s got a helluva thrall, an’ it sounded like Peaches was givin’ him the
go-ahead to use it on you an’ the Bit an’ Andrew if he had to in order to keep
you away from me. Git said you’d mooned over me more’n enough an’ it wouldn’t do
for you an’ I to see each other… he said you were his.”
The last word was barely a whisper, but Buffy heard him loud and clear. She
smiled and gazed at him steadily, wanting him to see the truth in her eyes when
she told him how she felt. “I’m not his, Spike. I haven’t been for years. Maybe…
maybe if he’d been braver, stuck it out… loved me enough to find a way to anchor
his soul. But that’s too many maybes, too many might have beens, to try to build
a life on. I know better now, Spike… I know the difference between courtly love
and real, life in the trenches kind of love.” At his raised eyebrow, she snarked
playfully, “I did occasionally pay attention in English class, Spike. I know
fancy phrases like courtly love and wilt and henceforth.”
“Now, listen to me. I have the man I want. The one who stuck with me even when I
ordered him to go, the one who faced down a hellgod for my sister and was
prepared to do it for my mother too, the one who sought a soul for me. The one
who doesn’t know the meaning of the words ‘cut and run.’ The one who’s seen the
best and the worst of me and decided that I’m the one. I don’t know how I did
it… but I guess somewhere along the way I must’ve earned you. I’m just glad I
got the chance to collect my prize,” she finished, looking at him almost shyly
through her eyelashes.
He leaned forward and kissed her tenderly. “You lost heaven, love. That’s enough
to earn you a world of happiness and joy.”
She grinned at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Then take me back over to
that desk, and we’ll call it an even exchange.”