Part 13:

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

There was a time, Buffy reflected, when she hadn’t been afraid of love.

Angel had been her first, in so many ways. She’d been young, very young, and inexperienced. Her teenaged confidence had occasionally flickered but there had been enough desire to make up for it. She had pursued him. She knew it was love, and wasn’t that all that mattered?

It took no effort to recall their final hour. Angel, wordless as always, had turned on his heel and left her standing in the midst of a typical Sunnydale scene: ambulances; exploded building; gross remnants of an evil beast littering the ground and - ew - her shoes? And Angel walking away.

They’d seen each other since, but that had been their goodbye. Buffy had gone to work on the wall she had started when Hank Summers left. Parker had been good for plenty of bricks, and Riley…

Riley, who’d seemed so safe and nice and honest; Riley, whom she’d willed herself to love because if she didn’t, she’d be crazy, right? Riley had earnestly betrayed her because he liked a little less Slayer in his women.

After that she thought the wall couldn’t get any higher, but then Mom had died.

The pain of that still stunned her; she didn’t have words for it. The mourning she’d done over her errant lovers seemed obscene in comparison.

That’s when she had decided. Each time she thought to herself, It will never be this bad again. But never became an increasingly short respite. She couldn’t do it anymore. Not with Dawn to take care of, and slaying, and the million and one other things that pressed on her from all sides.

All those times Spike had proclaimed his love, loud and fierce - stupid vampire, she had thought scornfully. She’d done her duty by trying to talk him out of it, and when that didn’t work she taken what she’d wanted and spit out the rest. It worked for everyone else, didn’t it?

Of course, she’d been the fool. Easy to see now, with Spike and Dawn in the front of the DeSoto, bickering and poking each other in the ribs as L.A. faded behind them. Easy to feel, with him sitting so close she could see the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

They were near one of the seedier beach areas. Spike pointed to a barren industrial park beneath the freeway exit. “You see that?” he was telling Dawn. “That’s where I tortured your sister’s ex-boyfriend.” He nodded solemnly, and Dawn smacked him on the arm. In seconds they were scrabbling for control over the radio dial.

They’d been this way for the bulk of the drive; two fractious children who’d been cooped up too long. At any other time Buffy suspected their antics would have annoyed her but now she was content to sit silently in the backseat and watch. It warmed a place inside her, seeing them now. Their affection, Buffy realized, was a precious thing. How had she never noticed that before?

She wondered what Giles had thought of this whole mess. She was glad Spike had conducted that conversation elsewhere. It was…too hard, her fall from grace in Giles’ absence. Made her think that he’d been right to leave.

“Buffy?” Dawn twisted around in the bench seat. “You okay? You haven’t said much.”

“Swallow your tongue, Slayer?” Spike’s voice was devoid of emotion.

She grimaced at him out of habit, then addressed Dawn. “Just tired. I think it’s going to take me while to, you know…recover.”

“Sure.” Dawn accepted this explanation.

“’Bout another hour and a half to Sunnydale,” Spike said. Buffy retreated into her corner of the car, and closed her eyes.

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

The Magic Box was a sooty, smoke-blackened mess, but it was home. To Anya, at any rate.

After the fire she’d all but moved in. She ate here, did her bookkeeping on the charred round table, even stole naps in the training room. It was important to her, to be near this place. Especially now, when it was broken and in need of fixing. She didn’t want to abandon it.

She knew how silly that was; knew that it was nothing but a collection of bricks and plywood and odd, clever merchandise. But it was hers. Giles had gone, left her in charge, and she was determined to rebuild. This had been the first place she’d really fit in, the first place she’d felt safe and strong after months of struggling to find her place with Xander’s friends. There hadn’t been a place for her, she thought now. She’d never really belonged, anywhere except here.

The front of the shop was almost presentable. Anya wanted to reopen as soon as possible. She stood now on a stepladder, straining to reach the purification oil she’d rather inconveniently banished to the top of the bookcases. You’d think, she told herself crossly, that after everything I would position this in a more universally accessible location. Honestly --

A creak from the back of the shop made her freeze. Muted shuffling sounds reached her ears, and she realized how absurdly vulnerable she was, perched on the ladder, arms outstretched like a figurine in a music box.

The sounds ceased. Slowly Anya scanned the shelves that were more easily within her reach. Much as she enjoyed the anti-shoplifting spell she’d discovered in Colletti’s Compendium, she doubted the book would serve as a useful weapon.

The creaking began again. Her panicked gaze fell on a marble mortar and pestle being used as a bookend. Grabbing the mortar, she crept down from the stepladder. She edged toward the back entrance.

Heavy, determined footsteps. Anya clutched the mortar and viciously cursed the ease with which a mortal girl could be reduced to fear and trembling, only because of physical weakness. Anya knew they couldn’t all be Slayers, but --

Oh, no. What if it was Buffy, back to finish the job? Anya looked down at the marble in her hand with sudden pessimism. This certainly wouldn’t do the trick. Where was Olaf’s troll hammer when she needed it?

The door to the training room swung wide. Anya raised the mortar and leaped.

“Good God, Anya!”

Giles grabbed her wrist, stopping the mortar a fraction of inch before it connected with his skull. He carefully lowered her arm while Anya stared, openmouthed.

“Anya. I didn’t mean to startle you. I had no idea you’d be here -- why are you here? It’s after dark.”

She felt foolish and pleased all at once, and it was a discomfiting sensation. She decided to glare at him sternly. It always worked with Xander. “Giles, what are you doing here?”

His mouth quirked. “Anya, it is my store.”

“Technically,” she began, a bit huffily, “the store belongs to Southland Property Management. Of course, if you’d taken my advice and entered into a lease-to-buy arrangement --"

“I did.”

“What?”

“The landlord is eager to divest himself of his Sunnydale holdings. We’ve come to an agreement.”

“Oh,” she said. She didn’t think he’d been listening to her, when she told him about the benefits of equity and ownership.

He cocked his head at her, and then his features seemed to soften. “Hello,” he said, and opened his arms. And Anya flung herself into them, tears suddenly pricking at her eyes.

She felt his large, warm hand smoothing back the hair on top of her head. Uncharacteristically abashed, she pulled back and attempted casualness.

“Why aren’t you in England?”

He studied her for another moment, then sighed. “I hoped I could be of some help here, given the recent developments. Buffy is, obviously, in need of assistance. I’m not sure if I’m the one to provide it for her, however.”

He seemed so weary. Anya took his hand and led him to the table. “Sit,” she said. You left some tea here. I’m going to make it.”

Giles chuckled half-heartedly. “Earl Grey would survive a disaster.”

“Actually,” Anya said from where she knelt behind the counter, “it’s orange pekoe. I drank all the Earl Grey.”

“Did you? I never noticed you liked it,” he answered absently.

I don’t. It reminded me of you. And it made me feel safe. Anya came closer to saying that than she liked. She returned to the table.

“So,” she said, gesturing around. “This is what your investment looks like.” The brightness she tried for sounded brittle to her own ears.

“I heard,” he replied. “It’s just a building. It doesn’t matter.”

She was stung, and she couldn’t figure out why. “I’m fixing it up,” she told him. “Another month and we can have a grand reopening, with gaudy decorations and discounts on selected items.”

He smiled. “I’d love to see that.”

“Aren’t you glad I made you get insurance?”

“It was an excellent suggestion. It will stand us in good stead, I believe.” He cleared his throat. “You weren’t here when Buffy…visited.”

She shook her head. “I had been coming in during the late evenings. You got my letter? About how I was closing the shop for -- inventory?”

“Yes.” He paused. “I’m sorry I didn’t say this earlier - it didn’t seem right over the phone or on paper. I’m so terribly sorry about what happened with Xander.”

She smiled a little. “Me too. It’s over, though. That’s the great thing about living on the Hellmouth! There’s always something worse about to happen.”

“Er - yes. Anya…”

“Yes?”

“Buffy is coming home. She’s herself again, thanks to Spike and Dawn and a bit of research on my part.”

“That’s excellent. In my experience, when one has been previously possessed by an evil being it’s really best to jump right back into things.”

“Really? I’m concerned, frankly. About her constitution, and her mental state. Also, she doesn’t know about Tara.”

“Oh.” Tara’s funeral was another time during which she’d felt Giles’ absence keenly. And Buffy’s, and Dawn’s, and even Spike’s. It seemed they should have all been together then, even if one of them had brought them to that point. Funerals were very upsetting to Anya, and she felt that she’d endured more than was her fair share in her brief humanity.

“Well, she was obviously crazy,” Anya said in what she hoped was a soothing tone. “I mean, totally off the deep end. She’s not to blame for what happened.”

Giles looked around again at the shop, then back at Anya. “That’s very understanding of you.”

Anya was nonplussed. At a loss, she looked down at the table. “Willow won’t be as forgiving,” she told him.

He gazed at her bowed head. “I know.”

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

“End of the line,” Spike said. He shut off the engine and, for the first time since they’d left Los Angeles, turned around to face Buffy. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks,” she said. “For the ride.”

“Right.” He got out of the car and opened the trunk, removing the few small bags he and Dawn had accumulated during their flight.

Yawning, Dawn shambled out of the car and up the front walk. After a moment, Buffy followed with Spike behind her.

He deposited the bags at the front door. “They aren’t heavy. Leave ‘em here if you want.” Clearly, he had no desire to go inside.

“Is my Enrique Iglesias CD in there?” Dawn asked. Spike rolled his eyes.

“No. I kept it. I just love him so much. Tonight I’m going to go home and play it, because hearing it fifty thousand times just isn’t enough.”

Dawn sniffed. Then she went to Spike and hugged him like it was the most natural thing in the world. And Spike - his arms went around her without thought, until he met Buffy’s eyes over Dawn’s nestled head. Then he gently pushed her off. “Up you go, now. Into bed with you.”

“’Kay. ‘Night.” Buffy had been expecting a more substantial goodbye, and then she realized that for Dawn, this wasn’t goodbye. Spike was part of her life now, and she would see him again soon.

Dawn dug into her backpack and finally found the housekey. As she unlocked the door, Buffy turned to Spike. “Harris came by and locked up. You two left in a hurry.”

Struggling with Dawn in her bedroom, tearing out of the house after her weeping sister… Buffy wrenched herself back to the present. “If you’re tired -- I mean, if you’re not sure you can make it to your crypt --"

“I’ll be fine.” His voice was clipped but polite. God, what had she done to send him so far away from her?

“Well, then,” she said. “Goodnight.”

“Sleep well.”

And then he was off, down the path and back into the car. Buffy stood at the door and watched him leave, stood there until the DeSoto turned the corner. Then she went inside.

Half an hour later the Summers girls had washed up and shimmied into sleepwear. Now Buffy lay in bed, lights off and eyes open.

God, the look on his face tonight - all the usual passion and fury and wildness banked. He came alive with Dawn but there was nothing in that icy gaze for Buffy. And hadn’t she wanted that for so long? For him to finally get over his obsession? Yet now she was the one whose mind was filled with unwelcome images - the way his shoulders worked under the weight of the bags, making him seem so fundamentally male; the hidden smile that emerged under Dawn’s teasing and questions --

The way he’d held on to her so frantically in the club, love-words pouring out of him even as she’d fought against herself.

A tap on the door, and then a glossy head poking around the door. “Can you sleep?”

“No,” Buffy said, and scooted over in bed. Dawn sat down.

“It’s weird being in my room alone. I’m used to Spike in the next bed.”

And Buffy saw, as clearly as if she had been there: Dawn’s long form sprawled across a lumpy twin bed, and Spike watching over her. Sleep would be elusive to him, and he didn’t feel good about closing his eyes anyway. Not when they were running. So he’d lean against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles, eyes occasionally drifting to the white light of the television.

“I made a mistake,” Buffy heard herself say. The words were choked.

Dawn didn’t ask You mean when you tried to kill me or when you burned down our hangout or when you attacked your friends? Instead, she smoothed the hair back from Buffy’s forehead. “Sleep now,” she said softly. “It will be better in the morning.” She nudged Buffy over and then lay down beside her, and Buffy’s eyes closed again.

Oh, she’d been the fool, all right.

There’d been love, the night in the broken house and the times after. It had caught in her throat, and she’d buried it in slightly-too-hard bites along his hipbones. She’d been the fool to think she could screw him senseless, crumple in his arms after, gasp out her desires in language that had never seen the light of day - all without loving him. She’d hated him too, hated him with a growing rage because at night alone in her room the love intruded and it was so much harder to deny then. Because he made her out a liar.

There’d been love.

Come back, she wanted to say. It’s just now making sense and I need to know that I’m not too late.

She listened to Dawn’s deep, rhythmic breathing and wondered what tomorrow would bring.

Part 14:

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

At eight a.m. on any other morning, the ringing of the doorbell would have woken her up. Today it merely jerked her out of a chilling reverie. Glad for the distraction, she slowly rose from her seat at the bedroom window. Dawn, normally a heavy sleeper, was already rubbing her eyes and swinging her legs out of Buffy’s bed. She smiled blearily at her sister and walked to the door.

Don’t!” Buffy said sharply. Dawn stopped, looked at her quizzically.

“It’s…don’t answer if you don’t know who it is,” Buffy finished lamely. “I’ll get it.”

“But, Buffy - are you sure you’re feeling -"

Her sister was already out of the bedroom.

Downstairs, the sun dappled her mother’s furniture and warmed the floorboards under her bare feet. Buffy found her heartbeat accelerating as the doorbell chimed again.

And then she was motionless, staring out the peephole in disbelief.

“Buffy?” came the muffled voice. “Are you there?”

She threw the door open.

“Giles.”

He stood, smiling down at her, eyes full of affection and acceptance. Something clenched tight inside her relaxed, and she crushed his rumpled form in her embrace. The smells of aftershave and travel wafted up to her. She was suddenly gasping and sobbing against his chest, words pouring out of her, and though a part of her suspected she wasn’t making much sense Giles seemed to understand.

A noise from the staircase made her pull away and smooth down Giles’ shirt, now damp from her tears and wrinkled where her fingers had grabbed on desperately.

“Good morning, Dawn,” he said. Her sister bounded down and wrapped Giles in another hug, her long arms circling him easily.

Somehow the three of them managed to move to the couch; Giles buffeted by a Summers on either side. His hand rested on Dawn’s knee as he handed Buffy a handkerchief. She unceremoniously blew her nose, but he only pulled her closer.

“Spike told you?” Dawn asked. She didn’t need to add specifics.

Giles nodded. “I left London immediately after speaking to him yesterday. He informed me of the most recent happenings.” He slanted a look at Dawn. “What you did was very brave, and very foolish.”

“I know,” Dawn replied proudly. Giles sighed.

“Is our resident vampire around? I believe what I have to say will be easier with -"

“He went back to his crypt,” Buffy said.

“Oh.” Giles’ eyebrows crept up in surprise. “I had thought - well, no matter I suppose. I -" he hesitated. Buffy and Dawn gazed up at him expectantly.

“I’m afraid I have some sad news. Terrible news.”

“Dawn, go upstairs,” Buffy ordered automatically. Dawn jumped up.

“No! Buffy, don’t make me! I’ve been around for everything, you can’t start treating me like a baby again -"

“It may be better if she remains, Buffy,” Giles interjected quietly. “It would…save me from another conversation I’m not keen to have.”

She looked from her sister’s indignant face to Giles’ drawn and lined one. “All right,” she relented.

Giles removed his glasses. Instead of cleaning them he laid them across his thigh and rubbed his face tiredly. “You - remember what occurred that night? At the Magic Box?”

Buffy nodded silently. Blood, fire, fear, blood, screaming, blood…

“You’ll be relieved to know that Xander and Willow have fully recovered. They - Xander will be very happy to learn that you’re…back.”

“What about Tara?” Dawn asked. Her question was full of such curiosity and eagerness that it was clear she had not truly contemplated all the possible answers to that question.

The ensuing silence, though, provided time enough for that.

“Giles?” Buffy’s voice was desperate, pleading.

“Tara - I’m afraid that Tara did not survive. She never left the hospital.”

For a long moment, Buffy could do nothing but sit numbly while the news washed over her, infected her, curdled the blood in her veins. Dimly she heard the start of Dawn’s now-familiar tears, and felt the sofa shift as Giles moved to comfort her. Outside Sunnydale came to life; cars and children and neighbors calling to each other as they walked dogs and pushed strollers.

But the only thing that penetrated her, made it through her chilled skin and slack muscles was the thought - Nothing will ever be the same again. Nothing, nothing, nothing will be the same.

Dawn’s howls rose and rent the air, and Giles’ hands reached for Buffy as she slid bonelessly off the cushion and onto the floor. She knelt there while Giles tugged at her shoulders, and she wondered if she could ever get deep enough into the ground so that she and Tara could switch places.

Part 15:

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

The house was quiet now. Giles stood in the kitchen, straining to hear any sounds from upstairs. But Buffy and Dawn were, for the moment, silent. Sleeping, he hoped. He knew already that Willow, the home’s last remaining lodger, would not be returning to disturb them.

He sighed and turned his attention to the dusty, cluttered countertop. There were few sights more melancholy, he thought, than a neglected kitchen. Granted, even when the girls were in residence the room had been a trifle underused. But now it showed the unmistakable signs of hasty abandonment: foul water that had yet to drain from the sink; spoiling food in the refrigerator; a wooden knife rack that seemed to have been abruptly upended…

“There’s nothing to eat,” Buffy said dully. Giles very nearly jumped.

“Buffy. I thought perhaps you were resting.”

“Dawn is. I sat with her for a while. I can’t…I can’t.”

“Of course.” He led her to a chair and she sat obediently. He took a seat beside her. “Buffy, despite this tragedy - it’s so good to see you. Safe, and well. I was…” Now he looked away, out the spotted window. “I was terribly worried. Terribly, terribly worried. But you’re here now.”

“And Tara’s gone.”

“Yes.” He took her hand, small and cold in his. “Buffy, you must know that you’re not to blame for her death. This man, Kehoe, who instigated all this - responsibility for Tara lies solely at his feet.”

She gave a short, pained laugh. “Really? Because I seem to remember stabbing her and setting a fire where she fell.”

Giles’ other hand moved to cover hers. “Buffy, it was not you -“

“It was me!” The words burst out of her, choked and desperate. Giles stiffened.

“It wasn’t - it wasn’t like some demon or - or something was walking around in my body. It was me, and I saw everything and there was nothing I could do to stop it! It was me.”

“I’ve researched the magic Kehoe used against you, Buffy. You weren’t possessed, true, but you were most certainly not in control of your actions. The ritual -"

“I don’t care about the ritual! I don’t care how he did it, or why. Don’t you get it? Whatever he did, he found something in me that was already there. That - that thing I’ve been for the last month - she liked the same food I like, Giles, and she slept on her stomach like I do, and she was pissed at her friends and tired of working minimum wage just like I am!”

“Buffy! I understand your concerns, and I believe that I can allay them if you’ll just listen to me. Calm down and listen to me, Buffy.”

“Giles…” She refused to hear any more. Blindly, she stood and walked jerkily to the back door. “I have to tell the police. They have to know it was me, Giles, they have to punish me -"

He was immediately next to her, and his arm was like steel where it gripped her elbow and stayed her. His voice grated harshly against her ears. “You will do no such thing.”

“God! You and Spike -- why can’t either of you ever understand? I have to do this!”

“There is nothing to tell them. Tara has been put to rest and the case has been closed.”

She shook her head. “No. The Magic Box - even the Sunnydale police could figure out that what happened there was no accident.”

“Mr. Maclay informed the authorities that he had no interest in pursuing…resolution. He stated quite clearly that Tara associated with degenerate and dangerous individuals, and that this ending was nothing less than he expected.”

Buffy gasped in horror and disgust, but Giles remained stony.

“Xander and Willow already claimed that they have no memory of the events that night. Anya, after conferring with me, determined that insurance will cover the damage to the shop. The police have no reason to move forward, Buffy, and no motivation to do so.”

“No. No. I refuse to accept that. If not the police, then the Council -"

“The Council of Watchers must know nothing of this. Buffy? Do you understand me?” His grip on her arm tightened. Every so often in their relationship he had startled her like this, matched her in a show of strength comparable to her own.

“Why?”

“They have been looking for an opportunity to retire you. Do you know what I mean when I say that? Do you know how they ‘retire’ Slayers?”

“Yes,” she answered numbly.

“Right now, even our good friend Faith is more of a known variable than you are, Buffy. They’d prefer to have her take up the Slayer line. Rather, they’d prefer that you both are extinguished and a new Slayer is called.” He gave her a little shake. “I will not let that happen. I will not lose you again - not to some fool with a spellbook and not to your own misplaced sense of guilt!”

She stumbled away from him, grabbing at the countertop for support but finally sliding down, until her body curled against the cabinets. Giles knelt beside her.

“It’s never going to be the same, is it?” she whispered, almost to herself. “It’s touched me this time. There’s this…stain, on my soul. Mine. It wasn’t Glory, or Adam, or the Master or even one of my vampire boyfriends.” She didn’t notice Giles flinch slightly at that. “I’ll never be able to start a sentence with ‘I could never…’ because I could.

“My hands aren’t clean any more, Giles.”

And he couldn’t argue with her, because it was true. Her hands had wrought the death of one friend, and shattered the rest. There would be mornings when she awoke and the knowledge would slam into her like a fist to her solar plexus, yet she would still have to get up, go on.

He felt his hatred for Rodger Kehoe spiral and surge. It was Kehoe who had left her tainted and smothered; who had unwittingly found a pain different from the death of a parent and the loss of eternity. For the first time Giles cursed Spike’s chip, that it prevented him from the natural recourse of bloody and violent revenge on this human.

"I'm sorry, Tara," Buffy was murmuring. "So sorry, so sorry..."

“Buffy…it will get better. That I promise. Let yourself be comforted, by -" he swallowed, Spike’s face flashing through his mind again. “Let yourself be comforted. Don’t deny yourself, or others - Xander, Dawn, Will-Willow…they all need to share this with you.”

She nodded, closing her eyes and trying to calm her ragged breathing. They stayed there for a long time, their bodies made leaden by mourning. Giles thought that this might be why Slayers died so young -- not from the final wound, but the ones that came before.

The day dragged on in silence that was only occasionally punctuated by the sound of low voices and stifled weeping. At six Buffy succumbed to exhaustion and joined her sister upstairs. Giles called Xander, who arrived fifteen minutes later. He then excused himself briefly, leaving the younger man standing alone in the middle of the living room.

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

Spike slept like the dead.

Ha, ha, he thought groggily upon waking. But it was true, and damn if it didn’t feel good. He’d wondered, as he’d collapsed in his ruined bed, whether sleeping alone for the first time in weeks would be difficult. He’d become oddly accustomed to Dawn’s warm, noisy human presence.

His body answered that question with a resounding Hell, no. The crypt was blessedly quiet; no uneven snoring three feet away and no skinny fingers poking various tender places on his carcass as a declaration that it was time to get up and buy her a Mega Meal at the diner across the road.

Okay, so maybe he missed her. Slightly. And that last night - with Buffy at his side as well! That had been his Elysium; the only one he’d ever see at any rate.

His crypt seemed desolate in comparison, although to be fair it had never had much of a welcoming atmosphere. Now, though - now he felt like he was not only returning to his digs but to his old life: solitary, rejected, reviled.

And that’s why you’ll never be a poet, William. He heaved himself off the bed and surveyed the place. Thanks to the Great Potato’s bombing action, his home now was as dank as depressing as Harris’ basement. Still, the blackened walls and inside-out furnishings lent a sense of chaos that Spike could appreciate. He studied a hollowed-out lampshade thoughtfully.

Too bad he couldn’t redecorate before company came, he thought. Human, and he felt an automatic stab of anxiety before he remembered - no worries. He could defend himself, now. Maybe do a bit more than that. He smiled. Yeah, maybe do.

“Spike?”

His grin faded. Where was a genuine pillock when you needed one?

“Down here,” he called back, and grimaced at his complaisance. He should start offering crumpets, next.

Giles stepped carefully down the ladder. “Good evening,” he said, and Spike raised an eyebrow.

“Er, right,” Giles muttered. “Your hovel has become more…hovel-like since I saw it last, hasn’t it?”

Spike shrugged. “So much for my spread in Town and Country.” He gave Giles a pointed once-over. “That a stake in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

“What? Oh - oh.” Giles removed it, placing it on the remains of Spike's beloved television. “Anya gave it to me. She suspected I might forget to use precautions.”

Spike snickered. “It’s a twig, Rupert, not a rubber.” But the humor died quickly. “You seen Buffy?”

“Yes. I’ve spent the day there. They weren’t expecting me, I don’t think.”

“Wasn’t for me to tell. ‘Sides, didn’t want her getting all nervous and shamefaced about seeing you.” He frowned. “You left her there alone?”

“No. Xander’s there now. He wanted very much to see her. They - they need each other right now.”

“Yep. The Scooby Gang, back together again.”

Giles sighed heavily. “Not exactly.” He seemed to want to say more, but the weariness etched across his face stayed the words. The two men looked at each other for a long moment, before Giles spoke again. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to drink underneath all this rubble?”

“’Fraid I don’t have any tea, Watcher.”

“Good.”

Spike gave him one last look, then motioned him to the only-slightly-worse-for-wear armchair. Giles sat, smiling joylessly at the tufts of cotton erupting from the cushion. Spike thrust a glass at him, then hopped up on a nearby sarcophagus. “Here.”

Giles took a long, smooth swallow, while Spike swigged straight from the bottle, eyeing him over the rim.

“Tara’s dead. Buffy killed her. The other - oh, bloody hell. You know what I mean.”

Spike let the whiskey burn a path along his throat, down into his belly, and with it this news. “When?”

“The evening Buffy was spotted at the airport. Services have been conducted, although I’m sure Buffy will want to visit her plot. The memorial park is about ninety miles away. High desert country. And…I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

Spike leaned over to refill his tumbler. “Police?”

“They won’t be involved. Small mercies, I suppose.”

Spike closed his eyes and let Tara fill his mind. Soft, shy, luminous. Blood began to seep around the edges of the image, rendering it rosy and liquid.

“How’s Buffy taking it?”

“As can be expected. She was intent on turning herself in, until I talked her out of it.”

“Bully for you. That’s more than I was able to do.”

Giles’ gaze sharpened. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothin’.” Spike gestured with the bottle. “The kid?”

“Distraught, of course. Tara was a very strong presence in Dawn’s life. She and Buffy both will need all the support we can provide.”

“We? Since when am I part of your merry band?” He was aware of his own churlishness; heard it in his monosyllabic replies. Somehow, he just couldn’t work up the usual snark.

“You’ve protected Dawn for weeks. Buffy would not have been restored without your help. And I know that you have some sort of relationship with her.”

Well, no one ever said Rupert Giles was an idiot. Spike’s lips quirked. “Not any more, so you can rest easy.” He flicked a bit of lint off his jeans. “So what do you want me to do? Sit with the little one while you all try and conjure Tara back from the ether?”

“You know I had nothing to do with that.” Giles’ voice was hard. “And there’s no risk of such absurdity being repeated - if for no other reason than that Willow has disappeared.”

Spike raised both eyebrows now. “That right? I don’t find that thought too cheering.”

“Nor do I. Willow has already demonstrated a troubling disregard for the consequences of magic. That, combined with her lover’s death…” Giles trailed off.

“We might be looking at a bit more calamity,” Spike finished.

“It’s a possibility, yes.”

Spike chuckled lowly. “Here’s to the Hellmouth.”

The men raised their drinks, and then silence reigned again.

Part 16:

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

The house smelled like death.

Not actual corpses, which Xander knew from experience. Rather the cloyingly sweet scent of too many flowers; the ripe aroma of unfamiliar casseroles brought by neighbors who normally avoided the Summers house. But this had been Tara’s home, more than the dormitory or the place where she grew up. And so this was where death settled.

He supposed it was fitting that Spike sat in the chair across from him.

Over the past few weeks Xander had comforted himself with the thought that if anyone could protect Dawn, and maybe even Buffy, it was this loathsome freak. Sure, he couldn’t hurt humans but Xander suspected that humans weren’t their biggest worry. So at night, in between thoughts of Anya and worry over Willow and apprehension about Buffy, Xander had told himself that if anyone could handle this, Spike could. And he had: Buffy and Dawn were home and safe. Spike had come through; Spike had done the right thing.

And as soon as Xander laid eyes on him, lounging on the couch where Joyce had breathed her last, he’d wanted to pummel Spike so badly he could taste it. He wanted to hear his bones crunch, see his firm white flesh split open. He hated Spike, hated him for continuing to exist while Tara was in the ground. It should have been him. It wasn’t fair.

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

Buffy hesitated, hovered just outside her sister’s door. It seemed so wrong that she should help anyone through this mourning. It seemed like she was killing Tara all over again.

Dawn was playing music, songs Buffy didn’t recognize. But the melody touched something weepy and wretched inside her. She closed her eyes for a moment, then pushed the door open.

Dawn looked up from where she lay on the bed. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Buffy leaned against the doorframe, watching her sister warily. “How are you doing?”

“Okay.” Dawn nodded to a hand-labeled CD case on her bedstand. “Xander and I talked. I missed him.”

“He’s a great friend.”

Xander hadn’t knocked when he came over last night; he had just walked in and when Buffy turned around in the kitchen and saw him standing there with a sad, wry smile on his face she burst into tears. His eyes filled too, spilled over, but he’d wrapped her in his strong warm arms while she babbled out apologies. They’d sat for the longest time, then, at the kitchen table. He didn’t press her about her time away, didn’t demand to know how Spike fit into all of this. He’d just held her hand, and stroked her hair. And even though there was bitterness in his gaze she’d eventually accepted that it was not directed at her. Like Giles, like Dawn, he’d forgiven Buffy before she could ask.

“He brought me some music,” Dawn went on. “I don’t really know it, but it’s incredibly sad and it makes me cry, and feel better. If that makes any sense.”

“It does,” Buffy said. “I’ll let you borrow one of my Sarah McLachlan CDs if you want.”

“Um, thanks but no thanks. I want to be self-indulgent, not suicidal.” She covered her mouth as soon as she’d spoken the words. “Dumb joke. Shouldn’t joke about - stuff like that.”

“I think Tara would have smiled at that. She’s probably smiling now.”

“Is she -“ Dawn struggled for the right words. “What happened to her - it was awful. I guess I just want to know…where she is now - is it worth it? Is it worth what went before?”

Buffy shut her eyes briefly. Oh, how she dreaded thinking of That Place. Because it was so exquisite, so peaceful and protected. It made This Place so much rawer in comparison.

“I hate that I was the one who hurt her,” Buffy murmured finally. “I hate that her last thoughts must have been of pain and betrayal and fear. I even hate that she would have forgiven me. Easily.” Her eyes pricked and she wiped a small hand across them almost angrily.

“But…yes. I don’t know how to explain this - there aren’t words in our language. It’s worth it, Dawn. It’s worth anything. And the idea that we’re capable of earning it? Incredible. Mind-boggling. I mean, duh. None of us can really deserve it, and yet it’s there for us anyway. I know not everyone will get to see…” Buffy swallowed, “heaven, but we all get the chance. If people knew, they’d be tripping over each other to do the right thing.”

Dawn appeared to digest this. “Where do you think Willow is?” she asked after a minute.

“Probably…just getting through this. In her own way. She and Tara had something incredible, something special.” And they appreciated it; they didn’t resent it or ridicule it or fear it. They didn’t leave it lying on cold pavement or abandon it with a few words of self-righteous psychobabble.

“How will she ever be able to love anybody else again? She had the real thing, Buffy. I mean, I haven’t had it,” she added hastily when Buffy’s eyes suddenly sharpened. “But I could tell. Now it’ll be in her head, forever. That she had that and lost it. And won’t that just make her heart keep breaking?”

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

“You enjoying this?”

Spike stared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This.” Xander gestured around him. “Your leavings.”

Now Spike glared. “What are you on about now, Harris? None of this was my doing.”

Xander laughed. “You don’t think so? God, you stupid vampire. Don’t you even get it?

“This is what it looks like, after you - you and Angel - got through with a place. Never mind the blood; this is just the grief. What’s left over once you’ve torn apart families. Friends. Take a good long look, Spike. It might not have been your hands and your fangs this time, but believe me - this is nothing worse than what you’ve done.”

“I liked Tara,” Spike said, but the words sounded weak and hollow to his own ears.

Xander grinned nastily.

“You know,” he replied, “I think you did. I think, given the chance, you’d spare her life. Maybe even help her out if she needed it. And you know what? That doesn’t mean shit to me. So you managed to have an iota of compassion for somebody you’ve known for two years? Well, strike up the band. Let’s have a parade down Wilkins Drive in your honor.

“What about all the anonymous men and women that crossed your path, Spike? What about them? They made a difference, somewhere, and we’ll never know how. They were loved, by people we’ve never even met. Every time you took one of those lives, you broke someone’s heart. Did you ever even think about that?”

Spike remembered the night he’d thought the chip had crapped out. How he’d strutted and snarled, until he’d found that sweet, scared morsel on the street. That pretty little girl who’d pleaded even as she scrambled back from him. “This might hurt a little,” he’d told her. She had been someone’s Tara.

She had been someone’s Buffy.

For the first time he looked at that encounter not as a humiliating failure, but as…something else. Something that was too terrifying to contemplate (blessing) so he shut his eyes tight, wanting only to erase all this death and human frailty from his mind.

Xander’s pain-hardened voice cut through his recalcitrance. “Did they call out, those people? Those families you ripped apart? Did children cry for their mothers? Did brothers try to protect sisters? Did old couples cling to each other even as they died?”

Spike opened his mouth to let fly a vicious retort, something that would shut the boy up good and proper, something that would cause him to slink away in ignominy.

But he had nothing to say.

Xander raised his head. The strains of an old, despondent tune could be heard above them.

“Come on, Spike. Don’t tell me the thrill is gone.”

Part 17:

Part 18:

Part 19:

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

“Dear Lord, Anya. It smells like an opium den in here.”

Her head popped up comically from behind the front counter. “I got a new shipment of incense. Siam Lassitude Spice.”

“Yes, well. I’m sure the college students will like it.” Giles studied her now, as he had often over the last several weeks. Anya was a dilemma to him, suddenly. He wanted to tell himself that she’d changed, that Xander’s betrayal and the recent crises had tempered her candor. But that reasoning seemed superficial. He wondered, instead, if her fiance’s constant admonitions to her and the ill-disguised contempt she’d been accorded by others had, in fact, blinded them to something quite special in their midst. Something quite special, indeed.

“Are you happy here?” he asked abruptly.

Her head rose again, slowly this time. “Here…?”

He cleared his throat. “In Sunnydale. Working at the store. Does it satisfy you?” His last words hung in the air between them.

“Oh.” She appeared to consider this. “I’m good at retail,” she offered finally.

“Without a doubt.”

“And de-Buffying the merchandise will require at least another three weeks, maybe more.”

“She does tend to have a rather…turbulent effect on her surroundings.”

“And I realize that the store doesn’t look anything like it used to, but I still feel…connected somehow. Does that make any sense? It can’t be very human, I don’t think, this attachment to a small building of rather shoddy craftsmanship.”

“It makes perfect sense, to me.” He smiled briefly. “You’ve built this shop into quite the viable enterprise. It represents many hours of hard work and ingenuity on your part.”

Her eyes widened slightly. Giles wondered how long it had been since she’d received a compliment. Xander had never praised her in Giles’ presence, at least. He felt again, keenly, how she’d been treated as an interloper among them.

When she spoke again, her voice was tremulous. “They need me.”

Giles waited.

“Buffy, Dawn - even Spike. God, even Xander. But Buffy especially. I can talk to her, Giles. About…discovering our capacity for evil. And then living with it. Because what’s the alternative?”

Giles recalled the sick awareness that had swamped him after he suffocated Ben. He’d done it to save them, to save the world, to save Buffy, but Buffy had died just the same. And Giles had been left with his grief and his punctured righteousness.

And then, oddly, he thought of Spike. Spike, who’d gone good to help them but who had lost everything still.

“It’s a relief to her, I think, to have someone who doesn’t look at her and see everything she isn’t; see only a Slayer gone bad.” Anya’s brows drew together in contemplation. “Although sometimes I look at her and see how much more attractive she would be if she’d curl her hair just a bit. Right at the ends.”

Giles found that his smile had returned. It felt good, to look at Anya and feel something akin to comfort. And something…else.

“Perhaps the two of you can take an afternoon off and do…” he faltered. “Female things.”

Anya frowned. “You mean have lesbian sex?”

For a full minute he gaped at her, while she gazed back inquisitively. Finally, he shook his head.

“No. No, I was thinking of, ah, shopping. Or a trip to one of those day spas. I’d be happy to sponsor the outing.” Was he still blushing? His ears felt hot.

Anya paled marginally. “You mean, hang out? Her and me?”

“Well, Dawn may also enjoy some pampering. I daresay the weeks she spent with Spike did not include many opportunities for extensive grooming. I must admit, I’d prefer not to hear another diatribe on how a month without conditioner has damaged her follicles irreparably.”

But Anya appeared nearly panicked at the prospect. “Buffy and I….recently we’ve spent time together, of course, involving mutual unburdening and the occasional emotional outburst. And she’s done an excellent job repairing those pine display cases. But, Giles…it’s not as though she likes me.”

For the longest moment he looked at her - the sudden vulnerability in her gaze; the way her fingers gripped the cash register like a drowning man would a life preserver. So afraid of rejection, and who was he to blame her? She’d been rejected in the most public, most humiliating manner imaginable. And here he stood, blithely suggesting that she extend herself to someone who had never previously expressed much interest.

Mistaking his perusal, she nodded, a bit jerkily. “Precisely. Buffy would have very little inclination to engage in that sort of female bonding with…me. Really, if we simply continue to cry and emote and occasionally eat fish tacos together, things will be fine. Don’t you worry, Rupe - Giles,” she corrected quickly. “She’s going to get better every day, until this whole murder and insanity affair is merely an unpleasant memory. Why, even now -"

She was still talking when he leaned across the counter and kissed her.

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

There was silence as Buffy and Spike lay together, after. In the past Spike had filled the space with accusations, coaxes, taunts. Now, though his arms clutched her to his chest securely, he didn’t speak.

He was holding back, she knew. Still not ready to believe her, even while their guttural I love yous hung heavy in the air between them. She could almost see the machinery of his brain working feverishly, trying to envision a scenario in which she was telling the truth.

She got that. She wasn’t entirely accustomed to the ‘I’m in love with Spike’ concept herself, and it had been percolating within her for a few weeks now.

Oh, it’s been longer than that, wouldn’t you say? BadBrain prompted.

Well, Buffy conceded, maybe.

It was all so new, and so old (“I’d rather be fighting you anyway.” “Mutual.”), and so very strange. And Buffy didn’t like the tension that stifled them both now. Then her eyes brightened. She had something else to tell him.

“I met William.”

Nothing like weirdness on top of weirdness, she figured.

He didn’t stir, didn’t turn his attention from where it was fastened somewhere on the cracked ceiling. “William who?”

“William you. Your - your -“ She waved her hand helplessly. “You know.”

He scooted out from under her, unceremoniously dumping her on the floor in the process. “Like hell you did.”

“I did!”

“You’re mad.”

“So over that. No, it’s true. When I was - stuck - in there, he came to me. In my dreams.”

“Oh, this sounds like some bad Lifetime movie,” Spike snapped.

“It does not! And what would you know about it anyway? Or the Lifetime channel for that matter?”

“Ask your sister. All summer long I’ve been watching tales of courage and sacrifice and husbands who turn out to be murderous polygamists. And they all starred that bird who was in ‘One Day At a Time.’” He thought back. “Well, sometimes there was Laura from ‘Little House on the Prairie.’ Bizarre. I kept waiting for Almanzo to kidnap her daughter.”

“Spike. Stop trying to change the subject.”

“What subject? You were hallucinating. No real surprise, that. But you didn’t see him.”

“Why are you so freaked about this? He was nice. He helped me.”

“There is no he. William’s dead.” Spike smirked unpleasantly. “Pissed on his grave myself. Look, I might have crawled out of the ground where they dumped him but I left him behind when I did. There is no William.”

“There is!” She folded her arms and glared at him. “And he told me things.”

“What things?!”

“Lots of things. Tons of things. Hundreds of interesting bits of information.”

Spike looked so horrified that Buffy had to relent. “Oh, relax. We didn’t talk about you. Much. We talked about…how to do the right thing when it seems impossible. He gave me hope. I was ready to give up, Spike.”

He was listening to her now, despite himself. She needed him to know; needed him to understand what William had explained (better than she would, she was certain) about the whole good and evil thing. Spike had known about the gray area between the two, long before she had. But Spike needed hope now as well - the hope she’d pounded out of him in an alley, the hope that had been behind his blustery posturing when Riley had discovered them. He’d been needling her ex, but she saw now that he’d also been trying to convince himself that this could work, that he could love his Slayer and she could love him in return.

She’d taken the last shreds of that hope with her when she’d swept out of his crypt that last time. And what he had done after that - confronting her, protecting Dawn, battling to restore her to the person she’d been (the person who’d cut him out of her life) - that had been for her sake, and Dawn’s.

“He showed me stuff I hadn’t seen before. Hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t been able to…I don’t know. But he showed me, the way you dug goodness out of yourself. You found it in you, Spike, even when everybody said there was none to be found.”

“I don’t want to hear this,” he said. His head was down now, hanging between his bent knees as he sat.

“Yeah, I’m kind of getting that. But I’m leading up to something, so…as you told me once, you’ll forebear. Right?”

An unintelligible grunt. She went on.

“I don’t make you do the right thing, Spike. Something’s happened over the last two years. Something amazing.” She poked his bare foot with her own. “And I want to stick around to see what happens next.”

Then he looked up at her, all sloe-eyed sex and promise. And showed her what happened next.

An hour later, as she walked home, Buffy could still feel a foolish smile tugging at her lips. Was this joy she felt? The retrieval of something she didn’t know she’d lost. How he’d been swayed by her words, against his will.

And, of course, the incredible sex. Nice to know that in a whirlwind of realization and adjustment, some things hadn’t changed. She was still smiling when she drifted up to her porch and unlocked the door.

“Bloody buggering hell!”

Startled, Buffy slammed the front door behind her. She dropped her bag on the floor and walked to the kitchen.

“Dawn?”

“Stupid washing machine is broken again,” Dawn muttered as she climbed up the stairs from the basement. “And I have to wear that outfit to Janice’s tonight. Okay? I have to.”

“Using that kind of language won’t help the washing machine problem and it certainly isn’t going to get you to Janice’s tonight.” Buffy went to the junk drawer and began rummaging for a wrench.

Dawn stared at her, a genuinely blank expression on her face. Then she pouted. “Like you can tell me not to swear, Miss Use-A-Huge-Ass-Butcher-Knife-To-Try-And-Kill-My-Little-Sister. You so can’t act all morally superior.”

Buffy whirled around, aghast. “I didn’t - you know that I wasn’t in control - I tried to…” She narrowed her eyes. “And it wasn’t a ‘huge-ass butcher knife’. It was the same knife Mom used to carve the pumpkin at Halloween.”

“Oh, and that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Are you going to bring this up every time we have an argument?”

“Are you going to let me go to Janice’s?”

“Start your homework. I’ll take a look at the washer and then we’ll talk about it again.” They’d spent the time since she’d returned in a tender, if delicate, companionship. Now, Buffy saw, the honeymoon was clearly over.

Dawn grabbed her books off the kitchen table and stomped out of the room. Buffy nearly, nearly didn’t hear her sister’s last words.

“What was that? What did you say?” Dawn merely harrumphed.

“Did you say Crazy Buffy would have let you go?”

Buffy placed the wrench carefully, so carefully down on the counter. Then she followed Dawn into the living room. “I asked you a -" She gasped.

“Willow.”

Her friend stood in the doorway, wreathed in yellow light. But it wasn’t the sun; too bright, too harsh for that. It hurt Buffy’s eyes to look.

“Why, there’s the Summers I’ve been looking for,” Willow said in a tone of saccharine sweetness. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Buffy. Well, actually about two hundred and six.” A short, brittle laugh. “Sorry. You were never the scholar, were you? Kinda ruins the joke.”

Buffy moved next to Dawn and reached for her sister’s hand. Finding it, she felt a quick, reassuring squeeze. Strength.

“I’m so glad you came back,” Buffy said truthfully. “I tried and tried to find you, Willow. I asked Xander - and your parents said you were traveling - where were you? Are you…” Seemed foolish, even cruel to ask. “How are you?”

Willow lifted her hands in a gesture of resignation. “Oh, you know. Some days are better than others. Some days I just want to die, so I can be with her. And other days…Other days, I want to kill.”

Buffy stepped forward, close enough to embrace. “Willow, I can’t begin to explain it, or make up for what happened. I wish it had been me, instead of -"

Willow slapped her.

Buffy recoiled, more from shock than anything else. Willow shrugged.

“Hey - if I had any say in the matter,” she replied, “it would have been you. But wanna hear something ironic? I wasted my chance, Buff. All that studying and preparation for the resurrection spell? The one that brought you back? That was my one shot. And I used it on you. So when Tara - when Tara -“ She broke off, choking on the words. Buffy approached her again but Willow’s left hand flew up. “Back.”

Buffy was knocked backwards, landing painfully on the hardwood floor of the hallway. She looked up, re-evaluating the situation even as misery and guilt vied for position in her gut. She just had to get Dawn out of the house; then she and Willow could talk. This was Willow, after all.

But Dawn was next to Buffy now, long arms frantically pulling at her sister. Buffy stood, her eyes never leaving her friend’s.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Buffy told her resolutely. Tears threatened, but she held herself steady. This wasn’t about her, not really. This was Willow’s loss, she thought. Willow’s turn.

Buffy moved toward her friend once more. “You know I love you. I loved Tara. If there was anything that I could do -"

Willow cocked her head, as if considering this. “Well,” she replied, “now that you mention it…”

A hazy image sprang up between the girls, flickering and wavering. The scene it showed, however, was clear.

“You can watch your lover die. Just like I did.”

Spike, naked and chained. Skin flayed open. Blood running in crimson rivers along abused flesh, and eyes -

Eyes now no more than blackened gouges in his skull.

Buffy found that she could do nothing but stare at the vision, even as some new torment assailed Spike and his lips parted in a soundless scream. There was another presence with him, although how she knew that Buffy couldn’t say. Because she couldn’t tear her gaze from Spike’s body. Beside her Dawn whimpered piteously, but Buffy remained motionless. Her limbs were leaden, her voice banished by horror, and her heart…Spike. Spike.

Willow grinned. “Welcome home, Buffy.”

Part 20:

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

Chained, strung up, bleeding like one of his own victims. The pain had hazed Spike’s mind but one thought filtered through:

A few feet away Xander paced, waiting for somebody to tell him what to do, and occasionally cringing as some new torment was visited on his prisoner. Didn’t have the stomach for torture, that much was obvious. This wasn’t his deal anyway - it reeked of vengeance, and not the kind Anya and Halfrek played at either. This was visceral and bitter, the bereaved wail of broken devotion.

He’d always known Red had it in her.

Had his eye on her, he did, even before her Wicca power-tripping. Entertained himself with thoughts of bringing her over to his team, until the one time he tried ended in his own horror and ignominy. Then he’d watched, indifferently at first and later with growing wariness, as she’d suffused herself with the dark arts. He’d seen how it emboldened her, made her forget her past disgraces and the inadequacies she still feared.

Well, hell. The parallels were hard to miss.

But the Superfriends…they’d considered her harmless, preferring to remember the shy and slightly geeky girl of their youth. Stupid, that. “Stupid,” he tried to whisper, around the blood and broken teeth, but the sound came out garbled and wet.

She’d resurrected a Slayer, messed with her chums’ collective heads, and nearly killed Dawn - an incident that had triggered a shouting match between he and Buffy about Willow’s continued presence in the house. He’d called Buffy deliberately dense, and she’d accused him of being motivated by nothing more than jealousy. They’d enraged and incensed each other until all that was left was the shagging. The argument had gone unresolved.

He’d been as complacent as the others, he realized now. So consumed with his lonely love life he’d not seen her power swelling. Tara’s death had been more than an excuse; it had been a call to arms.

Now he had all the time in the world to wonder what mystical retribution awaited him.

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

“You know,” Willow mused, as the morbid reflection pulsed before them, “I keep feeling like there’s some witty comment I should be making right about now.” She frowned disapprovingly when Buffy and Dawn didn’t speak, but then her face lit up. “I know.

“’I’ll get you, my pretty.’” Her laughing gaze drifted to Spike. “’And your little dog, too.’”

Around Willow, along the walls and underneath their feet, blue-white energy crackled as though an electrical storm had broken. It danced at the tips of Willow’s fingers and outlined her wraithlike form. Strange, churning moans echoed in the house but seemed to come from beyond it, voices that had traveled across miles and eons to keen there, at that moment.

Dawn had her arms wrapped around Buffy, holding her up and holding on herself. “You bitch,” she hissed at Willow. “You - take him down from there. Spike didn’t do anything. He helped us.”

Willow shrugged. “Didn’t help me any. Tara’s dead. Buffy’s standing. And if I’m not mistaken,” she cocked her head at Buffy’s stricken expression, “she’s in love. Awww.”

Dawn seethed silently, but the words shocked Buffy into action.

“Stop it,” she said tightly. “Whatever you’re doing to him, just stop it. This is between you and me.”

Willow nodded. “I agree. I really, really do. That’s why this is happening, Buffy - to make us even. All I’m looking for is justice. Do you think I ask too much?” she prodded, as Buffy regarded her stonily. “There’s more I could do, I promise. I could send your Key back to where she came from - keep her floating in the ether for all eternity. Or Giles - heard he’s back in town. Shall I pay him a visit?”

“I won’t let you,” Buffy answered sharply. “And I won’t let you get away with this, either.”

Willow smirked. “Oh, does the Slayer have something up her sleeve? ‘Cause it seems to me there’s nothing you can do but watch.”

She breathed in deeply, eyes closing for the briefest moment. The image in front of them electrified, brightened, and now Spike’s anguish seemed to fill the room; his body bathed in scarlet, his grimace of pain exquisitely defined.

“Check this out,” Willow invited them. Her voice rose imperiously. “Xander!”

And now he stepped into view, strained and unhappy, eyes incongruously trained heavenward. “Willow?”

“Oh, God,” Buffy gasped.

“Willow, it’s enough,” Xander was saying. “End it now. He’s…you’re…”

“Just getting started,” Willow finished.

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

“Ahem.”

Silence.

“Ahem!”

Dimly, Giles heard someone speaking. Anya was already pulling back. With seeming reluctance she turned away from him, to the woman standing a few feet away. “Hallie?” she said, a bit testily. “I was very clearly in the midst of kissing someone. It was enjoyable, and I would have liked it to go on indefinitely.”

The woman sniffed. “I see you’re still trying to make a go of it with the humans. Well excuse me, but I have some information I thought you’d be interested in. Of course,” and now her eyes raked over Giles appraisingly, “it’s about your ex. Maybe I should come back later.”

“Xander?” Giles’ brow furrowed. “What about him?”

The woman - Hallie? merely raised one unimpressed eyebrow.

“What is it?” Anya asked.

“Are you sure? After all -"

“Halfrek!” Anya snapped.

“Fine. He’s engaged in a rather vulgar - in my humble opinion - display of highly unapproved vengeance. D’Hoffryn is not pleased. Great magics have been harnessed, and the effect throughout this dimension has been chaotic. Spells have been altered; wishes to our kind have had unintended results. It’s an altogether messy situation.”

Giles shook his head. “Xander? Why would he seek revenge?”

“Oh, it’s not him.” Halfrek assured them. “It’s his little friend. Wanda? Winnie?”

“Willow,” Anya breathed.

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

“Where are they?” Buffy demanded.

“The boys, you mean? It’s sweet, seeing them together. Two more men that Buffy Summers slayed. Too bad Angel hasn’t shown up. Then we could have some real fun.”

Dawn was weeping now, as Spike hung limply from an anonymous ceiling and Xander pleaded with his best friend. “Take him down, take him down,” Dawn whimpered endlessly, and Buffy’s heart broke for her sister. Spike is loved, she thought. Does he know? Will he realize it before -

“I gotta tell you, Buffy - take off Spike’s clothes and throw some chains on him, and his appeal really comes through. I understand what you see in him.” Peering closer, Willow surveyed the scene. “I'm going to bleed him. Fitting, don’t you think? It’s time for Spike to give a little back.”

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

“Willow! Can you hear me? Damn. Damn. Willow!”

The only thing more insufferable than Xander Harris, Spike mulled groggily, was Xander Harris with the volume turned up. At least the vicious, invisible gnawing on his flesh had abated somewhat. He raised his head marginally, trying to assess his latest predicament. Still had a bit of sight remaining in the left eye. Enough to see his captor - and Spike loathed using that word to describe Harris - bobbing around anxiously like a misplaced marionette.

“How?” Spike managed. Xander stared at him.

“How’d…Red rope you into…this?”

Xander raised his chin. “You’ve brought nothing but trouble since you showed up in Sunnydale. I always knew, but - Willow showed me. Showed me you and Buffy.” Disgust rolled off him in waves. “I don’t get, I don’t want to get it, but I’m going to make sure it ends. Here.”

Spike started to laugh, though it quickly degenerated into a hacking struggle for air. Xander’s face reddened. “What? What the hell do you find so goddamn amusing?”

“Gotta…hand it to you,” Spike mumbled. “You…knew. She’ll keep coming back to me. You can’t send me away. Can’t threaten me. Won’t…keep us apart. I’m inside her, now. Always. This…this is all you can do.” The pain that had retreated briefly had now returned, and Spike fought to force the words out. “All you can do is kill me.”

Xander shook his head. “That wasn’t - she said we were just going to teach you a lesson. Make you understand.” He looked positively ill as he took in Spike’s appearance now.

“Yeah? Understand this, then.” Spike coughed up a mouthful of blood, and Xander flinched.

“When all this is over, my girlfriend is gonna kick your ass.”

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

“Something’s happening,” Anya said fearfully. The sky above them was crowded with clouds, but rain refused to come. The air itself seemed putrid and sickly.

“How did your friend know of Xander and Willow’s activities?”

Anya was panting as she rushed to keep up with Giles’ long, determined strides. They hurried down Waverly to his car. “Halfrek is a vengeance demon. We always know when someone’s invoking that power, whether or not our presence is requested.”

“And D’Hoffryn has something against individuals wreaking vengeance without his help?” He hastily yanked open the passenger side door and ushered her inside.

“Oh, not at all. He’s a firm believer in free enterprise and personal expression. I can only think of a few circumstances under which he would disapprove of a vengeance effort.”

“Such as?” He glanced at Anya briefly as she straightened her skirt across her knees.

“Targeting children. Recompense during wartime. Exacting revenge on someone other than the original offender. Trying to unionize.”

“I don’t see how any of those - oh, dear God.”

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

Buffy couldn’t look anymore; not at Spike twisting and shuddering in his bonds while Xander watched. Steel edged her voice as she addressed Willow. “You want to hurt me? Hurt me. I’m right here.”

“Hurt you?” Willow laughed, a little hysterically. “I’ll hurt you, Buffy. That’s the whole point. The pain eats at you - you’ll lie in your bed in the middle of the night, praying to die just so the aching, this awful aching ends.” A choked sob suddenly escaped her, and when she looked at Buffy again her eyes were black with fury. “I’ll make you feel it. Make you feel like I do.”

“Know what?” Buffy said. “I’m tired of talking.”

She leapt across the image Willow had conjured and brought the witch to the ground. As they grappled, Dawn threw herself alongside her sister and attempted to subdue Willow. Instantly Willow flung her away, and there was a sickening crunch as Dawn’s head hit the edge of the staircase.

Buffy turned to her sister, and in that moment Willow wrenched away until she was crouched over Buffy.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Willow rasped.

“You’re right,” Buffy replied, and flipped Willow over again.

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

Giles pounded on the door. “Buffy! If you’re there, open up!”

A thump from inside, and that was all he needed to hear. Fumbling for his keyring, Giles finally unlocked the door and shouldered it open. When the scene was revealed, he stopped short, one restraining hand holding Anya at his back. Dawn sprawled awkwardly on the floor, blood trickling from her forehead. Buffy and Willow, battling; and something both vibrant and sinister shimmering in the center of the room…

“Willow!” Giles rushed to the thrashing pair as Anya stared, horribly transfixed, at the image of Spike and Xander.

“Back off,” Willow snarled, and Giles staggered. He righted himself quickly, though, and approached the two again.

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

“No. Willow - stop! Stop it!”

Somebody shut him up, Spike pleaded to no one in particular. Is this to be my hell, then? Listening to him babble on forever?

“She’s not - she’s not making sense,” Xander said worriedly. Spike couldn’t bring himself to care much.

“She went off the deep end long before this,” he muttered. “Shouldn’t act so bloody dumbfounded about it.”

Xander swallowed. “She’s hurting Buffy. And Dawn -- it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. None of this was supposed to happen.”

Spike jerked in his chains. “Get me out of these,” he growled.

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

Willow winced, onyx eyes snapping and flashing. “Have to - concentrate,” she gasped.

“Here’s something you can focus on,” Buffy grunted, and tossed Willow into the living room. With Giles at her side, she followed Willow’s trajectory in slow, measured steps.

“End it now, Willow. Before you do something that can’t be undone.”

“Bitch,” Willow spat. “Why should I stop? You got your chance at bat already. Don’t I get to play?”

“I’m going to have to live with the consequences for the rest of my life,” Buffy answered evenly. “Is that what you want?”

“Consequences? I’m living with your consequences. Now you can live with mine.” But her voice wavered; a heady mix now of both heartache and rage. The maelstrom surrounding them became increasingly frenzied and disjointed.

“Her power is fracturing,” Giles murmured to Buffy. “She’s unable to deal with all of us at once.” He glanced behind him. “And her accomplice is conflicted, to say the least.”

“Xander,” Anya cried as she stood huddled over the vision. “Can you hear me? Xander, it’s Anya. Please, stop this.”

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

“Do it, man! Let me down from here!”

“Willow wouldn’t…she’s just trying to help Buffy,” Xander said, but uncertainty tainted his words.

“If anything happens to Buffy or Dawn…”

“Nothing will! I swear!” Even as he spoke Willow’s desperate wrangling assaulted his mind.

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

Willow was edging away from them now, and they could see her efforts to regain her slipping control. “It’s not fair,” she wept quietly, while Giles and Buffy and Anya - where she sat cradling Dawn -- eyed her warily. “I deserve this. I deserve to make this right.”

Giles knelt now, careful not to threaten her. “What you’re doing here, Willow - this won’t make anything right. Tara wouldn’t want this.”

“Tara’s dead! What she wants is never going to matter anymore.”

“She loved you,” Buffy said. “I love you. Please don’t destroy yourself.” Buffy tried to keep her tone convincing but Willow saw her clenched fists, the tendons that stood out on her arms as she forced herself not to attack. The witch’s lips curled grotesquely.

“Don’t destroy him, you mean.” She wiped her nose and rose, fingers gripping the wall for purchase. “I’m doing you a favor, but you’re too selfish to see it.”

“I think I can live without this kind of help,” Buffy hissed. “Dawn’s hurt and Spike’s -"

“His chip doesn’t work!” Willow burst out.

Buffy’s eyes narrowed. Willow swallowed hard and continued.

“I visited Rodger Kehoe.” She giggled, and Giles moved forward menacingly. “Well, I tried. He was gone. His house was trashed. Do you think your boyfriend actually went to the trouble of hiding the body? Or did he just cut him up into tiny, tiny pieces?”

“What is it you wish to say, Willow?” Giles’ voice brooked no tolerance.

“There were notes - records. Kehoe kept them -- in the event of his untimely death. He said that Spike agreed to spare his life in exchange for removing the chip or - or rendering it useless.”

“And you believe this?” Buffy exploded. “This is the same guy who turned me into a raving lunatic!”

From the stairway, a cough. Buffy turned to see her sister, eyes slitted open. She sighed weakly.

“He wrote about the spell he used,” Willow whispered. “I wanted to be wrong, Buffy. I wanted to find out that it hadn’t been you, after all. Faith - or the First Slayer - God, anybody. Someone to blame this on. Someone besides you.”

Buffy’s anger faded for a moment. “I know what you mean.”

“But it was you. That whole time, in the Magic Box. It was you.” The weeping began again, in earnest. “How could you, Buffy? How could you?”

Tears ran down Buffy’s face now as well, as she crept toward her friend. “I know. I know, Willow.” Delicately, she reached out one slim hand to touch Willow’s face. “I can’t make it right. But we can make it better. Please, Willow. Please.”

For seconds or hours, they simply sat. Then Willow crumpled.

She curled into a ball on the floor, sobbing. The energy around her spiraled terrifyingly, piercing yowls and blinding, burning white light. Then, suddenly, silence.

Giles was beside her, lifting her head and leaning her against his shoulder. “Willow? You must tell us how to free Spike.”

“It’s all right,” Anya said quietly. Giles turned.

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

The last chained was released, and Spike would have fallen had Xander not caught him. “Hold up, Spike. Gotta get you out of here.” He bore Spike’s full weight and dragged him towards the exit of the tunnel. Spike mumbled something that Xander couldn’t understand. “What?”

“Tool,” came the scratchy reply. “You…are such…a tool.”

Xander frowned. “Tool? Not git, not wanker? Where did you…oh.” Dawn. He’d picked that up after spending weeks protecting Dawn Summers. And hello to the guilt, Xander muttered inwardly.

But it was better. Anything was better than the way he’d spent the last few hours, the way chaos and hatred had infiltrated his mind until he didn’t know where he started and Willow began. And he knew now that it was over. Buffy saves the day again.

He hefted Spike up and they made a slow path out of the room.

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

“She’s lucid,” Anya told Buffy softly, as she stroked Dawn’s hair. “I don’t think she has a concussion but I’ll take her to the hospital just in case.”

“I’ll go with you,” Buffy answered, her eyes on her sister. She finally pulled away. “Giles?”

“Go.” He gripped Willow sturdily, gazing at them over her bent head. “Willow and I…we’ll be fine.”

Buffy nodded slowly. She remained still, registering all that had occurred. Then she extended a hand to Anya and together they helped Dawn up. Anya went to Giles and he wordlessly handed her his car keys. In the next moment they were gone, and the Summers house was filled with nothing but the sound of lamentation.

Part 21:

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

“So then Buffy’s all, ‘Step off, bitch!’ and I’m all, ‘Yeah!’ and and she and Willow totally throw down, and, um…well, then there was the being knocked unconscious, so I missed some stuff. The whole time Willow’s camcorder from Hell is going, right? And Anya’s yelling at Xander to stop, and then there was more stuff, and then - this is the best part - Giles hands his car keys over to Anya! He never let Buffy drive his car, not once.”

Spike just smiled faintly, one hand resting on the top of Dawn’s head as she knelt on the floor beside him. Her ceaseless chatter soothed him, distanced him from the pain. Bright little magpie she was, already rewriting the afternoon’s events as a rousing adventure tale. She’d already imparted what she considered to be juicy gossip - that Willow had been remanded to the authority of an esteemed coven on the Isle of Wight, and that Giles and Anya would accompany her to England and remain there for the foreseeable future. He’d let her charm him with her exaggerated description of the kiss Giles had bestowed on Anya when they returned from the hospital.

But he saw the hardness in her eyes when she mentioned Willow’s name, the way her mouth grew tight and her lips compressed when she spoke of seeing Spike’s condition.

“She’ll not forgive Willow any time soon,” he murmured when Dawn had left the room. Buffy sat next to him on the couch, quiet and reflective as night stole over the house.

“She’d barely gotten over the whole driving-under-the-magical-influence fiasco,” Buffy responded. “Willow kind of used up any goodwill she had left.”

He nodded, half-lidded gaze drifting across the room, the pendulous moon outside, the planes of her face. “Grief does funny things to the head.”

“And you?” Buffy asked. “Have you forgiven her?”

He would have killed - could kill, he amended - for a cigarette, but being loved senselessly by Buffy Summers still did not permit one to smoke in her mother’s living room. So his yearning fingers merely played over the PowerPuff Girls comforter Dawn had draped over him. “Not for me to forgive.”

Buffy’s expression went slack with shock. “Hello? She practically turned you into Spike-kabobs.”

He curved one bandaged arm around her narrow waist, bringing her closer. She raised an eyebrow. “Slayer healing powers,” he explained somberly. “Very restoring.”

“How can you just be over it?” Buffy persisted.

Spike shrugged. It hurt. Everything hurt; his flesh felt like it had been turned inside out and if Buffy and Dawn were any indication, he was none to pleasant to look at, either. “Me and her, we’ve got some history. It’s understood.”

“Xander said you threatened to reach down his throat and pull out his ribcage, then roast his testicles over a low flame for a month. What about burying that hatchet? Metaphorical hatchet,” she added hastily.

Spike blinked at her innocently. “Dr. Phil says that it’s important to embrace our emotions. ‘Sides, Xander Harris is -"

“A tool,” Buffy finished. “I know. You mentioned it a few dozen times. And I’m really starting to wish Dawn had never taught you that word.”

She subsided into what he knew would be a short-lived silence. Sure enough -

“Did you kill Kehoe?” she blurted out.

“Would you care if I did?”

“Yes. I would.”

“He’d earned his death, a hundred times over. Broke you in half, took you from Dawn - he shed Tara’s blood more than you ever did.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“Oh,” Spike answered a bit snidely. “Is this where we have the ‘do the right thing’ conversation? Do us a favor, love, and hand me a few more Demerol before we get started.”

She remained where she was, watching him without reserve or rosy, infatuated ignorance. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted into game face.

“Take a good look,” he told her. “Got my bite back, I have.”

“No kidding,” she replied. “Today we had Fun Sharing Hour at the Summers house. Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Maybe,” he said defensively. “Didn’t know what you’d do. Didn’t know what I’d do.” Fumbling, he sat up straighter among the soft, enveloping cushions. “That whole bloody time you were away, Buffy - can you imagine what it was like, knowing I couldn’t protect her from any ordinary, ill-minded human that came along? From sweaty blighters at truck stops, who looked at her just a second too long? Knew what they were thinking, I did. And Kehoe - I couldn’t save you from him. Tried, but that stupid chip,” he spat the offensive word out, “kicked in so’s all I could do was curl up like a whipped puppy. If I’d had it out that night I found you -"

“If you’d had it out,” Buffy said gently, “you might not have been there in the first place.”

He looked away.

“Did you kill him?” Buffy asked again.

Spike sighed. “No. Got a few licks in, but that’s it. Kept my word; he was alive when I left him.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t suppose you’ll believe me.”

Buffy digested it for a moment. “I’ll…have faith,” she said finally. “I’ll have faith in you.”

Nothing would have surprised him more, he thought dizzily. He felt a smile break over his face, felt his demon retreat into human form again. Felt the passion and hope and fear in her declaration. I’ll have faith.

“Because you love me,” he prompted her, not caring how needy he sounded.

Warm hands on his face, smoothing out the lines on his forehead until he relaxed. “Yes. Because of that,” she whispered as his eyes closed. “Because I love you, and Dawn loves you, and I’m going to trust you - trust you to puzzle out the right thing even when you don’t want to, even when you don’t think you can. I’m going to trust you not to decapitate Xander or anybody else who annoys you.” She swallowed.

“I’m going to trust you to keep fighting on our side, even if I’m not around to fight with you.”

His eyes opened then, and when he pulled her down to him there was an urgency in his grasp. “That won’t be for a long, long time,” he promised, though there was something rough and raw behind his voice. Then he was kissing her, because she was there, in all her vibrant, death-defying glory.

“Have faith in me,” he muttered, even while she snaked her hands beneath his shirt and brushed the taut muscles of his stomach. “Make you proud, I will.”

“I know, Spike.”

“And I’ll save you, Buffy. A thousand times. I’ll have your back every night, every minute. My Slayer’s going to live forever - love you - forever - Buffy…”

Hours later, when she woke up panting and disoriented, he was there. Arms wrapped tight around her, soothing her with a lullaby of love-words and nonsense. “Hush, now. Spike’s got you. It’s all right.” He was propped up on his elbow, cradling her.

“Was…dreaming. You were there.”

He brushed damp hair back from her forehead. “Was I?”

“There was a woman. We were all tied together.”

“Shhhh. Sleep now. Tell me about it tomorrow.”

“It meant something, Spike. It was a Slayer dream. They always mean something.”

“Good. Time for our first outing as a couple, then.”

She smiled against him, let his sibilant tones lull her into oblivion. When Spike lay back down he held her just a bit closer.

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

Rodger Kehoe walked the floor of the warehouse, fear fueling every circling step.

He’d done everything right. He was sure of it. Absconded with the necessary materials to this - this shack on the outskirts of Boyle Heights, where no one would think to look. Made the appropriate sacrifices, appeased the proper nether-powers. And he was certain there had been no flaw in his performance of the spell. He was nothing if not a stickler for detail.

But…it had gone off, somewhere. There’d been an interruption; a bolt of cosmic lightning that had shorted his efforts. He’d wanted his Slayer back - he was owed. All his hard work…

He jumped at the sound of movement behind him. Turning, he eyed his creation apprehensively.

Something had gone off, indeed.

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

The woman stood carefully, examining herself. Ebony skin gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat; long, graceful limbs seemed to flaunt youth and vitality. The hands, though…the hands were coarse and calloused from her work. She studied them for a moment, remembering. Then she swiveled large almond eyes up to Kehoe’s.

“Where’s my coat?” she asked.

The End.