DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss’, of course, and the chapter title comes from Shakespeare’s “Sonnet CXLIX.”
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Lydia returned with Rose’s effects, showing Spike that the seer deliberately led them to Barcelona; Giles has informed the group that Wesley will be aiding in helping Willow adjust to the magic; and a queasy Buffy has returned to her dorm to finish reading Spike’s letters…

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

Dear Buffy,

Nothing new to tell, so I suppose you’re wondering why I’m writing. Have you thought about why you’re getting more of these? Why hardly a day will go by when word of me doesn’t reach you? I can just see you, sitting on a crypt in Restfield waiting for a fledge to rise with one of my letters in your hands as you read it. You wear a skirt, something short and flirty and entirely inappropriate for slaying but one that would make a blind man hard for the spread of glorious skin it exposes. Your hair is pulled up and off your face, but it’s hot and it slips from its holder to stick to your cheeks in faint tendrils. You gleam from the heat, and occasionally that luscious lower lip of yours juts out so that you can blow upward to cool your brow…

Damn. I’ve gone and got hard just imagining that. Wish I was there to see it personally.

Of course, I know it’s all rubbish. There’s hardly enough light at Restfield for you to be reading out there at night, and the fact that I’ve yet to hear from you makes me suspect that the letters aren’t lasting long enough to make it back out of the house, if in fact you’re reading them at all. So asking if you’re wondering why I’m writing borders on the arrogant because the only one who probably cares is me.

Still, I’m going to tell you. On the off-chance that you are reading these and just not ready to respond.

I stopped writing anything for a long time. No journal, no poetry, nothing. After I was turned, there was a period where I wanted to be everything William wasn’t. I can’t really say that period entirely ended until I regained my memories of our time together. I’m still not eager to return to much of him, but I hate less of it, and knowing there are aspects of William that reach into your heart in ways that Spike can’t, I’ve been a bit more open-minded about certain things.

Like my writing. I dabbled with my poetry off and on over the years, but never anything serious and certainly nothing anyone ever saw much of. Angelus used to mock me about it, taking my verses and reading them out loud in jest just as David Howard and his bunch did back in the day. So, it lost a lot of its pleasure for me, and it wasn’t until I remembered your responses to William’s words that the desire to return to it trickled back. I’d forgotten how pleasurable it could be to put my feelings down, to keep them from burning too brightly inside and scorching everything away.

Writing to you helps with that. Even when it’s not a note to let you know what’s happening, where I am, I’ve begun to compose again, though I imagine I’m more than a tad rusty after not doing so for such a long time.

You are my muse, my love. You inspire me to try and reach for that which I can’t touch. I take solace in losing myself in words you invite, even when it means I may ramble without cause.

Like now, perhaps.

Yours always,

William

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

Dear Buffy,

A little birdie’s let me know you and Red are in the dorms now. It must feel good to be out on your own. Don’t forget about your mum, though. She’s probably got a bit of empty nest syndrome happening.

When do your classes start? They’re probably not too exciting yet; you have to get a lot of the boring introductory stuff out of the way first, right? Any thoughts yet about what you’re going to want to study? And don’t give me that short Slayer life expectancy crap that you pulled the last time I brought this up. OK, you thought I wasn’t real at the time, and you were probably more than a little afraid of letting William in too much, but…this is me, love. There’s no reason to hide. Tell me what you really want.

I can tell you what I want. You. I miss you. I miss our talks. I know there’s probably a reason you haven’t written back yet, but it doesn’t make the missing you any less. I dream about you constantly. I wake up hard and desperate to touch you, to hear the sound of your voice, to feel you curled up against me. I usually go out at that point and kill something to work off some of the frustration, but often, that just makes it worse because I start imagining you in the dance, how you would’ve taken a particular nasty down, and I find myself missing you all the more. How is it you have this power? Sometimes, I think if I could take it away from you, I would. It would certainly make my existence a touch easier.

I can’t, though. Because to take it away would be to stop loving you, and I just don’t see that happening.

Is that why you don’t write back? I know you promised me nothing, but if you’re afraid of telling me that you don’t feel the same way, don’t be. I’m a big vamp. I can take it. I may not like it, but then that’s not what this is all about, is it?

Write. Please.

I just need to know you’re still there.

Yours always,

William

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

Dear Buffy,

We’re in Barcelona now. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to this neck of the woods, but I have a feeling we might be here for a bit. Signs are good that what we’re looking for is here. If it is, that means I’ll be on my way to you straight after. You have no idea how much I love that notion.

I’m not going to ask you any more to write me back. If you haven’t done it yet, I sincerely doubt you will. You must have your reasons, but, I’ll admit, it’s eating me not knowing what they are. I always picture the worst. You’re dead and nobody’s bothered to tell me. You’re seeing some other bloke and you’re too busy shagging his brains out to fuss with letting me know. Red’s magic has turned Sunnydale into a big sinkhole and you’re lying helpless at the center. And those are just the ones that don’t involve blood and gore.

But that’s OK. Because I made you a promise and it doesn’t matter if you want it or not. I can’t imagine a world without you in it, and I’ll do whatever it takes to guarantee you’re here for as long as possible. Call me selfish if you want, though it shouldn’t surprise you. Vampire, remember? Plus, I love you, which pretty much compounds the need to make sure you’re safe and sound. So you see, I’m fucked any way you look at it.

That was a joke, by the way. Just in case you didn’t get it.

The being fucked part.

Loving you is never a joke.

Picked up another little something for you, but I’ve decided I’m going to hold on to this particular trinket until I can give it to you in person. I don’t think that’s going to be much longer, and the desire to see the look on your face when you get it is too great to resist. Regardless of what you may think of me, I think you’ll like it.

Yours always,

William

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

Her hands were shaking when she set the last of the letters down. It had arrived on Friday morning, but the date at the top of the page was Thursday’s. Whatever mystical means Spike had arranged for receiving letters from Buffy must’ve been applied to those he sent out; they were taking only a day to reach her. That could only mean that he was still in Barcelona. The thought that if she knew where he was staying, she could actually call him, hear his voice for real and not in her dreams, flitted through her mind, and then she laughed out loud, a harsh, mocking sound, to think she could be that frivolous.

He was hurting. Any other time and any other vampire, and Buffy would’ve thought that a good thing, but this was Spike, and not once in all the letters had he even gone as far as call her a bad name. She didn’t doubt that he probably thought them. His latest note spoke loud and clear that he didn’t understand why she hadn’t bothered to at least tell him to fuck off. But he’d retained his dignity with his written words, and she knew without having to ask that he did it in deference to a kinder, gentler soul.

If that had been all, she might have been able to dismiss it as part of the consequences in choosing the path he had. But…there was more. Much more. And that more changed everything for her.

All of Spike’s letters came with a poem, or part of a poem, words that took the sentiment of William and coated it with the experience of a century’s lifeblood. Some were more polished than others, and some carried with them the tinge of a hunger that made her almost frightened to finish, but more than enough literally took her breath away. As she’d read them, over and over until the words were etched indelibly into her memory, Buffy had fought back the tears more than once, emotion overwhelming her for seconds before she harnessed it back under her control. She didn’t know why they would make her weepy. It was most likely just the ache of remembering too much.

She was glad that she had found the strength to send out the short note she had, but suddenly, it wasn’t enough. Pushing aside the shoeboxes, Buffy rose from her bed and crossed to the desk, grabbing her favorite pen and her notepad before staring down at the blank page. What could she say to him? Should she take the time to explain why it had taken so long for her respond? How could she voice it for Spike when she was so inadequate in voicing it for herself?

She stared at the page for a long five minutes before the tip of her pen ever touched it, and even then, finding the words, knowing what to say and how to say it without sounding glib or bitchy or insincere, was excruciating.

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

Dear Spike,

I think I owe you an apology. You’ve been writing me all these letters and sending me all this beautiful poetry, and this is only the second one you’ll get from me. I could lie and say I didn’t get them until recently, but, well, that would be a lie. Even when I didn’t think William was real, I didn’t lie to him, and I can’t do it now. So, I’m sorry.

I didn’t read your letters until a couple days ago. To be honest, I was scared. I didn’t know what they would say. That’s an excuse, I know, but it’s also the truth. I just finished them right before writing this, so I know you’re in Barcelona now. That’s in Spain, right? Ha ha, just kidding. I know it’s Spain. I bet it’s pretty.

You still haven’t told me what it is you’re doing with all your globetrotting. Is that such a good idea? Maybe it’s something I can help with. Unless you’re on some evil quest to end the world, in which case I’m going to have to kick your ass. That was another joke, you know. The evil quest part. I know you’re not. Well, I hope you’re not. It’s just hard to be quippy without having you right here.

Everything’s hard. Willow is still trying to figure out how to deal with her magic booster, and now the Council has decided she needs help and are sending Wesley and one of their witches to help Giles sort it all out. At least she’s got Oz to help her be strong. You remember Oz, right? Still a werewolf. Still playing guitar. Not at the same time, of course, because of the whole claw issue not to mention the fact that he’d more likely to smash it than play it.

Xander freaked out on me today about you. I’d never told him everything that happened this summer and Willow let it slip that I’d been in contact with you. I still haven’t told him. I don’t know how. He hates vampires so much, and you’re probably second on his master list of vampires he’d like to personally stake. You know, because of that whole kidnapping thing with the factory when Cordelia got hurt.

Did you know someone actually bought the factory and turned it into a club? It’s still called the Factory, though, and they were really stingy on the decorating budget, but it’s kind of cool in a techno kind of way. And loud. God, that makes me sound like my Mom, doesn’t it? I’m not old, honest. There really is an eighteen-year-old college student inside this Slayer package. But apparently, her ears aren’t exactly what they used to be.

I wasn’t going to ask, but wanting to know is killing me here so I’m just going to come out and do it. You’ve mentioned a couple times in your letters something about a “we.” Whatever it is you’re doing, are you doing it with someone else? And that really, really, really sounds like me being a nagging girlfriend, doesn’t it? It’s not how I mean. It’s just you’ve never been big with the teamwork and the only person I know you’ve spent a lot of time with was Drusilla and no, that doesn’t mean I think you’re back with her but I can’t for the life of me figure out who this other mysterious person is or why it’s so important for you not to tell me who it is. I’m not making any sense. If I hadn’t written so much already, I’d start over and leave this whole paragraph out, but this is taking me way too long already. I just wanted this letter to be a good one.

So, never mind. Forget I asked. I know you’ll tell me when the time is right.

Your letters meant a lot to me. I’m sorry I took so long to read them. That won’t happen any more.

OK, I think I’m starting to babble now which is usually a pretty good sign to cut me off. You’re not the only one who can ramble, I guess.

Writing this was good. I’m glad I did it. I hope you like it.

I still miss you.

Buffy

PS: Thank you for the bracelet. It’s beautiful.

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

She stared at the page in front of her, trying to ignore the scattered remains of her first efforts balled up around the desk. It seemed so pitiful compared to the eloquence of Spike’s letters. Babbling about the Factory? How lame was that? And the whole section about wondering who he was traveling with made her sound like some psycho girlfriend. Spike already had had one of those; he didn’t need another.

Buffy froze.

Had she really thought of herself as his girlfriend?

She hadn’t meant to. She didn’t think of herself like that. She couldn’t. The only non-antagonistic time she and Spike had spent together had been that night on the banks before she left London.

And the hours she’d spent reading his letters.

And the weeks when he was alive and William.

Buffy swallowed, her throat suddenly too dry. Her fingers were shaking again as she folded the paper and stuffed it inside an envelope. Don’t think, she told herself. Just do. Get the letter mailed, and let the rest of it fix itself.

She just wasn’t sure what exactly was broken.

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

He was late. A flat tire near the college campus had delayed his arrival by nearly three hours, and he was certain that Giles would look at him quite askance for his tardiness. After all his arguments about being a necessary ingredient to their Scooby meeting, Wesley was convinced he was going to look quite the prat for now failing to make their arranged appointment, all excuses aside. This was not how he wanted this endeavor to begin.

It wasn’t as if he was attempting to regain favor with the Council by taking on this consultancy for them. Mr. Travers had made it perfectly clear that this was a one-time assignment and that there would be no offer of a permanent position following its completion.

“Your prior conduct is still an affront and disappointment to many of the Council members,” the Head had said.

Translation: Your prior conduct embarrasses your father and his opinion still matters to anyone who might approve your reinstatement to the ranks.

“Miss Rosenberg’s cooperation was less than ideal when she was here,” Travers had added. “It’s our opinion that she will respond more positively to someone with whom she is familiar.”

Translation: Miss Rosenberg isn’t threatened by you. You are entirely innocuous.

“I’m sending Esme out to assist you. She’s completely harmless without her magic, but should you find her behavior suspect in any way, I trust that you’ll take the appropriate action.”

Translation: We don’t trust even this most simple of tasks to just your expertise.

There had been other information---instruction on how Giles would likely be threatened by Esme and to keep them separate as much as possible, the story of Buffy’s encounter with the turned Slayer and the surprise assistance from William the Bloody---but Wesley had merely filed it away for reference.

He hadn’t accepted the assignment because of any allegiance to the Council; his demon hunting throughout the American southwest for the past month had helped him take small steps in regaining his independence. Nor had he taken it for fear of what his father might do or say should he turn it down, though certainly, if he excelled at this particular task, it would likely ease his relations with both of his parents.

No, he took it for a much more personal reason, one that he didn’t voice out loud to the Council Head when he accepted the position. His less than exemplary performance during the graduation ceremony made Wesley itch to make restitution with the Slayer and her friends. If his guidance could help Willow better control her magic and turn her into a valuable asset for the Council and the fight against evil, it would be a worthy step in redressing his failures.

The motorcycle rumbled to a halt in front of the block of flats, and he kicked the stand down before casting an eye toward Giles’. In spite of his calm exterior, his stomach was aflutter at the thought of standing before Buffy and the others as a representative of the Council again. Her disdain for their authority would taint their communications, just as it had affected his attempts to be her Watcher the previous year. In hindsight, he was relieved that Giles had demanded telling them of Wesley’s renewed involvement in their affairs prior to his arrival. Hopefully, it would prove a slight balm to the ruffling that was bound to occur when he knocked.

He took an extra moment outside of the flat door to compose his appearance. Setting his helmet aside, Wesley pulled at the bottom hem of his leather coat, trying to remove some of the extra creases that invariably appeared when he rode. The insides of his thighs burned from where the trousers chafed, and he squirmed to try and loosen the material from his skin. I must remember to get some baby powder tonight, he thought with a grimace.

The door opened before he could knock, catching him in an awkward, bow-legged stance.

Willow’s eyes met his for only a moment before flickering down to note his ungainly position, impelling the heat from his legs to somehow migrate to Wesley’s cheeks when her brows lifted. “I guess we know why you were just standing out here for so long,” she said, and then her gaze swept over him again. “I think.”

Pulling himself up to his full height, Wesley held his head high as he smiled down at her, false and so difficult to maintain when all he could consider was turning on his heel and running for his bike. “It’s good to see you, Willow,” he said, ignoring her observation. “You’re looking remarkably well.”

There was a hint of sadness in her smile, and Wesley could’ve sworn he saw a shade being pulled behind the welcome in her eyes. “You mean, considering the fact that I’ve been pumped chock full of mystery magic and nobody knows if I’m going to end the world or turn into fairy dust?” she said.

“Well, yes.” This was already so far off how he’d conceived this meeting going, Wesley could only sigh as his body sagged. “My apologies for being so late.”

He was halfway over the threshold when Willow’s hand fluttered to his forearm. “Is that yours?” she asked with more than a touch of surprise, pointing to the shrub by the door.

The remainder of his bravado dissipated as he retrieved his helmet and followed her into the flat. He’d been a fool to accept Mr. Travers’ proposal. Everything Wesley attempted exploded into a nightmarish concoction of embarrassment, pain, and humiliation, and he’d been foolish to consider that this time might be different. Facing Buffy and her squadron of critical allies for the duration of the afternoon was going to be interminable now.

“You’re late,” Giles said. He was standing inside his kitchen, reaching for something unseen in one of the cupboards. “Don’t tell me you lost my directions again.”

“No, I had a…flat tire…” Wesley’s voice faded away as he surveyed the nearly empty room. With the exception of Willow returning to where she’d been surrounded by books on the couch, there was no one else present, and his brows drew together behind his glasses. “Where is everyone?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Willow looked confused by the question. “Who are you expecting?”

“Well, Buffy. And Xander. And Cordelia, perhaps?”

Giles emerged from the kitchen carrying two cups of steaming tea. “Buffy wasn’t feeling well,” he said, handing a cup to Wesley. “She returned to her dorm.”

“And Xander had to go to work,” Willow chimed in. “As for Cordelia, well, she moved to LA this summer, so unless you called her to let her know you wanted her around, I don’t think she’s going to show.”

“Oh.”

“You seem surprised,” Giles observed.

“Yes, I thought---.”

“This will be difficult enough,” the other Watcher continued. “Willow and I both agree that it would be unnecessary to include the others at this juncture.”

“I even volunteered to step out at this point,” the young woman joked half-heartedly. “But Giles was of the opinion that maybe that might be taking it too far.”

It was the first positive note he’d heard since he’d pulled up in front of the building. Regaining a small measure of his confidence, Wesley nodded in concession, and set his helmet aside. “That seems to be a reasonable conclusion,” he said.

Giles’ eyes darted to the closed door. “Travers said you would be accompanied by one of the coven’s witches,” he commented.

Carefully, Wesley settled on the chair opposite the couch, trying not to wince as the leather trousers rubbed along his thighs. “She is en route. She won’t be joining us for a few days.”

“Did you have any thoughts as to how you wanted to proceed?”

He took the senior Watcher’s inquiry as an unspoken acquiescence to Wesley’s authority, and the tension began to ease from Wesley’s limbs. He took his time in answering, sipping at the hot tea Giles had given him, and then looking at the two waiting with a small smile.

“I’d rather hoped we could just take today to get reacquainted. A great deal has happened since we last saw each other, don’t you think?”

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

The envelope was thicker than normal, and Spike eyed it dubiously as he leaned back in his chair. Throughout the discourse of his letter, his temper had soothed to more manageable levels, but it was the extent of what he’d said that made him now pause. Up to this point, he’d deliberately chosen to keep his activities as mum as possible; fantasies about the look of delight on Buffy’s face when he presented her with the weapons and power she could use to be the longest surviving Slayer had fuelled his silence since the beginning. The discovery of Rose’s death, though, made continuing such a charade seem irrelevant.

He’d used four sheets of paper detailing everything he had dreamed about finding, how he’d hoped Rose could give that power to Buffy, and how it was now being yanked from him after all his hard work. He’d just needed to flush his system of all the anxiety and frustration, and spilling the story to his Slayer seemed the best way. But was it? Would she understand his fears of failure or would she condemn him yet again for being a washout as a vampire?

As he contemplated the wisdom of actually posting his letter, Spike’s eyes drifted to the long, thin box that rested next to his writing supplies. He hadn’t checked it today for word from Buffy; in his rush, it hadn’t occurred to him to try. The desire to even do so had waned with each passing day; every day it was empty was another day Buffy wasn’t speaking to him, and he was beginning to loathe the anger that ballooned with each brush-off.

But he couldn’t just stop. To stop meant to give up hope. And he wasn’t ready to do that, no matter how mad she made him.

Pushing the envelope aside, Spike opened the top drawer of the desk and took out a slim silver rod. The light from the lamp glinted off the metal as he slipped it into the carved hole at the front of the box, and he rotated it three times in the lock before feeling the resistance yield to the enchantment. With a soft click, the wooden top lifted, and Spike’s gaze flitted to the box’s dark interior.

If his heart still functioned, it would’ve stopped.

It was crumpled, and one corner had been bent and pressed back flat, but as Spike lifted it out of its confines, the envelope seemed like the most perfect thing in the world to him. Well, second most. He didn’t even care if he opened it and found a Dear John inside. Buffy had written him. That meant she had read his letters.

Though his instincts screamed at him to tear the envelope open, Spike held firm, sliding his index finger beneath the seal that hadn’t quite caught at the corners, and pulled out the single sheet of paper it contained. Slowly, he unfolded it.

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

She jumped when the pounding started at her door.

“Lydia! Lydia, get your uptight ass out here before I bloody well break this door down!”

A shouting Spike was not an unfamiliar occurrence in their travels, but there was something different in the timbre of his voice, an exultation that only came when they’d discovered a new development in their search or when he’d dispatched a particularly nasty demon. It automatically drove her to her feet, and as she strode to her door, she couldn’t help but wonder what revelation he had reached while composing his letter to Buffy.

He was doing circuits around the sitting room, his hands in constant motion as he muttered under his breath. The instant he heard Lydia’s door open, though, Spike broke from his pattern, rushing forward to grasp her head between his hands, pull her to him, and bestow a resounding kiss on her lips.

“I knew it!” he exclaimed upon releasing her only a moment later. “I bloody well knew it!”

Lydia’s fingers rose to her mouth as she watched him resume his pacing. That had certainly never happened before. “Knew what?” she queried in confusion.

“She loves me! Took her long enough to come around, but I knew she couldn’t forget. Nobody could forget something so fucking amazing.”

The slight moment of elation faded as understanding dawned. “Are you referring to Buffy?” Lydia asked carefully.

“Like there’s anybody else who bloody matters.” With a triumphant flourish, Spike pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and shoved it in her hands before stalking over to the box she’d brought from Rose’s house. He continued to speak as he started throwing everything back inside it.

“Need to pack your bags, pet. I don’t know when the next plane’s scheduled, but I’m planning on bein’ on it, even if it means I’m tucked away all safe and sound in the farthest corner of the hold. You just better have all our paperwork still in order.”

Lydia’s eyes skimmed the few sentences on the paper, her frown deepening as she read it through a second time more carefully. “William,” she began, and then paused. Perhaps it wouldn’t be prudent to argue with him when he was in such a manic state.

Too late. He’d picked up on her hesitation. “What?”

Her gaze danced between the note---because really, three sentences was far too short to constitute a letter---and the energized vampire. “She doesn’t…actually…say she loves you.”

The paper was snatched from her hands before she could react, and she stiffened in the face of a scowling Spike. “She does,” he insisted. He held it up so that the words were visible to her, like an eye chart he was determined she was going to read. “She misses me. She soddin’ asked me to come back. That’s Slayer-speak for ‘I love you.’” He snorted. “And here I thought you were so fucking smart.”

“And you…wish to go? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Of course, I bloody wish to go! Don’t have any purpose here any more, do I? Rose is dead, the tosser who killed her skipped town, and all I’m doin’ is spinning my wheels.” He shoved the note back into his pocket before returning to the seer’s belongings. “Buffy wants me in Sunnydale, I’m goin’ to Sunnydale. End of discussion.”

She couldn’t move as she watched him finish with the box, her muscles rigid, her blood cold. This wasn’t what had been planned, but Lydia wasn’t so foolish to think that she could actually stop William when he was this agitated. Her only hope was to mitigate some of the damage.

“There’s more you should know,” she said, as calmly as she could manage.

He was halfway to his room when he stopped to regard her. “What more?” William asked, his eyes narrowing. “What do you know about Buffy that I don’t?”

“It’s not about her. It’s about…Sunnydale.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

Lydia swallowed. “Earlier, I told you Baltozar was gone, but you didn’t allow me to tell you the most important part. In my attempts to discover where it was he’d fled, I learned he’d purchased tickets for a flight to the United States. Specifically, to Los Angeles.” Her chin lifted. “It’s my belief he’s headed for the Hellmouth.”

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

Even though they had just patrolled it two nights earlier, Willow didn’t ask any questions as she followed the Slayer through the heavy iron gates of Restfield Cemetery. Buffy’s relief in the reprieve was almost palpable. It was a break in her usual pattern, but how could she explain the sudden urge without revealing the contents of Spike’s letter? Not that she was going to sit and read it like he’d described. She hadn’t even brought it with her. But the image had stuck in Buffy’s head, and her feet seemed to have a mind of their own the moment they’d left the dorm.

The sky was clear, the moon nearly full as it gleamed against the star-studded midnight. A slight breeze broke the stillness of the heat, and it was just enough to keep the sheen from the girls’ skin as they began to walk among the headstones.

“So, how’d it go this afternoon?” Buffy asked. She couldn’t stand the silence any longer. She’d asked Willow to come patrol with her specifically in hopes of talking about the situation with Spike, but ever since they had left campus, both young women had been lost in her own thoughts. “Is Wesley as stuffy as ever?”

“What would you say if I told you Wesley showed up on a motorcycle, dressed in leather, looking like Joe Cool?” Willow said with a mischievous grin.

Buffy’s jaw dropped. “Get out of here!”

“Well, it was more Easy Rider meets Gomer Pyle via Upstairs Downstairs, but yeah, that was the big entrance.”

“I guess getting fired agrees with him, then.”

Willow shrugged, and her smile faded slightly. “Maybe not so much, but…I’ll let you be the judge of that when you get to see him.”

They strolled along the grass for a moment before Buffy tried again. “But, did it help?” she asked. “I mean, I know what I said when we were at Giles’, but now that you’ve actually met with him, do you think it’ll make a difference?”

“I don’t know.” There was a tremulous worry that shaded her friend’s tone, and it made the Slayer frown as she glanced over. “Today wasn’t about what happened to me, or about magic, or about anything, really. We just…talked. Got to know each other again.” Her eyes met Buffy’s. “He’s changed. A lot. In some ways, no, maybe not really, but then in others…” Her voice trailing off, Willow’s gaze returned to the distance of the horizon. “I’m not making any sense.”

“No, I get it.” And she did. “A lot’s happened since graduation. To all of us.”

Another silence settled between them, although this one was welcome. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all, Buffy thought. Willow had her own problems to deal with; she didn’t need to listen to Buffy whine about not understanding what was going on in another vampire’s head. Especially a vampire who wasn’t even around.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” Willow said.

“For what?”

“For blabbing about Spike in front of Xander. I don’t know why I brought it up. I know Spike’s not a threat to you. ”

Something she said made Buffy pause. “You know?” she queried. “You didn’t seem so sure about Spike last night.”

The fraction of a second too long it took Willow to respond only deepened her confusion. “Because you said so,” the redhead said. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

“No.” But, in spite of her earlier intent, her desire to talk about Spike had waned. Willow’s reaction curdled with wrongness, like there was more that she wasn’t sharing, but Buffy was frightened of pushing her friend too hard. Though the young witch seemed like herself most of the time, at others, there was an odd fragility that had never been present before, as if her consciousness wearied of maintaining some façade, and Buffy wondered if maybe there was something Willow was hiding about her magical whammy. So instead, she changed the subject.

“Did you guys come up with some kind of plan?” she asked. She hadn’t been keen on missing the meeting with Wesley, and from the sounds of it, it had gone quite differently than anyone had imagined. Whether that was a good thing or not, remained to be seen.

“It’s not like there’s a ten-step program for magic junkies,” Willow joked.

“There’s such a thing as magic junkies? Wow. They didn’t cover that in health class.”

“And I’m not a junkie,” Willow continued. “I’m more like a sponge that’s been soaking for too long.”

“And Wesley and Giles are going to wring you out?” At her friend’s startled glance, Buffy flushed. “Sorry, that came out sounding way more sexual than I meant it to.”

“I don’t know what they have in mind. Probably nothing yet. The witch from the coven hasn’t even arrived. I think she might be the one who knows the most about how to help me.”

It was Willow’s casual bandying of the term “help” that made Buffy pause in her steps. “I’m sorry it happened to you,” she said softly. “I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve made Rose take it back. If I’d known---.”

“Stop.” For a moment, the redhead’s eyes seemed to glow, her skin suddenly translucent to reveal the shimmering network of veins beneath its surface, but just as quickly, it disappeared, and Buffy blamed it on a trick of the moonlight. “This wasn’t your fault,” she went on. “If anything, this was mine. I’m the one who came up with the version of the original spell, and I’m the one who told it to Rose. I wanted to help. And I did, remember? No more uber-powerful witch trying to recruit Slayers into doing her nasty deeds. Now, there’s just little old me. And I can’t even get you to pick up your dirty socks.”

The last was said with a smile, and it drew the same from Buffy, though mirth was the last thing she was feeling at the moment. “Still,” she said, finding the need to press the issue, “if you hadn’t gotten all tied up in trying to wake me out my tea coma---.”

“---which would’ve happened in what dimension exactly?” Willow resumed walking, her hands deep in her skirt pockets. “I know I’ve been…off, and I know you’re all worried about me, but if I have to choose between helping and taking some unknown backlash afterward, or just standing back and doing nothing because it’s the safe thing to do but someone could die, I’ll help every time, Buffy. You know that.”

“But there are consequences,” she argued. “Sometimes helping isn’t worth the risk.”

“You risk even more every time you patrol.”

“I’m the Slayer. That’s my job.”

“And what’s mine?”

“You’re research girl. You’re my brain trust.”

“But I can be more.” She turned to stop directly in front of Buffy, and again, that odd glowing seemed to overpower Willow’s eyes for a second. “Don’t you get that? Yeah, this magic thing can really bite the big one a lot of the time, but if I can turn it around into something that can really make a difference, wouldn’t that be worth it?”

“Not if it means you get hurt.”

“That’s my decision to make, don’t you think?”

She didn’t understand how the conversation had degenerated into this. For a long moment, Buffy regarded the young woman opposite without speaking. Willow wasn’t upset, but there was a resolve that permeated her muscles in a way that only happened when she was most determined. Her eyes were clear now, the only glow remaining that from the moonlight.

“Buffy,” she said, and her tone was gentler, her eyes sad, “I know I was freaked out when Giles brought up dealing with all the changes this morning, but after talking to him and Wesley…I need to do this. You have no idea. It’s been…it’s been hard, like someone’s constantly running an electrical current through me and I can’t find the plug or the switch to change it in any way.”

“You never said.”

“I know. I didn’t want anyone to worry.”

Buffy threw her arms around Willow in a huge hug, relieved when it was reciprocated. “I love you, Will. I just want you to be OK.”

“I am OK. Or I will be.” They broke apart. “Don’t tell anyone I ever said this, but I’m kind of glad the Council butted in again. I really think working with Wesley and Giles is going to make a difference.”

She smiled. “That must’ve been some conversation you guys had. And in leather. Gotta try that next time I’ve got an apocalypse to deal with.”

“You wanna see Giles in leather?”

The sudden image made Buffy’s eyes widen. “OK, maybe not.”

“And I think Wesley’s allergic or something. He kept squirming a lot today.”

“Not helping with the visuals here, Willow.”

This time when they returned to their stroll, the atmosphere was less charged, some of the tension that had been building between then dissipated from their brief conversation. It’s now or never, Buffy thought, taking a deep breath, but before she could say anything, an engine roared to life in the distance.

Both girls stopped, frowns on their faces.

“What was that?” Buffy asked.

“It sounded like a car. A big car.”

“In a graveyard? In the middle of the night?”

Neither needed to say just how wrong that really was, and Buffy broke into a run toward the sound, her feet pounding silently against the grass as the cool night air whipped tendrils of her hair around her face. Within seconds, she rounded the corner of a mausoleum and skidded to a halt when she saw a van pulling away from a pile of broken earth.

The van was dark and nondescript, but the moonlight captured the hulking forms of two men standing near the upset grave, and Buffy’s brows shot up when she recognized the general features of the man who’d spoken to her the night before. He was in the same military get-up, but with the greasepaint on his face, it was impossible to be any more specific about whether he was young or old, blond or brunette. It was him, though. Of that, she was sure.

“How many does that make?” she heard him say.

“Two,” his partner said.

GI Joe shook his head. “Orders said three. We’ll have to do another sweep.”

“We’ve done two already. This place is dead.”

“That’s because it’s a graveyard. Kind of goes with the territory.” Buffy’s voice rang out through the clearing, capturing the two men’s attention as she strolled casually forward. She watched as the second vigilante began to reach for the weapon strapped at his waist, but his wrist was grabbed by GI Joe, pushing his partner slightly behind him so that Joe was the one she faced off when she stopped twenty feet away.

“Whatcha doing?” she asked brightly. “Is it a party? Because you know, the costumes are a dead giveaway.”

“You shouldn’t be out so late,” he said, ignoring her quips. “It’s not safe after dark.”

Her smile faded at the familiarity of his words. “Are you reading from a script or something?”

Her bluntness took him aback. “Huh?”

“It’s just, those lines are getting kind of old. You should really come up with some new material or people might start thinking you’re being insincere.” Buffy tilted her head to look at the man behind GI Joe, giving him a small wave. “Hi,” she said. “Are you shy? I don’t bite. Unlike most of what you run into out here.”

“Let’s go,” the second man hissed.

Joe jerked away from his partner’s hold. “You really shouldn’t be out,” he insisted. “If you want an escort---.”

“And that would be a world of ew. Oh. Wait. You mean someone to walk me back. My bad. I’m just not used to the chivalry. It’s almost sweet, in a sexist, demeaning kind of way.”

A scream in the darkness shattered all sense of Buffy’s playfulness, and her head snapped in the sound’s direction. She didn’t need to hear it again to know who it was, and broke off into another run before it could be repeated.

It was Willow.

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

That’s it, Willow thought as her heart pounded in her chest, her legs aching from the speed she’d inflicted on them in pursuing Buffy. I’m going to slap a sticky on that girl that reminds her, I’m a superhero. I run faster than my friends.

She couldn’t see Buffy any more, but she knew which direction she’d gone, and valiantly, Willow struggled to catch up, her pace slowing with every step as her lungs began to burn. The sound of the car driving away made her falter, and her head turned in its new direction, the sudden question of whether or not the Slayer would be following it driving her to second-guess her course.

She didn’t have time to dwell on her decision. Acting on impulse, Willow’s feet veered from her path, aiming her in a straight line toward the vehicle. Either she would run into Buffy, or she’d be able to find out what happened to the car. Both results were of the good, especially if the car turned out just to be some teenagers looking for a cheap, but deadly thrill.

Something furry brushed against her ankle, and Willow squeaked as she stumbled into the grass. Her knee slammed against a hidden rock, and a bolt of pain shot down her calf. “Ow!” she cried out. Her fingers clutched at the grass as she waited out the pain, glancing down to see the small trickle of blood that was already dripping from the injury. “Great,” she muttered. “And here I thought college girls didn’t get skinned knees any more. Silly me.”

Struggling to her feet, Willow winced when she put her weight back onto her leg. No more running for her, she thought as she bent over to examine the wound. She’d be lucky if she made it to the dorm without begging Buffy to carry her.

She heard the growl too late, red hair whipping around just in time to see the Metallica t-shirt and torn blue jeans of the attacking vampire before it knocked her back to the grass. The scream was torn from her throat, reason disappearing as it was replaced by instinct. Clawing and scratching at her assailant, she fought in desperate fervor to free herself from his grasp.

His breath was rancid, and Willow grimaced as she saw what looked like skin caught between the vampire’s teeth. “You’re supposed to brush after every meal!” she said, twisting and turning to try and get away. “Just because you’re a demon doesn’t mean you have to give up on personal hygiene!”

Her knee was throbbing, but the pain was inconsequential next to the rising panic in her throat when she misgauged one of the vampire’s lunges and inadvertently bared her neck to his bite. “No!” she screamed when she felt the fangs break through her skin. Electricity surged through Willow’s veins, and in the next moment, the world went red.

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

She felt the heat first. Like individual pokers stabbing into her bare arms.

Then…came the blinding flash. The one that burned her retinas and made Buffy yelp as her sight abandoned her.

She stopped, long enough to squeeze her eyelids shut in a vain attempt to will her vision back. When they re-opened, though, crimson dots still danced wherever the Slayer looked, disorienting her too much to do more than stumble forward in the vague direction from which the flash had come.

Willow’s crumpled form was a blur, but as Buffy approached, the edges around her friend sharpened in blood-dark relief. The witch’s hand was pressed to her neck, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath, and the unmistakable aroma of vampire dust hung in the air.

“Willow!” she cried out. She crouched at her friend’s side, but hesitated to touch, the distinctive crackle of energy making the hair on Buffy’s arms stand on end. “What happened? Are you all right?”

Slowly, Willow lifted her head, revealing dust-smudged cheeks and scorch marks down the front of her top. “Vampire go poof,” she said faintly.

She wasn’t moving from her hunched position, so Buffy reached out and peeled the fingers away from her friend’s neck. Blood had dripped between the appendages, but as the hand fell limply to the ground, it exposed an expanse of smooth skin, unbroken by anything remotely teeth-shaped.

“Well, at least it didn’t bite you,” she said. Her eyes returned to Willow’s, unable to hide the confusion from her drawn brows. “But…where’d the blood come from?”

“I…I…” But she couldn’t speak, and before Buffy could stop her, she’d collapsed to the grass.

Scooping Willow into her arms, she paused to look around as she straightened. Vampire dust shadowed the ground, patches of the grass burned away, and when she looked back in the direction she’d come from, Buffy realized the vigilante military guys hadn’t bothered to follow. Or, if they had, they were well hidden by the night.

She didn’t have time to think about it. With Willow unconscious, Buffy had to get away from the cemetery before any more demons decided to show up and take advantage of the situation. She’d just have to come back in the morning and poke around to see what popped up.

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

Something startled her from a sound sleep, and Esme’s eyes shot open to stare up at the hotel room ceiling. Her body was vibrating, a wonted resonance that made her want to weep from its familiarity, but by the time consciousness had fully whet the edges of her awareness, it was gone, leaving her hollow and stricken and feeling more aged than she had since that damned seer had stolen her magic.

Tremulously, Esme pushed off the blankets and sat up, ignoring the way the room swam around her. It was just as well. Her body was still on British time, and though the digital clock on the nightstand burned a midnight hour into the darkened room, it felt like morning. There would be no more rest for her tonight. She would be a shell when the young Watcher came in the morning to fetch her to Sunnydale, but his communiqué had made it clear she wouldn’t be meeting with the young witch right away. Esme would have ample opportunity after her arrival at the Hellmouth to catch up on sleep.

The night was still, only the distant hum of Los Angeles traffic reaching into her room’s silence with thick fingers that teased and taunted. Nothing within the walls leant itself to waking her, and she couldn’t help but muse on what it was that could have stunned her so effectively from her slumber. If she didn’t know better, Esme would’ve asserted that it was magic sending frissons through her flesh, but no such power lingered in the air. It wasn’t within her, either. A small attempt to open the drapes produced nothing, and she was left with only questions and speculation.

Perhaps the Watcher will know, she thought as she reached for the television’s remote control, though she doubted he would offer anything more than a cocked eyebrow and a stern warning. She was not supposed to be utilizing magic of any sort, and if she were to let it slip that she might’ve been exposed to it beyond the realm of her aiding Willow, it was entirely possible that Quentin would insist on her return to England. That would not be good.

No, she would keep this to herself. If it was magic, it wouldn’t take Esme long to discern the cause; this was her world of expertise, after all. And if it wasn’t…

Esme sighed, not even aware of the black-and-white film she had inadvertently selected on the television. If it wasn’t magic, it was just one more indication that it was over. Perhaps this was her body’s way of telling her to give up, that it was fruitless at her age to hope to regain even a taste of the power that had been stolen from her. Perhaps it was just a bad dream, made sensory real by her lifetime pursuit of the Slayer power.

But then…perhaps it wasn’t.

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

It was past midnight, and Wesley knew he should be anywhere but still in Giles’ flat, but the prospect of returning to his empty hotel room left him empty and more than a little depressed, especially in light of the rather enjoyable day that had transpired. Though nothing had been planned and no specifics were discussed regarding Willow’s newfound powers, the trio had engaged in an afternoon of stories, filling in the gaps of the past few months while they became reacquainted for this new endeavor. After so many weeks with only himself for company, it was a relief to actually converse with those who held shared experiences, and not an anonymous someone he happened across in a bar.

Staring into the empty tumbler cradled between his hands, Wesley debated asking his host for another drink. Perhaps not the wisest choice for him to make, he reasoned. He was feeling more than a little drunk and he sincerely doubted the addition of more alcohol into his system would help ward off the thoughts he no longer seemed capable of preventing.

At the desk, Giles finished the telephone conversation he’d been conducting and returned the receiver to its cradle. “That was Buffy,” he said, returning to his seat in the chair opposite Wesley. “Something happened to Willow while they were on patrol.”

Wesley stiffened. “Is she all right?”

“She appears to be,” came the reply. Casually, Giles picked up his glass, swirling the whisky around inside and watching as the light played in the amber. “Buffy was rather vague on the details but she’s under the impression Willow set a vampire on fire and got caught in the aftershock.”

“Aftersh…she used magic?”

“That’s the portion she was unclear on. Willow fell asleep when they got back to their dorm so she wasn’t able to discern the entire story. We’ll have to speak with Willow about it in the morning.”

The news sobered Wesley even further. “She has no idea, does she?” he said, his voice low and meditative.

Giles needed no clarification; both men were thinking of only one young woman. “Of which?” Giles asked. “The extent of her own power, or the Council’s inevitable refusal to release her as an asset?”

“Both, really.” He was warm, too warm, and set aside his glass in order to push his shirt sleeves up even further. He had long ago shed his coat, but his clothing was still too restrictive, and he wished, not for the first time, that he’d never purchased the leather ensemble. “I’d forgotten how…eager Willow could be.”

“I would imagine that better serves your purposes.”

Lifting his head, Wesley met Giles’ cool gaze in the chair opposite. He had been exceedingly cordial, even accommodating, during the course of their conversations through the day, but the moment Giles had requested the younger man stay on after Willow’s departure, Wesley had known the gloves would be coming off.

“We’re not adversaries in this,” Wesley said. “We both want only what’s best for Willow.”

Snorting in disgust, Giles broke from his regard to drain the remainder of his whisky. “Just because the Council has deigned to place me back on its payroll,” he said, “does not mean I still wear blinders in regards to its less than sterling practices. I know they wish to recruit her as a resource. Travers made that abundantly clear when we were still in London.”

“That’s secondary to ensuring she can handle the power.”

“Well, of course it is. If she can’t handle it, she serves them no purpose. It doesn’t negate the fact that they want to exploit an innocent young woman.”

Wesley sighed. He couldn’t respond. It was the truth, and both of them knew it. Any protestations he might make would demean him even further in his senior’s eyes, and he too desperately needed Giles’ support in order to make this a success.

“How much do you know of what happened this summer?” Giles asked.

“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it? I’ve read all the Council’s reports, but we both know that certain details have a tendency to be excluded when it comes to Buffy and her escapades.”

“Do their reports include the fact that William the Bloody was pivotal in defeating April and Esme?”

“Of course. Lydia’s report was quite extensive in regards to his involvement, though I was unsure just how much credence I could allow it. She’s always been rather enamored with the romanticism of his tale, hasn’t she?”

“You can believe it,” Giles said. “He was there every step of the way.”

“Once Esme summoned him, you mean.”

“No, I mean he was involved from the very beginning. Though his role was a bit…passive at the start.”

Wesley’s eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to tell me?” he asked carefully.

It was a long moment of close scrutiny before Giles shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t think I will. Until you can convince me that you’re not completely Travers’ pawn and that Willow’s wellbeing is your topmost priority, I’ll leave it to Buffy’s discretion to fill you in on the details regarding Spike. I can warn you, though, that you should be prepared to contend with him firsthand. I know you’ve had some direct experience with vampires because of our arrangements last year with Angel, but I assure you, Spike is not Angel.”

“I wasn’t aware he was in Sunnydale.”

“He’s not. He’s in Barcelona with Lydia. Though it’s entirely possible they’re on a plane to Los Angeles, even as we speak.”

He gaped, incredulous. “With Lydia? What…why…how on earth do you know any of this?”

Rising from his chair, Giles crossed to the desk where the whisky bottle sat and poured out another shot. He downed it in a single swallow before replying.

“Who do you think asked her to keep an eye on Spike in the first place?”

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

He slept. Though Lydia had pulled the necessary strings to grant him some privacy in the hold without being treated as luggage, Spike was taking advantage of the soothing dark and the gentle vibrations of the airplane’s engines to get some well-deserved rest. She had offered to keep him company, her excuses regarding his need for special care due to his “skin allergy” garnering her extra favor with the staff for some inexplicable reason, but he had turned her down. She was the wrong blonde.

The only one he wanted occupying his thoughts at the moment was Buffy.

Her letter was folded carefully and tucked into his front pocket where he could pull it out whenever he wanted to look it over. Somewhere, deep inside his heart, there was a small part of Spike that had been convinced it was over. She isn’t writing for a reason, it whispered in the darkest corners of the night. She doesn’t want you. But her note disproved that, sent the doubt scattering like ash in the wind, and he was going to cling to Buffy’s simple request until his nails tore and bled and were no more.

It was a relief, almost. Like a window had been unexpectedly opened when he’d been convinced the last was shuttered against him. He wasn’t proud to be returning without the results of his quest, but in light of Lydia’s avowal regarding Baltozar’s movements, Spike believed it to be for the best.

Whatever Baltozar’s motives, Spike was prepared to protect Buffy from them, to follow Rose’s request and be at the Slayer’s side. He didn’t pretend to understand why, but there would be time enough for answers later.

So for now, he slept.

And while he rested, Spike dreamed of his life to come.

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

She was late, but as Buffy quickened her step toward the cemetery, the explanations---OK, excuses, but Xander and Oz were the last two people on this earth to sit in judgment on her tardiness---tumbled around inside her head, fighting for the grand prize of her accountability in showing up more than an hour later than had been agreed on the phone that morning. Well, actually, it wasn’t much of a fight. If anything, each of the reasons was just half-heartedly girly-slapping at another while she tried to decide which tack to take.

“Sorry, guys, but you know that bug I had yesterday? Back. My breakfast is currently doing the back stroke on its way to the Pacific.”

“I know Willow was supposed to come with, but believe it or not, she’s still out for the count and I was just sticking around to see if she was going to snap out of her Sleeping Beauty-ness.”

“The mail doesn’t show up at the dorms until ten, and I had to wait for it so that I could get Spike’s latest letter. I know it’s Sunday. I forgot, OK?”

Even if they were all true, none of them were any good. Mention of being sick would elicit more condescending worry when really, she was feeling much better now. If she used Willow as the excuse, Oz was going to freak out in his non-freaking out way and probably abandon the recon she wanted to do and she’d lose her second biggest asset in the search. And as for hanging around for word from Spike without realizing that it wasn’t going to show…after the previous day’s exhibition, there was no way Buffy was ready to try and explain that one to Xander.

As she rounded the corner, she saw both young men lounging around the cemetery’s front gates and affected her widest smile as she approached. Their joking conversation halted on her arrival, and she did her best to ignore the puzzled glances both of them cast behind her.

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” she said brightly as she pulled open the gate. “With the kind of day I’ve been having, it would’ve served me right if you guys had bailed and just gone on home.”

“Not to be the master of the obvious,” Xander said, “but aren’t you minus one redhead?”

“Yeah,” said Oz. “Where’s Willow?”

They were both waiting on the exterior of the gate, and Buffy steeled herself to turn around and face them. “Back at the dorm. She’s still asleep.”

Xander frowned, glancing at his watch. “What’s wrong? It’s almost noon. Don’t tell me her Hello Kitty alarm clock is broken again.”

“No, I just decided she was better off catching up on her rest. We don’t really need her to look around anyway, and between patrolling with me last night and going to the Factory on Friday, she can use every second of shuteye she can get before classes tomorrow. She’s already got a test, I think.”

It was only half-true. She might still be asleep, but all attempts to wake Willow had been completely ineffective. Short of throwing cold water over her head, it didn’t look like she would be ready to get up for hours yet, and Buffy had decided to just let nature run its course. She’d tried reaching Giles to see what he thought about the matter, but there had been no answer at his apartment. That left the decision to leave entirely in Buffy’s hands. It hadn’t been easy.

Oz just nodded. “If she’s got a test, she’s going to want to study, too,” he said.

“That crazy little whizkid,” Xander said, shaking his head. “What will she try next.” He took the few steps forward to stop at Buffy’s side, his dark gaze twisting to survey the deceptively placid greenery of the graveyard. “So lead on, MacSlayer. Didn’t you say something about a vigilante group to track down?”

As she led them toward the spot where she’d spotted the van the night before, Buffy tamped down the guilt that threatened to loosen her tongue. Neither guy thought for a second that she was lying, or even coloring the truth in her favor. What would they think if they discovered the truth?

And then there was the whole Spike issue with Xander. So far, he hadn’t brought it up, but as she repeated the story about running across the commandos again, Buffy couldn’t help but notice that every once in a while, Xander would look at her with a thoughtful, assessing gaze, like there was something he wanted to say but didn’t know how to go about saying it. Would it be better if she brought it up? Maybe if she took the first step, it wouldn’t necessarily be one that led over a cliff.

Then again, waiting until she had Willow for back-up might be better. Willow didn’t think Spike was a threat; she’d witnessed much of his behavior over the summer firsthand. If anyone could vouch for him, she was the one. Plus, there was the bonus in being the one person Xander trusted most in this world. If Spike had the Willow stamp of approval, Xander could quite likely fall into line behind her. Eventually.

That settled it then. She would wait. And she’d make sure she had pizza on the side as bribery when it happened.

The trio came to a stop at the foot of the grave Buffy had seen the van driving away from. The soil was broken where a vampire had obviously risen, but as she scanned the ground, Buffy frowned. “Am I the only one who doesn’t see vamp dust?” she asked.

“You sure this is where it all went down?” asked Xander.

“Positive.”

They turned their heads to see where Oz had wandered away, his gaze intent on the ground as he crouched to look at it more closely. “Tire tracks,” he said. “The grass is smashed, and there’s a pretty good impression where the ground’s soft. It’s fairly deep, too. Could’ve easily been a van.”

“People use vans to haul things,” Buffy said. “Like non-dusty vampires.”

“But that’s stupid,” Xander interjected. “Why would anyone try and capture vampires when they could just kill them and get rid of the threat? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Hence the fact-finding mission. To make sense of the non-sensical.”

Oz straightened from where he’d been examining the grass, something metallic in his hands. “Hey, guys,” he said, holding out the object. “Any idea what this might be?”

Xander took it and turned it over. “Looks like some kind of communicator device.” He pressed a button on the side and a small red light began blinking on the console. “One of your military guys must’ve dropped it last night.”

“Looks pretty high-tech,” Oz said.

“Wow, I guess you were right about the funding.” Buffy took it from Xander and began playing with the knobs. “Maybe they’ll come back for it. We could probably use it as bait. Try to corner one of the guys and make him talk about what exactly they’re doing.”

“Is it just me or is this whole commando thing starting to look just a little too much like a Van Damme movie?” Xander said. He assumed an exaggerated pose, using his finger as a pretend gun and mimicking aiming it at a target. “Halt! In the name of bad acting everywhere, I order you to put those fangs away!”

“That’s actually scarier than thinking it’s just a fancy walkie-talkie,” Oz commented dryly.

“Maybe Giles can figure it out,” Buffy said.

“Because the fact that he still can’t figure out how to turn on his computer without Willow’s help means absolutely nothing.” Xander shook his head. “This is Will’s territory. If anyone can crack it, she can.”

“I could come back and see if anyone shows up,” Oz offered. “I’m going to be out this way tonight anyway.”

“How come?”

“I’ve got new chains. Since tomorrow’s the full moon, I want to make sure everything’s in place. I can take the first shift, no problem.”

Buffy nodded. “We’ll go with that. This looks way too important for someone to just forget about. And I haven’t seen them in the daytime yet, so odds are good they won’t come back until evening or later anyway. That camouflage paint they wear is probably just a little too obvious by the light of day.” She walked over to the tread marks. “Let’s follow these as far as we can. Maybe we’ll find something else.”

The three marched off, silent as all eyes stayed alert on the ground and their surroundings. At one point, the tire tracks disappeared when they hit a path, but Buffy darted up ahead and found the trail again, veering off toward the part of the cemetery where she had found Willow.

“Wait,” Oz said, after they’d walked another hundred yards. He sniffed at the air, his gaze sliding to the left to stare into the distance. “You said Willow got attacked?”

Buffy nodded. She’d been vague on the details, primarily because the ones she had didn’t make too much sense until Willow woke up and clarified them for her. But she’d never expected Oz to bring the issue up unsolicited.

“You didn’t tell us she got hurt.”

Her eyes widened. “How’d you know that?”

He sniffed again, as if to confirm his next statements. “I can smell her blood. Not a lot, but…it’s there.”

“She fell. When she was being chased. Her tights were ripped, so she probably skinned her knee.” She didn’t want to bring up the blood that had been on Willow’s hands, or the fact that the witch had been clutching at her neck like she’d been bitten. As Buffy had been washing away the blood before putting her friend to bed, she couldn’t help but wonder just how it had gotten there. It was a question that still waited for Willow to answer.

Oz seemed unsure of the response, but after a moment, just shrugged. “That must be it,” he said, and resumed walking along the trail. He didn’t say another word, not even when the tire tracks merged with the concrete of the road out of the graveyard.

“I think this is our usual dead end,” Buffy said. “No way can we follow what we can’t see.”

“But at least it wasn’t for nothing.” Xander gestured toward the device she still carried. “That looks like a bona fide lead to me.”

She played with the buttons on it again, this time causing the little red light to go out. “I just hope Willow can tell us how it works.” She looked to Oz. “Is eleven OK to relieve you? That gives me time for a quick patrol before I park my caboose for the night.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

With promises to meet up the next day after classes, the three parted ways, and Buffy began rambling back toward the dug-up grave alone. Not one word from Xander about Spike. Had he forgotten the subject already? Somehow, she doubted it. The topic had an insidious way of showing up at the most inopportune moments.

Her stomach clenched, and for a moment, Buffy thought she was going to throw up again. Maybe it was the school food that was getting to her so badly, she mused as she walked. Why else would her stomach be so sensitive lately?

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

The moment they lost audio, she leaned back in her chair. Her watery blue eyes were thoughtful as they fixed on the blank monitors, and her voice was even when she finally spoke.

“Get me Riley Finn,” she ordered the young man who stood at attention behind her. “I have a special assignment I’m going to need him to handle.”

It wasn’t until they were alone that the lab-coated man at her side spoke up. “What’re you planning?” he asked. “You’re not seriously considering setting off their trap?”

“I’m considering it, and more,” she replied. Rising to her feet, she began walking toward her office, her sensible shoes echoing against the concrete floor in the cavernous stronghold. She didn’t wait for the man to join her; she knew without having to look behind that he would be on her trail.

“Close the door,” she instructed when he followed her into her office. The hinges squeaked as he did so, prompting her to visibly react for the first time since listening in on the conversation in the graveyard. “Remind me to have maintenance come up and fix that,” she said with a frown.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do you plan on playing Twenty Questions, Maggie?” His voice was irritable, his expression more so. “Frankly, I have better things I could be doing with my time.”

“This will be worth it.” Extracting a thick folder from a tall filing cabinet, Maggie carried it behind her desk, opening it as she sat down. “I would suggest you get a special examination room ready, Gil. You’re going to need one after Riley completes the mission I give him.”

“What for?”

The room was silent for several minutes while she flicked through the pages of her file. Her patience was one of Maggie Walsh’s greatest attributes within the organization. It fuelled her brilliance and made her research all that more fruitful, because, unlike her colleagues who failed to persevere, she was willing to wait for the results that could likely change the entire world order. It gave her vision where others lacked, and it had made the entire move of their operations to the Hellmouth possible, because her superiors were smart enough to give her leeway when she felt circumstances demanded it.

“How would you like to study a werewolf?” she finally said, sliding the open file across her desk toward him.

Gil glanced down at the page she’d indicated, scanning the terse column of statistics with a frown. “We haven’t been able to locate one,” he replied.

“Yes, we have.”

“All the preliminary scouting reports said there was evidence of werewolf activity on the Hellmouth but no physical links could be found to find it.”

“Until now. Riley is going to bring you back your werewolf tonight. Well, he’ll be an actual werewolf tomorrow night, but you get the idea.”

Gil’s unspoken disbelief made Maggie want to sigh aloud in disgust. It amazed her how short-sighted so many of her staff really were, but that was an unfortunate symptom of most government workers, she’d long ago discovered. Only explaining what to her was so obvious could get through to many of them.

“Did you actually listen to the young people when they turned on the transceiver?” she asked. She already knew the answer, and didn’t wait for a reply. “The young man who’s coming back made a point of mentioning that tomorrow is the full moon. Combine that with his tracking the scent of blood, and I believe we’ve found our werewolf.”

“That’s…an awfully large leap you’re making there, don’t you think?”

“Leaping is what I do best. It got us here, didn’t it?”

“And that’s another thing. I thought the whole purpose in moving base to the Sunnydale was because of the artifacts. Don’t tell me you’ve changed our mission objective.”

“Our objective is, and always has been, to gain whatever information and tools we can in order to eradicate the threat of HST’s. That has hardly changed. It doesn’t matter if the method is studying a werewolf or seeking weapons to forge in our fight. It would be wise for you not to forget that.”

The first smart thing he’d done since listening to the graveyard conversation was hold his tongue. Merely nodding, Gil rose to his feet and crossed to the door, only hesitating when he reached its threshold. “The room will be ready,” he said.

Giving him a curt nod, Maggie contained her sigh until she was alone, shaking her head upon his absence. She was surrounded by fools. It would be a joyous day when they found the artifacts and she could leave the Hellmouth. She was finding its smalltown mentality unexpectedly contagious among her staff. A change of location was necessary to shake them from their lassitude.

Hopefully, the capture of the werewolf would prove a valuable distraction in the interim.

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

She knocked at the door one last time, but even as she did so, Willow knew the response was going to be the same. Nobody was home. She’d picked the one day it looked like Giles might actually have a life to show up unannounced on his doorstep.

If she’d known where Wesley was staying, she would’ve called him, but that was a detail Willow had forgotten to have filled in during their conversations the previous day. I’ll have to fix that, she thought as she turned away from the door. If he’s going to be around to help me, it might help if I can actually find him when I need him.

She’d woken to an empty dorm room, the silence shattering. The details of the vamp attack were razor-keen in her mind’s eye, and rising to the sunny light of day had only cemented them in her consciousness.

The fangs descending as he leaned to bite her.

The fire that had burned through her veins the moment she felt the fragile skin of her neck tear.

The raw scour of her throat as her screams had cracked the night.

One of the first things Willow spied upon sitting up in her bed was the scorched remnant of her top folded carefully over the back of her desk chair. She could still feel the fire that had leapt from her flesh, the flames that had incinerated the vampire, taking both of them by surprise as he burst into ash. Yet, when she peeked beneath the covers to look at her chest, she wasn’t surprised by the complete lackage of burns. As quickly as she’d become the vamp’s pyre, as soon as the deed was done, all fire was gone, leaving behind only the sooty reminder on her clothing.

Tentatively, she’d risen and crossed to her full-length mirror, bracing herself for what she would discover. It was the absence of what she wanted to find that had driven her to Giles’ aid. Though she knew for a fact that the vampire had bitten her, and though she had the proof of her fall evidenced by the nasty tear in her tights, Willow’s body remained completely unmarked. It was as if she’d never been hurt in the first place.

And she knew the reason for it.

And it terrified her beyond belief that the magic would leap to defend her so primitively.

Giles had to know. As much as she’d kept hidden from him about the other, this was too large on the freaky scale to tuck away into the corner of her closet and pretend wasn’t an issue. He had to be made aware of just how out of control the magic really was. She couldn’t do this alone. She couldn’t handle this kind of raw energy at her fingertips, no matter what she said to Buffy about wanting to help.

She needed him.

Or Wesley.

And neither of them were around.

She wanted to cry.

Taking a deep breath, Willow quelled the rising instinct to sob and focused her thoughts on what to do next. Buffy was out, probably doing something Slayer-y. She could call Xander, but other than give her a shoulder to cry on, she didn’t know what else he could do.

Oz. She’d go see Oz. He always seemed to know just what it was she needed. And he’d be able to keep her grounded until Giles got back from wherever he was. That was one of the things he did best.

With her new plan firmly in mind, Willow began walking through the courtyard to head for Oz’s place. She almost didn’t notice the tall woman who walked past her, but when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the same stranger knocking on Giles’ door, she stopped.

“He’s not home,” she called out.

The woman jerked, her lean body silently alerting as if Willow’s voice was a sniper bullet. Her head whipped around as she searched for the source, and Willow shrank at the dangerous glint she could spy in the woman’s eyes, even at that distance.

“You know Rupert Giles?”

The woman’s voice was accented, but Willow couldn’t place where it might be from. Already wishing she’d kept her mouth shut, Willow swallowed before replying, “I just tried knocking, too. He must be out.”

“Do you know when he’ll return?” The woman took a step closer. She was tall---boy, was she tall, someone could get a severe neck cramp trying to look up at her---and her long features were sharp with feral intelligence. “It’s important that I see him.”

“No. Are you a friend?”
“I’m a…friend of a friend.” As the woman neared, her eyes narrowed, as if she was suddenly aware of something she hadn’t been before. “You’re the witch. You’re Willow.” Her hand appeared from nowhere, fingers rigid as she offered it in greeting. “My name is Havi.”

Slowly, Willow shook her hand, and then winced from the strength that was housed in the other woman’s grip. “How do you…have we met?”

“Not formally. My…friend spoke of you. Very highly.” Havi twisted to glance back at the closed apartment door, and Willow saw the metallic studs that adorned the nape of her neck. “Are you sure you don’t know when Mr. Giles will return?”

“Positive. I can tell him you were looking for him, if you want.”

“No. That won’t be necessary. I will find him soon enough.” Brushing past, Havi took long, powerful strides to exit the courtyard, and then stopped before disappearing down the path to the street. “It was a sincere pleasure to meet you, Willow,” she said, and offered a stiff smile that looked completely alien on her strong features. “Late ignis lucere, ut nihil urat, non potest.”

Then, she was gone.

Havi’s parting words jumbled inside Willow’s head, mishing and mashing in a big Latin mess that left her fervently wishing she didn’t suck so much at the dead language. What in heck just happened here? she thought with a frown. Somehow, she had a sickening feeling that whatever Havi had shared as a last hurrah was supposed to mean something to her, but if it was so godawful important, couldn’t she at least have said it in English?

Willow shook her head, as if that would clear out some of the cobwebs that had clearly taken up residence. Well, at least she had something to do while she waited for Giles to get back. Time to hit the library to translate what Havi had told her.

And pray that Giles would be swift to return.

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

A frustrated Lydia snapped her cell phone shut, slipping it back into her purse and glancing at her watch for the fourth time since entering the customs queue. Rupert needed to be informed of her arrival in Los Angeles and yet, he was not home to be told. If she and Spike arrived in Sunnydale without appropriate warning, she held no doubt that the senior Watcher would voice his displeasure. It would likely get back to Mr. Travers as well, and all her hopes for reinstatement to the Council could be forgotten. She had to get a hold of him.

Waiting to clear customs was another headache entirely. The special treatment she’d received in Barcelona stopped as soon as she’d relinquished control of William’s care to the flight staff, and she was now being forced to go through the motions of entering the country that everyone else was. She rather missed the extra attention she inevitably gained through her association with William. Among demon circles, he was a legend, a force to be reckoned with, while among the humans combating his kind, he stood much taller than his five-feet-ten, inspiring fear and awe even amongst those who’d seen the worst.

She didn’t even want to consider what his mood was going to be like once they met up again. It had been a devastatingly long trip; William would likely be short-tempered from the lack of amenities to which he was accustomed.

A half hour later, Lydia was finally through the immigration process and scurrying to meet up with the rental company. She had hired a van to protect William from the afternoon sunlight; hopefully, the other unusual requests she had made would be filled as well. It would save them time in their travels if they didn’t have to stop for blood supplies.

Her pace slowed when she saw the airline attendant waiting with the chauffeur. The back doors of the van were thrown wide open, but there was no sign of anyone---or anything---waiting to be loaded.

“Is there a problem?” she asked as she approached.

The attendant smiled, but it was the practiced smile of one skilled in the art of appeasement. “It’s about your traveling partner,” she said.

“What about him?” Sudden visions of arriving at Rupert’s with a bagful of dust sprang into Lydia’s head. Her throat went dry, and she swallowed convulsively to bring back the moisture. Had she been so careless as to get William killed?

“He…well, I suppose there isn’t an easy way of saying this---.”

“Just say it already!”

It was unlike Lydia to lose her cool, and the sharp tone in her voice wiped the smile from the attendant’s face. “It appears he’s made other arrangements to leave the airport,” she said coolly. “I was informed that another agent assisted in him in procuring transportation. He left about fifteen minutes ago.”

While she’d been in the immigration queue. But at least he wasn’t dead, and the relief she felt at that was almost enough to counter the anxiety in having to explain this latest development to Rupert.

She already knew the answer to her next question, but she asked it anyway.

“Did William indicate where he was going?” Lydia quizzed.

“Sunnydale,” came the reply.

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

The van jolted along the highway, its suspension obviously shot as Spike jostled around in its dark hold. He probably could’ve paid for something a little more posh, but he didn’t want to run out of the money he’d nicked from Lydia’s cases before he lined up a way to replenish his stocks. He’d just settle for a few hours of bruised bum; considering where he was headed, it was a minor discomfort to stomach.

It hadn’t been completely necessary to ditch the female Watcher entirely; she’d proven more resourceful than he’d ever imagined as they’d searched for Rose. But with his feet firmly back on Californian soil, her usefulness was at an end. This was his turf. He hardly needed her to navigate his way back to Sunnydale, not after decades of moving around the globe with Dru. So, he’d taken the case with Rose’s effects, his few belongings and the bits from their travels that would prove most valuable in his new life on the Hellmouth, and he’d hightailed it out of the airport as fast as he could manage.

Besides, Spike had a sneaking suspicion that Lydia was dragging her feet in returning to Sunnydale. She’d been negative about the entire trip ever since he’d waved Buffy’s letter in her face. Jealousy, he figured, but that was her problem. Not once had he given her even a smidgeon of hope that something could develop between them. If she wanted to nurse her schoolgirl crush, that was her problem now, not his. He had a girl waiting for him to return to her side.

The clincher had been finding Buffy’s second letter in his box just before they’d landed. He’d checked it on a whim, not really expecting to find anything so quickly after the first note. But when he’d seen the envelope, and pulled out what was a real missive detailing her thoughts and life, Spike knew he was lost to her.

She’d actually apologized to him for taking so long to write. He wasn’t so blinded by his feelings not to recognize the magnitude of the gesture she was making, especially when nearly the last thing she said in the letter was that she still missed him. She didn’t bury it in the middle of her ramblings where he might overlook it. No, she put it right where he wouldn’t; that had to mean something.

What meant so much to him, though---outside of her ramblings about being jealous, which was another good reason for ditching Lydia before he stepped foot in Sunnydale---wasn’t so much what she said, but how she said it. Scattered throughout her letter, Spike felt the same tug in his gut that he remembered from William’s encounters with Buffy. She spoke of more than just the superficial. She admitted to weakness, to her days being hard, to her inability to stand up to her friend’s narrow-mindedness. This wasn’t the cocky Slayer he’d known prior to her journey to England. This was the young woman who found a confidant and lover in the shell of a scorned poet, and was attempting to find the man behind the demon now.

She may not have said the words, but there was little doubt in Spike’s mind that she loved him. Buffy was making the effort to merge their lives, and though she had no clue he was so near, he was convinced she would be pleased when he showed up. She wanted him. He wanted her. The equation seemed simple.

It was up to him to ensure it stayed that way.

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

He’d stalled for as long as he could. When Giles had called him that morning, Wesley’s brain had been too fuzzy from the whiskey they’d consumed the night previous to keep up with his direct questioning, and inadvertently found himself admitting to having to pick up Esme in Los Angeles that morning.

“On a motorcycle?” Giles had asked. “She must be one of the younger witches in the coven, then.”

“Actually, I was going to rent a car.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. I have a car. I’ll drive. It’ll allow us time to get acquainted before she meets Willow.”

And that had been that. Wesley had been trapped, and there was nothing he could do to prevent Giles from coming without rousing even further suspicion. He had sincerely hoped to delay their meeting until he’d been able to lay the groundwork that would make the encounter less fraught with hostility, but that was no longer an option apparently. He hoped that it would be like ripping off a plaster. One quick yank, and though it might sting and burn for a split second, it would be over.

It didn’t prevent him, however, from trying to delay that yank for as long as possible. He’d arrived late, and then after insisting on stopping along the way for a leisurely lunch, Wesley had feigned forgetting her hotel details, forcing Giles to wait as he pretended to call around the LA establishments trying to locate the witch. Now, though, he was out of ideas, and it was with a leadening heart that he indicated the Marriott at which Esme was staying.

“There’s no reason for you to come up,” Wesley said before Giles had even turned off the motor. He pushed open the door and clambered out of the passenger seat. “I won’t be but a minute.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Giles replied. His temper had been growing increasingly short as the day wore on, and the fact that it was now after three in the afternoon when they could’ve been back to Sunnydale already only contributed to his curt tone. “You have no idea how much luggage she might have. It’ll save time if I come with you as well.”

Wesley sighed, and just nodded his head. His eyes were pulsing from the headache his worrying and plotting had caused, and all he really wanted was to get this day over with. I must remember never to drink with Rupert again, he thought as he headed for the hotel entrance. It will never lead to anything good.

He made sure he was the first to reach her door, and deliberately angled himself so that he was mostly blocking the doorway. It was silly, he knew, but in light of how he feared Giles was going to react, it also seemed like the most self-preserving thing he could accomplish at the moment.

It opened almost before his hand had moved away, and Wesley had to drop his eyes to see the person who had answered. This was who had frightened the Council and the Slayer so? The elderly woman seemed to barely reach his chest---he imagined that she was probably four-ten at the most---and she was so slight that a heavy gust of wind would likely blow her away. Dark eyes gleamed with both annoyance and intelligence, and the wrinkled canvas of her skin was almost like tissue paper.

Her inspection of him was only cursory, however, and it was mere seconds before Esme’s gaze moved past Wesley’s shoulder. Tilting her head to afford a better view, the corner of the old witch’s mouth lifted as she said, “Well, well. I certainly didn’t expect Rupert to be the one to greet me with open arms. How is Miss Summers? Well, I hope.”

The sudden pain that shot through his chest was caused by the slam of his body against the wall, and Wesley’s cheek pressed into the musty paper as Giles pinned him at the door’s side.

“You two-faced bastard!” Giles spat, and Wesley felt the faint spray of spittle as his senior voiced his fury. “You bloody well knew about this all along!”

A strong hand squeezed his neck from behind, pushing until Wesley’s lungs were protesting from the lack of air. Before he could reply, though, a small chuckle from the doorway made both of them jerk.

“You’re not really that frightened of me, are you, Mr. Giles?” Esme’s voice was more than amused. “I’m harmless. Now, that is. Surely the fact that Miss Rosenberg is in need of my assistance is testimony to that.”

“I’m not letting you anywhere near that girl,” Giles hissed.

Though his anger was now redirected to the witch, Giles’ grip didn’t move from his hold on Wesley, though it eased just enough to make breathing a little less labored. “Rupert,” he rasped, but Esme was already answering.

“Then she’ll either go mad, or you’ll have to destroy her,” she said. “Because without me to teach her what exactly she’s capable of now, Miss Rosenberg’s control will continue to slip.”

“I can teach her what she needs to know.”

Wesley noted Giles’ definitive usage of the singular, and closed his eyes in resignation. He’d failed already. Mr. Travers would not be pleased.

“No, you can’t. Because you haven’t touched the very root of the magics she has at her fingertips, Mr. Giles. And before you try to sell me on your wild, wicked youth, just realize that you were a child, playing with forces you didn’t understand. I was one of those forces you still don’t understand. Before my magic was stolen from me.”

Inwardly, Wesley winced. If she was trying to aggravate Giles even more than her presence already was, the harshness of her tone and the mention of her magic’s “theft” would very likely finish the trick.

“You’re a threat,” Giles said. It sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth. “You tried to kill my Slayer---.”

“Correction. I saved your Slayer.”

“Only when your own life was in danger.”

“Have you asked her about her time with William?” She was completely changing tactics, this switch in subjects bringing back the casualness to her voice. “You met him, didn’t you? When he saved you from my prison. He was really a charming, erudite young man. Not nearly what I was expecting. Are you trying to tell me that giving them to each other wasn’t benevolent of me?”

The force upon Wesley’s shoulders eased even more, and he pulled away, twisting to stand back as Giles faced off with the elderly witch. Both stood undaunted, each certain of their own rights, and he realized that he truly had no idea how this was going to end up.

Even more curious was Esme’s references to “William.” Surely, she couldn’t mean William the Bloody? Being characterized as charming and erudite sounded like appellations Lydia would use for Spike, not someone who was wise to the ways of the demon world. And what did she mean by “giving them to each other?”

“You had no right to manipulate her in that way,” Giles was saying.

Esme shrugged. “I was doing what I thought was necessary to reach my goals,” she replied. “As soon as I recognized that that wasn’t possible, I amended my plans. You forget. It was my magic that brought her back. She wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for me.”

“And…what? You expect me to simply forget your misdeeds and let you close to her again? How foolish do you really think I am? I read everything the Council has on you. I know you’re obsessed with Slayers---.”

“You’re wrong. I’m obsessed with power.”

Perhaps it was the bluntness with which she made the declaration, or maybe it was the amused honesty shining in Esme’s regard. Either way, Wes saw Giles pause, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he scrutinized her every reaction..

“Do you think I stayed with the Council for so many years because I believed in the good they were doing?” she posited, plunging forward into the opening the men’s silence afforded. “I am not you, Mr. Giles, nor am I Mr. Wyndam-Pryce here. I’ve never been motivated by that sort of altruism, regardless of what Quentin may try to believe. I’m motivated by my hunger for strength, for power, and it’s searching for those that has led me here.”

“If you think this is helping your case to come to Sunnydale,” Giles said carefully, “you may wish to think again.”

“And here I thought you’d appreciate my honesty.” Her tongue made a tsking sound that reverberated in the emptiness of the hotel hallway. “If you prefer lies, I’m sure I can get Quentin on the phone. He’s so marvelously talented with them, and he can never seem to refuse to speak with me, the poor sod.”

If Giles didn’t see it, Wesley certainly did, and his earlier estimation of Esme shifted. She was deliberately distancing herself from the man Rupert held the highest scorn for, separating her values from his and attempting to place the three of them on the same side. It was brilliant.

If it didn’t backfire on her.

Giles still wasn’t swayed, although Wesley could sense that the argument was tempting him. “Your so-called honesty means nothing,” he said. “The fact remains, you’re dangerous, and you come here under the guise of helping Willow with admitted ulterior motives. That alone is reason for me not to allow you to see her.”

“Do you even wish to hear my ulterior motives?” Her voice was soft, and she suddenly sounded every bit as old as she looked. “The only danger I pose to you or to Miss Rosenberg is the one you’ve created inside your head. She has my power. That is irrefutable. I wield no sort of magic that she can’t overcome merely by willing it. She’s almost nineteen. She’s young, she’s strong, and without learning how to control the forces she houses now, she’s a threat. To her loved ones, to strangers around her. Most importantly, she’s a threat to herself.”

“That still doesn’t mean you should be the one to help her.”

“Mr. Giles, I’m eighty-one years old. I lived with that power for longer than you’ve been on this earth. I know that power and what’s it capable of. Can you say the same?”

The air in the hall was stifling as her words weighted it with secrets untold and portents many. Giles’ jaw twitched as he regarded her, a deadly gaze that would’ve scared a lesser foe. It was certainly frightening Wesley, though he held himself stiff as he waited for the other Watcher to reach his decision.

“You are never to see Willow unsupervised,” he finally said. “And you are to have no contact with Buffy unless she requests it.”

“I’m not here for Miss Summers,” Esme said simply.

“If I detect even a hint of impropriety on your part,” Giles continued, “I will ship you back to Quentin in your own casket, is that understood?”

She smiled. “I believe you’ll have to stand in line behind your employer for that particular honor,” she commented. “He’s already informed me that Mr. Wyndam-Pryce has carte blanche to sanction my return if I…misbehave.”

When Giles glanced back at him for confirmation, Wesley lifted his chin. “She’s correct,” he said, in a voice that was much surer than he felt. “Mr. Travers is only interested in seeing our efforts succeed. He doesn’t want anything untoward to occur, either.”

Giles’ lips were pinched as he turned to Esme. “Do you have many bags?” he asked stiffly. It was the only acknowledgement he was going to make, and all three of them knew it.

“On the bed.” Stepping aside, she allowed him to enter and retrieve the luggage, her black eyes dancing as they locked with Wesley’s.

The witch didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. Wesley was more than aware by the glee in her gaze that she was delighted with the result of the conversation.

There was one other thing they were both aware of.

For this particular round, she had won.

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

It wasn’t the fact that he was in a hotel room that was putting Spike off. It was the fact that he’d paid for the bloody thing rather than ripping open the throat of the clerk and taking the damn room key that was setting his teeth on edge. Though traveling with Lydia had brought with it a forced domestication, he’d not given much thought about it continuing once he was rid of her presence. Really, he’d not given much thought of anything as mundane as his day-to-day once he got to Sunnydale. He’d been too focused on thoughts of Buffy.

But this was the way it had to be, he knew. Buffy would never tolerate such random acts of violence, especially on her home turf, and if Spike was determined to slay at her side, he had to be prepared to make the sacrifices that were necessary. That meant living by more rules than he was normally accustomed. Rules that would probably change on a daily basis as Buffy’s whims took her. Would it be worth it?

He didn’t even bother to answer himself. It was a ridiculous question. Of course, it was bloody worth it.

He’d arrived on the Hellmouth with sunlight still streaming down, so he’d had no choice but ask to be taken to one of the cheaper hotels. The shelter was necessary until he could get out and find something else; once dusk came around, Spike had every intention of combing Sunnydale until he found what he was looking for. He just wasn’t sure yet what that was.

Then, there was the issue of Buffy.

He knew she lived on campus; he knew her address by heart from writing it out so many times. But she wasn’t expecting him. His last letter had hinted that he could be on his way, but they’d left in such a flurry, he’d not had the chance to write another announcing his arrival. And he couldn’t write it now. It would have a Sunnydale postmark on it. That would just be redundant.

So, as he waited for the sun to set, Spike weighed his options. He could get her number and try calling, but for some inexplicable reason, that made his stomach tie up in knots, like he was some pimply-faced kid attempting to ask a girl out on his first date. Writing out what was going on inside his head had always been his preferred method---and the moment that thought registered, Spike scowled.

It wasn’t Spike’s preferred method. It was William’s. It still took him by surprise when the git let his presence be known.

But Buffy loved William. She’d proven that William had a bit of spirit, after all. It wasn’t such a bad thing any more to admit to his more William-like tendencies, even if he had spent the better part of his unlife denying them.

Still didn’t mean he wanted to call her.

He didn’t want to just show up unannounced, either. Somewhere, in the shadowed recesses of his hotel room, doubt had set in. Buffy had only just come to grips with writing him. If he showed his face around her dorm without fair notice, would he only serve to scare her away again? He knew she couldn’t be happy about being in love with another vampire. Angelus had certainly done a number on her, and the fact that she bemoaned how she was going to tell Harris screamed loud and clear that she was floundering when it came to coping with the truth of Spike. Spike didn’t care what her friends bloody thought, but that wasn’t what mattered.

What mattered was that he didn’t muck this up now. He was here. He had too much to lose.

The decision when it came was simple. He’d come to help Buffy slay; he’d hit the cemeteries and prove to her with his actions that he was true to his word. Not only was leaping straight into the fray more his style, but the exertions would work out some of the kinks traveling across the world had created in his muscles. A little rough, a little tumble, and if he happened to run into Buffy while she was on patrol, well, then that was just an added bonus, wasn’t it?

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

“You didn’t have to come.”

Smiling, Willow squeezed his hand, relishing in the feel of his fingers interlaced with hers. “And miss out on quality time with my guy? Not a chance.”

“I just thought, you know, with what happened last night, you might not want to come back so soon.” Oz came to a stop at the foot of the dug-up grave, letting the backpack he carried slip from his shoulder as he kicked at the loose dirt. “At least we know this one is empty.”

“Which is already much better than last night.” She flashed him her brightest smile as proof that she was all right, and was rewarded when he leaned in to brush his lips across hers. That was better. Just the light touch was all Willow needed to ease the nerves that were tightening her stomach. It had been an excruciatingly long day.

She’d never hooked up with Giles. Though she had spoken to him when he’d called for Buffy, when she’d heard that he was still out of town, that he and Wesley had gone to Los Angeles to fetch the Council’s witch, Willow had held her tongue about going out in search of him. It was going to be hard enough talking about how the magic made her feel; doing it on the phone made it doubly bad. She would just wait and do it after her classes on Monday, she reasoned. One more day certainly couldn’t make a difference, plus there was the bonus of the witch being present as well.

Then, there had been the business with the gizmo Buffy had brought back from her morning recon with the guys. It took Willow no time at all to figure out that it was a transceiver of some kind, but the moment she took off the back of its casing to further examine its capabilities, the small engine inside had blown up with a puff of smoke.

Only one thing seemed to come to fruition that day. She had translated what the strange Havi had said to her on leaving Giles’ apartment complex, but it only added to the unease that made her heart inexplicably race at the odd interval, her brow to suddenly break out in sweat.

“A fire can’t throw a great light without burning something.”

She didn’t know what to make of it. There was the literal parallel to what had occurred with the vampire, but that seemed too simple. Was it a warning? Was this woman who looked for Giles trying to put Willow on alert not to let things get out of hand? Or did she mean the opposite, that things had to get a little out of hand in order for Willow to win?

Either possibility filled her with dread.

She hated philosophy. It was far too abstract. Bits and bytes were better any day of the week.

She was startled from her gloomy reverie by the gentle tug of Oz’s hand. When she looked at him, he didn’t speak, just tilted his head with a slight upturn of his mouth, and led her to the headstone. His hand fell from hers, settled on her hips as he positioned her in front of it, and he helped guide her to a seat along its curved top.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured, stepping between her legs.

Willow closed her eyes and breathed him in as his lips met hers. Letting her arms come up to curl around his shoulders, she decided that coming out with him to stakeout the transceiver’s owners was the best decision she’d made all day.

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

“Damn it.”

His mouth was set in a tight line as he lowered the night-vision binoculars, but even without the extra visual boost, Riley could still see the couple occupying the space he’d been ordered to watch.

“There a problem?” Like a ghost, Forrest suddenly appeared at his elbow, his eyes trained on his superior officer.

“He’s not alone,” came the terse reply. It was bad enough he recognized the young man Dr. Walsh was convinced was the local werewolf, but to see Willow Rosenberg there as well turned this particular assignment into a disaster waiting to happen. “He brought a date.”

“So, we knock out the girl and take in the HST. Simple.”

“I know them. Not so simple.”

For a long moment, the men under his command held themselves completely still while they allowed Riley to think. The soft whisper of a bird overhead floated through the night, and it wasn’t until its echo was erased from the air that Finn spoke again.

“Take this,” he said. Stripping off his jacket, he tossed it to Forrest, following it quickly with the holster that was strapped around his waist. That left him in his fatigues and t-shirt, and though he still looked way too military than he would’ve liked, at least he wasn’t an obvious threat. Maybe Willow wouldn’t notice.

“What’re you doing?” Forrest asked as Riley began to move away from the cover of the trees that hid them.

“I don’t want to hurt the girl,” he said. “I’m going to bring the HST to us. Be ready.” And with that, he melted into the night.

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

He stopped when he heard the voices, his head cocking as he listened to the rhythms of their bodies.

Human.

Spike sniffed at the air.

And frowned.

Amend that. One of them was only mostly human. The other was…

Red.

As he crept forward, the voices became louder, and the confirmation that it was Willow and some male echoed with a resounding clarity. Hope began to burn inside Spike’s chest, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the young redhead’s presence meant Buffy was here as well. He could sense other humans nearby, and one specifically approaching the pair, but none of them smelled like the Slayer. Perhaps she was merely busy elsewhere at the moment.

Using the foliage as cover, Spike’s shadow melted into the trunk of a tree as his gaze fell on the pair he sought. No one would be aware of his presence; a century of experience had long ago taught him how to disappear when the need arose. But he could still watch. And he could still hear. And he could still wait until Buffy came back to her friends.

“…there tomorrow,” Willow was saying.

The young man with her nodded, and the light of the almost full moon revealed his face just enough for Spike to recognize him as the boyfriend. Oz. That one was the werewolf Buffy had mentioned. That was why he didn’t smell quite right.

“Do you want me there?” he said. His hands were resting possessively on her hips, the tilt of his body even more watchful, and Spike felt a rumble of accord with the young man he’d never really gotten to know. Oz loved Willow; it was there in his muscles for all to see. He’d fight to protect her with every inch he had, even if he wasn’t much more than a grasshopper.

Spike respected that.

“Nah,” Willow said. “I mean, I do want you there, but it’s not---.” She was cut off when Oz suddenly shifted, and Spike saw the looming shadow of the person he’d already sensed approaching them.

“Hi, Willow. Hi, Oz.”

Spike didn’t know the voice, but something behind the false jocularity made him edge forward, his face shifting so that he could better see the new arrival. Looming had been an understatement. The man was a tower, solidly built, wearing fatigue trousers that were only slightly baggy. His hands were empty, but as Spike’s gaze scanned him, the vampire easily noted the long bulge along the outer side of his left calf. Probably a knife of some sort, tucked into his boot.

As the three engaged in easy conversation, Spike’s frown deepened. They knew each other, but why would Captain Marvel there be wearing a concealed weapon? Unless…he was working with Buffy and the rest to help patrol.

Spike didn’t like that thought at all.

He turned his head to look in the direction the man had come from, and easily picked out the other three shadows lurking in wait. More humans.

What in bloody hell was going on?

“…know it’s a lot to ask, but it’ll just take a minute. I swear,” the man said, jerking his thumbing back in the direction of his buddies.

Whatever Spike had missed, Oz wasn’t completely sold. “I’m kind of waiting for someone,” he said.

“In a graveyard?”

“Why is it you’re here?”

“I told you. It’s a fraternity thing.”

“But isn’t it against the code to get strangers involved?”

Something wasn’t right, and Spike could tell that Oz knew it. Again, his gaze flickered to the others, and his mind settled on what he should do.

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

“What’s he doing?”

Forrest hissed, warning the grunt to stay quiet. “He’s talking to them,” he replied in a voice that was barely a whisper.

“We’re not supposed to be talking. We’re supposed to be capturing. This is bullshit.”

“Bullshit or not, Finn’s the officer in command here. He told us to wait, so we wait.”

The dissenting grumbles made Forrest’s hands tighten around his weapon. He didn’t like it, either, but Riley knew what he was talking about. They couldn’t take down a civilian without proper authorization, especially one as non-threatening as the girl seemed to be.

“What if we sneak up from behind? Knock the girl out so she doesn’t know what’s going on, and take the werewolf. End of problem.”

“Finn said---,” Forrest started, but as he was turning to direct his response at the grunt who wouldn’t keep his trap shut, a flash of something black caught the corner of his eye, and he turned just in time to take the full force of the vampire’s fist as it connected with his jaw.

He fell to the ground in a daze, looking up to see the demon grab the grunt who’d been arguing. With a single quick jerk, the vampire snapped the grunt’s neck, and then kicked out behind without even looking when the other soldier started to draw his weapon. The other was killed just as quickly, a fist smashing into the man’s nose that drove it with deadly force into his brain, and then all that was left was Forrest.

And the vampire.

“Looks like I broke up your little party,” the demon drawled. It wasn’t even wearing its demon mask, blue eyes gazing down at Forrest with cruel disgust. The slight breeze caught the hem of its long leather coat, making it billow slightly around its legs. “Would say I’m sorry, except, well, I’m not.”

Slowly, Forrest’s eyes were starting to refocus. If he wanted to live, he had to be smart about this. His tazer was in easy reach of his left hand, but if he moved too quickly, the vampire would be on him and he could just say goodbye to surviving. He’d seen how swiftly the monster could kill. Forrest wouldn’t even have time to draw a weapon.

“Not hungry?” he said, jerking his chin toward the dead bodies of his team. The thought that he was offering their bodies as culinary diversion made his stomach revolt, but there was nothing else he could do.

The vamp shrugged. “More interested in hearin’ why it is you lot are after a werewolf,” it replied. “Known a few hunters in my time, but would’ve sussed you as more of the kegger kind.”

Forrest’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Then you would be wrong,” he growled. His hand was inching toward his tazer. If he could just keep the demon talking…

The air was suddenly blocked from his throat, and Forrest’s head slammed back into the earth, the explosion of light before his eyes more indicative of the force in the attack than any physical phenomenon. He’d never even seen the vampire move, and yet, now it pinned him to the ground, one hand wrapped around the front of his throat, the other a steel vise around the wrist that was only centimeters from the tazer.

“Don’t like you,” the vampire said, and though the hatred on its face gleamed in the moonlight, its voice was bereft of any obvious emotion. If anything, it sounded bored. “And I like the thought of you hurtin’ one of Buffy’s friends even less.”

Blue shifted to gold, and Forrest winced at the carnivorous smile that curled around the fangs.

It was the last thing he ever saw.

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

When Riley had first approached, Oz hadn’t thought anything of it. It wouldn’t be the first time frat boys used a Sunnydale cemetery as a hazing ground.

But the longer he talked, and the more Riley tried to convince Willow to go home, the more Oz began to distrust him. He noticed the dark pants. He noticed the heavy boots. He remembered the sole marks he’d seen in the trampled grass earlier that day.

He became convinced Riley had something to do with Buffy’s mysterious vigilantes. There was no way he was letting Willow out of his sight.

“Maybe you should call the police if you’re so worried about them,” Oz said. The faint scent of blood in the air made his nose twitch, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off Finn. Behind him, Willow was growing tenser, and when she hopped down from the headstone, Oz started to step sideways to try and shield her from the interaction.

The charge of electricity crackled through the night air, and Willow gave a slight yelp before crumbling to the earth. Before Oz could react, Riley had his meaty hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, his other cradling the tiny tazer that he’d used to knock out Willow.

“I didn’t want to do it like this,” he said. If Oz didn’t know better, he would’ve almost said that the man sounded apologetic. “You’ve given me no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Oz replied.

“Yeah,” a man’s voice said from the darkness. “A bloke’s always got a choice.”

Without releasing his hold on Oz, Riley whirled in the direction of the sound. The smell of blood was stronger now, and Oz saw the source of it as Spike emerged from the shadows. When Finn lifted his arm to shoot at the vamp, Spike dove through the air, tackling the larger man and driving him into the grass with a force that snapped Riley’s wrist when it broke free from Oz’s shoulder.

The weapon went flying, but Spike didn’t seem to care, his fists a pale blur as they pounded into the man’s face. His jaw was set in grim determination, his blue eyes icy, and when Riley’s rolled back, the lids shutting as he lapsed into unconsciousness, a vicious smile of satisfaction creased the vampire’s features.

“Serves you bloody right,” he said as he hopped to his feet. He turned to look at Oz, his gaze flickering to the inert form of Willow at the foot of the grave. “She OK?” he asked with a jerk of his head

Immediately, Oz knelt to check her pulse. It was slow, but steady, her breathing even. He nodded. “Just a stun gun.”

“Yeah. His buddies had those little trinkets, too.”

The silence between them was awkward. “I’d say thanks,” Oz finally said, “except last time you were in town…”

Spike grimaced, the unspoken reference to the incident at the factory clearly not lost on him. “Figure that’s deserved,” he said. “Still, you shouldn’t be out here without the Slayer around. Him and his lot were lookin’ to take you in. You’re just lucky I happened along when I did.”

“How do you know what they were planning?”

“Heard ‘em talkin’ before I…” He stopped. He didn’t have to say it aloud. They both knew he’d killed them.

More silence.

“Did they say why?” Oz asked. At Spike’s confused frown, he clarified, “Why they wanted me. Buffy’s only seen them being interested in vampires.”

“It was because of you bein’ a werewolf. Didn’t figure them for hunters, though. They don’t have the look.”

“They’re not.” He’d been right. Riley Finn was part of the vigilante group Buffy was so concerned about. His gaze slid to the body on the ground, and he saw the flicker of movement before Spike did. “Look out!”

The vampire reacted on instinct.

Leaping out of the way of the blade that had emerged from nowhere, Spike twisted to grab Riley from behind, his forearm going around his throat while his hand wrapped around the wrist that held the knife. He snarled as he fought the other man’s strength, and when Finn stabbed downwards in an obvious attempt to hit his opponent’s leg, Spike redirected the blow so that the length of the blade sank into Riley’s abdomen.

As Oz watched, Riley fell to his knees, the blood already starting to bubble at his lips. A surprised Spike stepped back, his eyes riveted on the knife that protruded from the man’s upper abdomen, and before Oz could say a word, turned and fled into the night.