TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME

Author: sangga

Email: sangga55@hotmail.com <mailto:sangga55@hotmail.com>

Disclaimer: Joss, you’re my hero. I own nothing – a fake disclaimer is nobody’s friend.

Characters: Ensemble – Buffy and Atvs cross momentarily.

Summary: The forces of Good and Evil are balancing the books. The threat of a new Armaggedon is keeping the Scoobies busy, but Buffy has other things on her mind…

Rating: NC-17

Category: Action/Adventure/Romance And Ensuing Angst

Spoilers: S5

Author’s note: This is fic stands alone, but it might be more enjoyable if you read the one that comes before it, ‘Black the Sun’. This is kind of an AU piece – I’ve borrowed elements of Season Five plot and character action (eg: Dawn, Joyce's illness), but not necessarily stayed true to the show’s development of those arcs. Lyrics by Ben Harper, Sinead O’Connor and Laika (paraphrased) are used without permission.

Thanks: Eternally, to Autonoe for beta-ing this.

Distribution: Sure, why not, what the hell – just mail me and let me know, okay?

Feedback: Always gives me a little tingly feeling.

PART ONE – Gathering Rosebuds

Friday

5.47pm

The road was smooth. There was a light headwind, but nothing she hadn’t pushed into before. It was nice actually – enough to cool the sweat on her brow, the beading on her legs, under her arms.

The bike was light beneath her body – it was a good day, a decent ride, but her calves were sore all the same. She lifted up on her seat, letting her legs absorb the bumps on the road, feeling the bike kick under her like an animal.

In the old days it had been horses, and in days older than that, just the jarring of her sandalled feet on the ground as she ran. The bicycle was a new thing -–oh, happy invention! – but it felt much the same to her, a sense of mount and rider becoming one, moving together in serene unity. She’d needed a special dispensation to get the bike – it was as close to a machine as she was allowed. No motors – no cars, no impressive Harleys. That was the Rule. This had to be done the old way, with effort, with hard-earned sweat. That was the Way, the only way for a Courier.

But the clothes were her idea – pilfered on the road, the long bike pants, the wind jacket, the sneakers. A pouch at her waist held essentials.

She hit a rise and lifted in her seat to begin the climb. The light was fading, and she was close to her goal now. The scent of her destination came on strong, and she pumped her legs harder, willing herself on.

oOo

Spike was dreaming.

He knew he was dreaming, because here he was, walking the streets of Sunny D with the sun on his face. Good ole sunny Sunnydale…land of the California doll, and the living dead. Bad enough that he was still here, let alone inhabiting the place in his dreams.

He looked down at himself – dream-hands frisking over his dream-self. Arms and legs – yep, all the bits still in place, and nothing on fire. Reassured, he kept walking, listening to the hollow clomp of his footfalls on the asphalt, registering the warmth of the daylight on his cheek.

He brushed the thought away – it was a dream, he could do whatever he bloody well pleased, couldn’t he. Couldn’t he?

There was that slightly unpleasant sensation of dreams, of standing quiet while things move fast around you. And the sun wasn’t quite so sunny… That was odd. It was kind of a subdued sort of sun – was it raining? overcast? But he distinctly felt a hotness on his skin. Peering skywards, he saw that there were clouds all over the place, boiling, thunderheads clashing in a fast-forward swirl…lightning flashed somewhere.

He held out one hand as the first drops spattered onto his palm. There were colours, yellows and pinks and greys, shifting across his skin…He blinked.

He felt a creeping sense of unease in his gut. Something... He looked up – he was in the main street of town, he realised. He recognised the shopfronts, the faded trees, the park benches – but where the hell was everyone else?

He looked down the street – empty. Wind preceding the storm whistled down the street, blowing litter scraps into the gutters. He was the only inhabitant in the street. Just him. The hairs on his nape rose, and he whipped around to look behind – nothing. Nobody.

The unease grew, sputtered into flaring fear.

The feeling of anxiety gathered momentum, built to fever-pitch, made him gasp –

- and wake. His eyes bolted open, and he went limp on the bed, the bedspread twisting uncomfortably around his legs. He swallowed and unfurled his fists – he was gripping the sheet with one hand, he realised. God. What the hell was that all about? Dreaming about walking around in the sunshine…he hadn’t dreamed of being out in the daylight for ages.

He felt the residual disorientation of being slammed from dream-life back into reality. Crypt-reality, in all it’s dank, grainy hominess. Kicking off the bedsheets he rolled to sit up, fumbling for the cigarettes under his pillow.

He snorted to himself, and smoke puffed around his face. He’d be grinning about it if it wasn’t so damned unfunny. But the situation wasn’t about to be remedied anytime soon. He was here, in the crypt, and Buffy was...well, probably at home having her tea, or whatever people did in the late afternoon. But definitely not here. Spike sighed grumpily. There was a reason, of course. There was always a reason, but this happened to be a particularly solid one.

Soon after their last Egyptian-flavoured jaunt to L.A., Joyce’s condition had taken a rapid turn for the worse. She’d been back and forth to the hospital for tests for the past month. It had put a general dampener on everyone’s mood, and kept Buffy preoccupied and anxious.

And Spike was at a loss – human illness was something he was long unfamiliar with, and as for dealing with the possibility of Joyce’s death…well, he didn’t want to think about it really.

The Slayer had been a bundle of stress all this time.

Yeah, and fat lot of good you’ve been to her, he thought with a snarl.

Truth the tell, he didn’t know what to do. Pat her on the back a bit? Make consoling noises? He felt frustratingly ill-equipped to help. And in all honesty, he’d been a death-bringer for too long for it to have the same impact as it seemed to have for the rest of the Scoobies. Joyce was a good person and he liked her, a lot – she of the cocoa and little marshmallows, and the sympathetic ear.

But that was just the way of the world. People died.

And what was he supposed to say, anyway? "Sorry about your mum, being on the way out an’ all." Yeah, that was going to go down like a ton of bricks.

But she was – he could feel it. Joyce had the tang of death around her like a haze – it was faint, but he’d got a whiff of it. That sense he had inside, that told him when a mark was good - the blood flowing strong and pure - or drug-fucked, or ill, a bad choice for a meal. And she had it. That lump in her head, as draining as the chip in his…

The realisation had made him somber – he knew what was coming, and it wasn’t going to be all Hallmark happy-endings. But everyone else was so busy being positive – blah, blah, everything will be okay, not to worry, etcetera etcetera…

Crapping on, as he liked to refer to it.

But with all the hearts and flowers and well-wishing going around, he could hardly be the sole voice of dissent. Even if he wanted to burst the bubble, hurt Buffy that way, she’d never hear it anyway.

Humans are like that, he mused – so good at lying to themselves.

So, in the absence of a useful role, he’d backed off. He felt bad, but he was stumped as to what else he should do. Buffy had other friends to lean on. She wouldn’t want him getting in the way right now, he’d decided. Distracting for her, and she didn’t need that. She had enough on her plate.

He stood up, walked towards the telly, running his hands through his hair. It had sounded good when he’d first thought it through. Now he was just…uncertain.

He let his mind rewind and play over the first time they’d kissed. The memory of it stirred inside him, made his body ache, from balls to bones…

They’d hardly done more than snog a few times, but it had been incredible.

His fingers curled with the memory. He’d had to pinch himself to make sure it was really happening – kissing the Slayer. Kissing Buffy – he’d had a few delirious fantasies, but they hadn’t even come close to the delectable reality.

It had been strange, and wild, and energising, in a way he hadn’t known since…well, since Dru. But it was like comparing a wintry moonlit night with a sizzling summer’s day – contrasting perfections that didn’t bear parallel.

Perhaps the oddest thing of all with Buffy had been the rapport. Once they’d both gotten through the initial strangeness of it all, and the pull of the physical, there’d been long periods when they’d talked – just sat and talked, like a pair of old friends. And somehow he’d really liked that.

Things had been going along swimmingly there for about two days, and then this disaster with her mum.

He sighed as he pulled on a t-shirt that he’d left on the arm of the sofa. This whole romancing the Slayer thing was turning out to be a lot more complicated than he’d originally thought. For starters, they never copped a break.

He was stretching when he heard the creak, from outside the crypt. Snapping back to reality, he narrowed his eyes and extended his senses – a visitor. And not of the normal variety…

He padded soundlessly in bare feet to the door, and waited to one side. No knocking, and no busting down of the door – it left only one option. He carefully eased the door open a crack and peered out into the sundown gloom.

There was a figure, in a bright jacket, sitting crosslegged on the grassy mound beside the crypt, concentrating on something in it’s lap. A battered bicycle leaned up against a gravestone.

Spike’s lips thinned. He opened the door a little wider, giving himself enough room to manouever if need be. He appraised the human figure on the grass – small, small enough to -

"Relax. I’m not here for your hide, although I’ve heard the rumours."

The figure looked up as it spoke, and Spike realised that he was being addressed by a girl with short hair, wearing a motley collection of cycling gear and worn sneakers. She was young-looking, but appearances could be deceiving – very deceiving, in this case, he thought. She wasn’t human, but what she was he couldn’t exactly put a finger on. A sense of age, though… Odd. He edged out of the doorway and leaned on the lintel, matching the girl’s casual tone.

"And what rumours would those be?"

She looked up from her lap, gave him a sideways appraisal, squinted at him.

"You’re walking a fine line, you know. Don’t think that People haven’t noticed."

Then she shrugged, and returned her attentions to her hands, which were rummaging inside an old leather pouch.

"But hey – it’s none of my business. I’m just a messenger."

Spike was feeling a little out of the loop, which was irritating. His reply was curt.

"Fine. So what’s the message?"

"Give me a second, huh?"

The girl continued fiddling with the pouch, and he realised that it contained papers and tobacco. She was rolling a cigarette. She brought the edge of the paper to her lips and licked, then smoothed it down over the slightly misshapen tube. Then, unexpectedly, she held the pouch out towards him.

"You want?"

He declined with a shake of his head, and fumbled another tailor-made out of the pocket of his jeans, and a book of matches. He lit his own cigarette, then tossed her the book – she grabbed it neatly out of the air.

"Thanks."

Flame flared inside her cupped hands, and a puff of smoke thereafter. She spoke out of the corner of her mouth.

"Prefer the taste of pure tobacco myself."

She took a deep draw with relish.

"Ah – this, this is nice." She looked over at him conspiratorially. "I had a pot of beer at Willie’s too. On the house, of course. And that was really nice."

She was grinning. He noticed that her hair was unevenly cropped, like she’d done it herself with a rusty razorblade.

"Been teetotalling, have we?"

He kept his position by the lintel, still unsure of whether she presented a potential threat.

"Something like that." She took another reverent drag of her cigarette, then eyed him. "S’pose you want the message then."

"If it’s not too much trouble," he replied drily.

She raised an eyebrow. "Bad-tempered, aren’t you?"

Before he could retort, she ashed her smoke on the grass and went on.

"Alright then – the message is, it’s time to Gather."

"Pardon?"

His eyes narrowed, and then a memory caught up with him. His expression flattened, and he suddenly went a little paler than usual.

"You…you’re a Courier."

"Bingo." She winked at him.

Now he looked slightly amazed.

"I mean, I’ve never seen… I mean, I’ve only heard stories…"

She snorted, and nodded towards the bike.

"Yeah, well it’s not as glamorous a job as it’s made out to be."

"But…well." He collected himself. "A Gathering, huh?"

"Yep – getting ready for another Balance. The Down Below are gearing up for a big one this time."

He considered this with a feeling of dull astonishment, nodding. Then he had a thought.

"Well, what about the other side?"

She shrugged again.

"Not my problem. Upstairs have their own messengers – they’re probably on the way." She grinned at him slyly. "You keep standing on the fence like this, you could get another visitor soon."

Spike raised an eyebrow, and blew smoke out of his nose. Unlikely.

"So, where is it then?"

The Courier pouted around at the quiet grassiness of the cemetary, and lifted her chin to the stone wall, and the town beyond it.

"Here. S’a good spot – nice and central."

"To the Hellmouth, you mean," Spike replied sarcastically.

"Whatever. Hellmouth, eh? It’s appropriate then." She leaned back, stretched onto one side, propped up by her elbow, and waved her cigarette about.

He tilted his head, curious.

"So – that’s the message?"

"Yeah – oh, there’s a few more details." She examined him, like he was some kind of interesting novelty. "You’re the last on my list, you know."

Spike replied derisively. "What – I was an afterthought, was I?"

"Something like that."

Her look, and that revelation, gave him an odd feeling in his stomach. She continued.

"The Down Below, they weren’t sure whether you…" She cut herself off, biting her lip, seemingly amused with herself.

"Whether I what?" He had his back up now.

She shrugged – she was rather fond of that gesture, he noticed.

"Don’t know. Not my place to say, anyway. Can’t speculate about what’s on the Boss’ mind, now, can I?"

He looked annoyed. This hide-and-go-seek with information was beginning to drag. He sighed, and flicked ash onto the grass in her direction.

"Fine. So, what’s the rest of the details?"

She noticed his irritation, and stood up, wiping grass off her butt.

"That keen, huh? Maybe they’re wrong about you…" She took another drag, watching him. "It’s the end of the week. Sunset – in Main street."

She looked at him coolly.

"You au fait with Gathering manners?"

He made a moue as he tried to remember what he’d been told.

"I guess…just the ‘don’t kill each other’ bit."

"You got it. The Day is sacrosanct, so no old feuds."

She took a final drag of her rollie, watched the dying end contemplatively.

"Ah well, that was good, while it lasted." She looked at him with a wicked grin. "Guess you’ll be saying the same thing soon."

Spike tried not to let the anxiety he was feeling show on his face.

"We’ll see."

"You’re right about that."

She tossed the pouch to him in a sudden gesture that would have caught him off-guard, if it hadn’t been for his vamp reflexes.

"What’s this?"

She stood looking at him, composing herself.

"All yours now, vampire. Don’t smoke it all at once. I s’pose I should say good luck."

Then she folded her arms across herself and made an old bow – very old, a form so ancient he didn’t even recognise it. When she stood up, she was smiling. Her teeth, he noticed grimly for the first time, where filed into sharp points.

"And see you in hell, vampire!"

And with a magnetic souf of air and power, she burst into flames.

Spike swallowed as he watched the girl burn quickly into nothing, watched the ash sift down onto the grass outside his crypt. He let out a long, trembling breath.

oOo

7.46pm

The Host preened a few of the fuschia ruffles down on his chest, and swirled his blue cocktail with a genial smile as he watched the crowd inside Caritas. It was a good night, so far – no major brawls, for a full moon night, and the human/demon hybrid at the mike was giving quite a nice rendition of one of his favourite songs a la Joplin.

The cotton was high, and so was the till, which was always a pleasant state of affairs. He smiled again, broadly this time, as he watched the mellow mood infecting the club.

A bouncer approached to his left, a tall thick-set (weren’t they always?) figure with a mostly human appearance, excepting the grey skin and the jutting lower jaw with the two tusks that protuded over his upper lip. Harry – and he looked worried.

Lorne gave a little sigh – there was always something needed fixing, that they just couldn’t do themselves. A manager’s work was never done.

"Ah, Boss?"

Harry sidled up meekly, and nodded towards a table in the corner.

"There’s a girl over there, Boss, says she wants the mike."

The Host swept a hand out magnanimously, and sipped his drink.

"Well, that’s what we’re here for."

"Yeah, but Boss, she says she wants to play her own guitar."

The Host frowned a little at that, and peered towards the table Harry had indicated.

"Oh, geez - not another busker. Does she know it’s covers night?"

"Yeah - she said she’d do something you’d like, but I thought I better ask you about it…" Harry trailed off, leaving the decision to his superior’s discretion.

"Hm. Well, bring her over here, and I’ll check her out."

Harry nodded, and strode off. The Host straightened his jacket and cuffs, and hoped that this poor lost soul wasn’t going to be like the last one, who hadn’t even realised where he was.

He looked up as Harry the bouncer led over a girl, one hand on her elbow to guide her around the tables to the bar.

The Host perused the new arrival up and down critically - young, he noticed, looked about eighteen human years. Nondescript face, long brown hair, a neat figure made little of by loose jeans, a dark t-shit and a brown suede jacket that looked like it had come out of a thrift store specials bin. He frowned at her, but his voice was mild.

"You know, you could’ve dressed a little, honey. We do try and make and effort around here."

"Sorry."

The girl pulled at her jacket.

"This is all I’ve got. I’m on the road."

The Host cast a glance over to her table, where a duffle bag and a guitar case lay propped against the wall.

"Oh, I get it - touring, huh? Right. Well, I’m the Host here, Miss?…" He extended a gracious hand.

"Joanne."

The girl put out her own hand. It was about a mile away from his. She was looking towards him, but in an unfocussed way…light suddenly dawned. He glanced at Harry, and nodded his understanding, then reached the distance to take her warm hand in his own.

"Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Joanne."

"Likewise."

She had a nice smile, he noticed.

"So, what are you gonna do for me tonight?

The Host looked at her expectantly, wondering if this girl even knew what sort of club she was in.

"Oh, it’s not an original, if you’re were worried. I know it’s covers only here."

Maybe she did know.

"Ookay. Well, in that case - Harry, why don’t you take Miss Joanne here over to the steps, and I’ll announce her."

He gave Harry a look - take care of this one.

Harry nodded. "Sure, Boss."

Joanne turned back to the Host - he saw how she followed the voices around her.

"Thanks."

"Oh, no problem. You go get your instrument, and maybe afterwards you can come over for a drink." He was in such a good mood, it made him generous.

She smiled radiantly.

"That would be great."

Then she lifted her hand, Harry slipped his arm beneath it, and they made their way towards her gear, well-positioned beside the stage steps.

Lorne stood, swallowed the last of his drink, and made for the mike, as the hybrid belted out the final strains of the Joplin song. This is going to be interesting, he thought. He leapt the low edge of the stage, the spotlight pinned him, and he broke into an enormous smile.

"Hey out there! I hope you’re all having a superb time…you are? Fantastic. And now, we have a special song for you, by a lovely young lady who has graciously provided her own accompaniment…please give a big Caritas welcome to - Joanne!"

The girl had reached the mike, her guitar swinging off her shoulder by the strap. As she positioned herself, he adjusted the stand so the mike was her face height. He patted her on the back affably.

"Knock ‘em dead, sweetie."

She smiled in reply, concentrating on arranging her guitar.

He strode back to the bar and settled himself on the stool, waiting to hear what was going to come of all this.

Joanne peered into the gloom of the club - strange.

Almost like she can see who’s out there…

She made a brief strum to tune, and then cleared her throat.

"Ah, hi. This is a new rendition of an old song. I hope it stirs some memories."

As the first chords cleared the air of chatter, the Host called for another drink, feeling a strange flutter of misgiving in his gut. Not like he wasn’t used to weird shit, but this whole situation was kinda strange.

What was a girl like this doing here of all places? And how had she found her way down on her own? And there was something about the notes of the song...something familiar. The girl continued strumming and the feeling intensified.

His special talent kicked into action, telling him that something very out of the ordinary was about to happen. His senses came alive as the chords of the song twisted out into the air, and queasiness assailing him.

By the time she opened her mouth, his heart was pounding in his chest.

The Host’s vision was blurring with presience, and his mouth was dry. He took a quick gulp of another cocktail, but it didn’t help.

He gripped the counter as her voice billowed out over the crowd - clear and warm, with a hint of huskiness. The usually busy floor was quiet, almost everyone focussed on the girl, listening. When she hit the old chorus of the song, which he now remembered, Lorne raised a hand to his head.

Her voice dived an octave to breathe out the last line of the chorus.

The Host looked up at the girl on the stage - she seemed so frail and small. But he could sense the energy now, sizzling under the skin. He wondered if anyone else had noticed - some of the patrons were shifting uneasily in their seats, as Joanne went into the next verse.

He had it now - he knew. Oh geez… The message in the song was behind the words, beyond them, but he knew.

He needed another drink - he swilled back the last one, and motioned at Max behind the counter. Then he fumbled in his coat pocket for a cigarette. He rarely smoked, but this was a well-deserved exception.

She began the chorus repeat, and he lifted the cigarette to his lips with a shaky hand. This was big - oh boy, this was big. How long had it been since the last one? He hadn’t exactly been counting off the years, but…oh well, it was irrelevant now.

He used a napkin to mop his brow as she finished off the song. Then, at last, it was over.

There was a short lull as the audience realised that it was finished, that the spell had been broken - then there was a thunderous round of applause and whistles. Harry emerged from the darkness at the side of the stage, and helped Joanne to descend. The Host nodded at the guy to bring her over, then gestured towards the stage manager to put on some soothing filler music. He didn’t know about the patrons, but he sure as hell needed it.

By the time he looked back she was standing in front of him, staring up at him sightlessly, eyes fixed on a point a little to his right, somewhere between his head and the back of the bar. When she wasn’t singing, the energy inside her faded almost completely, he noticed - his trembling now was only from the import of the message in her song.

He pouted at her crossly.

"Eyes for the blind, huh?"

Her smile was mischevious

"Yeah, I always liked that line."

She put a hand out towards him, sensing his anxiety.

"Are you okay?"

He used another napkin to dab the sweat off his upper lip.

"Sure honey, I’m fine. You make a heck of an entertainer though - really bring the house down, as it were."

She looked almost sheepish then

"Not literally, I hope."

He rolled his eyes

"Yeah, we all hope. But I guess we’ll see about that."

"I guess so."

She said it with a tinge of sadness - he sighed, and gazed down at her sympathetically.

"So, where you headed now? Spreading the word around I guess, huh?"

She nodded.

"That’s the idea. I’m done here in L.A. I’m heading for the train now - see where the road takes me."

And he could think of where, too. A sleepy little Hellmouth hamlet…

"Well, break a leg."

"Thanks."

She smiled at him, and reached out her hand again to shake. He took it, amazed by its warmth, its humanness.

"Thanks for the open mike. And good luck."

Lorne sighed, regarding her ruefully as he released her hand.

"Yeah - we’ll need it. And I guess I should say thanks, for the warning."

Then they exchanged final smiles, and Joanne took the guitar and bag proffered by Harry and headed for the door. The Host noticed now how she weaved between the tables with ease. He snorted, and shook his head.

But now it was over, she was gone, and there were more important things to do. He gestured to Max again for the phone, and when it was settled on the bar he raised the receiver and hit the rapid-dial button. It rang a couple of times before a cheery voice sounded at the end of the line.

"Hello, Angel Investigations - we help the hopeless."

He didn’t want to waste time, so his voice was curt.

"Hi, hon, it’s me. Look I have some news - is Angel around?"

oOo

8.12pm

He didn’t know what to do - as much as he wanted to avoid the place, it was probably necessary that he go by the Magic Box, see if Old Tweedman was still around. Spike sighed at the thought of running into Buffy. They’d be closing up shop there now, but there was still a distinct chance that she’d be hanging about.

"Oh, bloody hell," he muttered, as he grabbed up his coat and left the crypt, carefully skirting the small pile of ash on the grass outside. He gave the bicycle a cursory glance as he passed - he could sell it off later to some hapless patron of Willie’s, if he didn’t get lucky and come back to find it stolen. The tobacco he would toss into the nearest bin.

The distance between the cemetary and the shop seemed very short, Spike thought, when he was contemplating meeting the Slayer at the end of the trail. He tried very hard not to let the idea get to him - but if he’d had a pulse, it would have been racing. This was ridiculous.

He reached the door of the shop and stood for a moment with his hand on the doorhandle, then took a needless but nonetheless reassuring breath before turning it. Head high, thoughts very much elsewhere, he nearly ran into Anya as she was leaving.

"Oh, hi Spike."

The ex-demoness smiled at him cheerfully. She was still shrugging on her coat, purse in one hand.

"We’re, uh, closed - but I guess you know that. And Buffy isn’t here."

Well, thank the gods for small mercies.

"Uh, yeah, hi. I was just stopping by.

He held the door for her as she struggled to do too many things at once.

"Actually, I was wondering…"

"Oh, Giles is still inside."

Anya nodded towards the innards of the shop, finally manouvering into her coat. She hitched her purse over one shoulder.

"He’s busy with a little cleaning up. And I’d love to stay and chat, but you know, I do have a man to get home to and everything."

She smiled again, obviously pleased that she could say so.

"Uh, right - good for you, pet. G’night then."

Spike nodded politely. He was about to move around her and duck inside - Anya had shifted to the pavement for the walk home - when she suddenly turned and snagged his gaze.

"Ah, Spike… you know, I think you should talk to Buffy."

Her look was amiable, but meaningful all the same.

Spike nodded at her, trying to look contrite.

"Oh - sure. I’ll have a word as soon as I see her."

Anya peered at him through narrowed eyes.

"Great. But that’ll only work if you stop avoiding her."

Spike looked taken aback.

"Pardon?"

The auburn-haired girl levelled her gaze at him.

"Spike, her mom’s sick - she needs all the support she can get. Especially yours - god knows why."

She added the last with a raised eyebrow. She took in his perturbed expression, then shrugged and re-holstered her purse.

"You can figure it out. But I have to go now - see ya."

And she strolled off into the dark with a casual wave.

Spike watched her retreating back with a look that travelled from vexed, to confused, to downright disgruntled. Then he shook his head, and pushed through the still-open door.

The bell tinkled as it closed behind him, and he was back in the shop. He wrinkled his nose - granted, he’d been steering clear of the place for a while, but it seemed to have gotten even more musty-herb-smelling than he remembered.

He loped down the steps, casting around for Buffy’s Watcher, then spotted him over by the back bookshelf, a weathered tome in one hand, which he was leafing through absently, and the handle of an equally worn broom in the other.

Giles looked up quickly when he realised that he was being observed. His mouth thinned ever so slightly when he noticed his observer.

"Hello, Spike. It’s been a while."

Spike nodded in reply, taking in Giles’ face and tone. There was a welcome there, but caution, and suspicion. He had a feeling that Giles had noticed the vampire and the Slayer sniffing around each other a month ago - they’d tried to be discrete, but Giles’ Watcher-sense must have been alerted all the same.

Spike had recognised that look - the ‘I’m not sure what you’re up to, but I’m going to find out’ look. Either way, Giles must know that something was up, just on the evidence of Spike’s absence and Buffy’s bad temper, although the last could always be put down to the business with her mum.

Spike cursed himself now for being so stupidly obvious. He was known as a creature of habit, and when those habits changed, people were bound to notice. Bloody hell - even Anya had noticed, and she was as dim as an old lightbulb.

Inwardly, Spike shuddered. He didn’t fancy having one of those talks with Giles - the ones where he played cagey, and the Watcher gave him those Ripper looks. But Giles would walk over hot coals for his blonde charge, and as much as he understood Giles’ position, Spike was in no mood for negotiating the Watcher’s fatherly impulses.

"She’s not here - she’s gone home with Dawn and her mother.

Giles closed the book with finality, punctuating his stiff words, and leaned the broom up against the research table.

Anticipating his question. That was a bad sign. Oh well, better to cover with a bit of a yack.

"Mum’s still poorly, then."

It wasn’t a query, but stated flatly. In spite of his tone of voice, Spike’s face was sympathetic.

"Yes - her tests results aren’t back yet."

Giles’ expression stated plainly that he wondered what the vampire knew, or if he cared. Spike had been keeping his distance since Joyce’s condition had deteriorated, which Giles thought was rather bad form. His voice was quiet.

"We’re all hoping for the best."

But expecting the worst. Spike didn’t think it would be a great idea to say it aloud. Instead, he nodded, as courtesy demanded.

"’Course."

Giles seemed to tire of the small talk. He sighed, and repositioned the book he was holding in it’s space on the bookshelf.

"So, Spike, was there something specific you wanted, or…did you just come to chat?"

Spike gave a pained twist of a smile

"Right. Got some info for you actually, something I wanted to discuss with you. I’ve had a visitor."

"A visitor?"

The vampire’s comment about a discussion put Giles off his guard.

"Yeah - of the flaming variety."

"Come again?"

In spite of himself, the Watcher’s expression was frankly curious.

Spike moved to the research table, perched himself on the edge, and put one foot up on a chair. To Giles, it looked strangely like the vampire was nervous. He was focussed now on straightening a cigarette that he’d pulled from the seemingly never-ending supply in his pocket. He looked up at Giles with a serious face, his eyes dark.

"What do you know about the Gatherings?"

Giles frowned. What an odd question. He shrugged.

"Very little - only what’s been written in the Council papers. It’s a legend, isn’t it?" If Spike had dropped by to discuss ye-olde-worlde vampire lore after closing time, he was going to be -

"Yeah, well I have a feeling it’s a bit more than that. And I hope you know more about it than you’re letting on, or we could be stuffed," Spike said flatly.

He lifted the cigarette to his lips and lit it. Giles noticed with alarm that the vampire’s hand was faintly trembling.

"Go on."

Spike exhaled smokily.

"Well, I only know what I’ve been told - and pretty garbled stuff that was too. I guess I thought it was just a fairy story or something - y’know, Good and Evil, dicking it out in the big showdown…" He gazed off into the dark corners of the shop.

Giles was actually getting worried now.

"But you’re saying - what, that it’s real?"

Spike sighed.

"Ah, I don’t know." He waved at Giles with his cigarette. "What does the Council say about it?"

Giles frowned, searching his encyclopedic mental store-house.

"Well, not much really. I don’t remember exactly, I’ll have to examine -"

He had started to go around the counter for the office, but Spike gestured for him to stay.

"Later. What do you remember about it now?"

"Let me think."

The Watcher removed his glasses, as if impaired vision helped his memory.

"A Gathering is supposed to involve all the supernatural forces from both sides of the spectrum, both Good and Evil. Basically, each force comes together en masse, and er, as you say, dicks it out." His brow was creased with concentration. "There’s supposed to be some kind of early warning about it - portents of some kind, I expect. Messages are sent out…"

"Right."

Spike grinned humourlessly, and took another long drag from his cigarette.

"Well, you can cross that of your list."

Giles came closer, staring at Spike as if he’d suddenly grown three heads.

"Do you mean to say that you’ve had…a message?"

"Yeah - a message, a portent, whatever."

Giles straightened and re-fixed his glasses solemnly, staring at the vampire.

"Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning."

"Sure. You go fetch your little books and things - we can compare notes."

Giles nodded absently as he fumbled back towards the office.

He’d always been told that Gatherings were legends - apocryphal tales. But something in Spike’s manner had him on alert.

The vampire wouldn’t lie about something like this, he thought. And, with a chill, he remembered something else - supposedly, a Gathering was a pre-apocalyptic event. Giles reached out for the relevant books, noticing that his hands had gone cold.

He had a small stack of notes balanced on one hand when Spike’s voice sounded out from behind him.

"And bring out that Scotch, and a glass, while you’re at it. Don’t know about you, but I need a drink."

Giles snorted, but added the decanter and a pair of glasses to his pile. If what Spike said was true, the vampire wasn’t the only one who’d be needing a drink.

oOo

They were still poring over the books a few hours later, when Buffy rocked up.

She let herself in so quietly that Giles didn’t notice until she’d walked up behind them. She watched the bizarre spectacle for a moment - Giles, in rolled shirtsleeves, a scotch glass in one hand, talking in low tones to Spike, who was leaning over the back of his reversed chair, duster in a neat pile on the floor at his feet, white hair gleaming in the dim light of the shop. He had his elbows on the table and was leaning on his chair-back, head resting on one hand, a cigarette in his fingers threatening to singe his split ends. Buffy closed her eyes briefly as a pain rose unbidden inside her.

Shut up - she told the pain furiously - just get lost. You don’t care, you are an ice-queen - aloof and unaffected. Just get over it.

She composed her face and then her voice, edged with sarcasm, broke into a lull in the muttered conversation.

"Well, hello there. What’s this, a bit of late-night cramming?"

Giles started in his chair.

"Oh, Buffy, it’s you." He gave her a look, saying exasperatedly, "You really shouldn’t do that, you know - it takes years off my life."

"Sorry."

Spike had known she was there, sensed it the moment she’d arrived. He tried to stay cool, turning to give her a civil nod. His first ridiculous thought, however, was that, in spite of the last few stress-filled weeks, she was looking pretty damn fantastic, even in and old pair of jeans and a loose sweater. His skin was prickling just from being in such close proximity to her. Settle down there, son….

"Slayer."

"Spike."

Buffy was being equally civil. But her voice held no warmth, and her eyes took in his presence with a steely glint.

"So what brings you here?"

He felt an odd sting inside somewhere at her blatant antagonism, but he kept his face neutral.

"Come to see your Watcher about something. It’s important - you might want to park and have a listen." He nodded towards a chair on his right.

Buffy folded her arms across her chest.

"Thanks - I’ll stand."

Spike only just prevented himself from rolling his eyes.

Buffy’s frosty gaze passed over him to her Watcher.

"So, what’s the biggie this time, Giles?" she sighed. "New demon? Hellmouth opening? End of the world?"

Her flippant tone altered when she caught sight of Giles’ expression, the look that he and Spike exchanged.

"What - what is it?"

Giles pulled out a chair on his side of the table.

"Buffy, I really think you should come and sit down. This matter concerns you too."

With a frown and a reluctant look at Spike, the Slayer stalked forward and plonked herself into the chair.

oOo

Meh. Why did he have to be here? Buffy thought grumpily.

She’d come over to use the training room before patrol, hoping that Giles and everyone else had gone home. Dawn and her mom were tucked up in the living room, watching tv, but she’d felt a restless need to come and beat the crap out of something. Her angst level had been building up all day, and she needed the release.

She banished the stray thought with a mental kick, and settled herself in the hard chair, drawing one sneakered foot up underneath herself. Giles was talking, and it was obviously important if Fang-face had roused himself out of hiding to come and chew it over.

She sighed.

"Sorry, Giles, what were you saying?"

"I was saying," Giles went on, frowning at her, "- that we seem to have come up against something new. Or rather, not new, but definitely a problem."

Spike snorted into his scotch at the understatemnt. He was keeping his eyes down, away from Buffy.

"What kind of problem?"

"I’m not sure exactly," Giles said. He had loosened the collar of his shirt and removed his tie - it was hanging off the back of his chair. The look of frustration he was wearing now was aimed at the open pages littering the table.

"There doesn’t seem to be much about it in the literature I have available. There’s oblique references, but the Council seem to have either limited knowledge of it or they’ve expunged the records -"

"Records about what?" My god, Buffy thought, getting a straight answer from Giles sometimes was like trying to get blood from a stone.

Her Watcher sighed and turned to face her.

"It’s called a Gathering. From what I can make out, it involves a coming-together of the forces of Good and Evil in a kind of final showdown. It’s meant to be a test - but a test of what exactly, I… I don’t know."

It wasn’t the first time Buffy had seen her Watcher looking so serious, but this time he seemed to be genuinely confused. She softened her tone and sat a little straighter.

"But we’ve been through stuff like this before, right? I mean, the Hellmouth opening and everything…"

Giles shook his head.

"This is bigger than that Buffy. It hasn’t occurred for hundreds and hundreds of years. It’s something old - ages old, so lost in memory that I’m having a hard time locating information in written texts. And there seems to be some kind of prohibition about writing down records about it. All we have to go on are word of mouth accounts, passed down through history - second and third hand information."

She looked at Spike - he was being curiously silent, pretending to leaf through a book in front of him. She turned her attention back to Giles.

"So what do we actually know?"

"Only that the beings who stand for both sides are drawn together at one location, and that there’s some kind of gigantic conflict when they meet."

Giles glanced at Spike, and back to Buffy.

"And that now it’s happening in Sunnydale, on Friday."

Buffy reared back, eyebrows raised.

"Whoah there! Here? On Friday? As in, a week away?"

"Yes," Giles said. He gave a shrug, as if he was trying to apologise for not finding out about it sooner.

Buffy cast a look at the vampire and back.

"And how does he know about this?"

"Spike had information about it from vampire legends. And he received a message about it this afternoon, from some kind of demonic entity - a Courier. I’ve managed to find some record of the Couriers, actually."

"Good for you," Spike threw in, dragging on his cigarette. He’d resolved to shut the hell up, but he couldn’t help himself.

Buffy leaned forward to see around Giles.

"Ah - it speaks."

Spike gave her a dirty look.

She chose to blow it off.

"So how did you get messed up in all of this again?" Her expression indicated that if Spike had something to do with it, then she heartily wished not to be involved.

The vampire leaned off the back of his chair, looking equally unhappy about the situation.

"Just like he said - got a message. I’m one of the bad guys, aren’t I? Force of evil and all that."

That gave her a pang. The bad guys… it had been a long time since she’d thought of Spike as one of the bad guys. Sure, she was fully pissed off with him now, but - Spike as a force of evil? She had a sudden flash of memory: Spike in full vamp-face, roaring in triumph when he thought he’d had the chip removed, looming over her, fangs bared…

She suppressed a shiver, and turned back to her Watcher.

"So how come he gets a message and we don’t? I thought you said it was an equal deal for both sides?"

"Well, that’s as far as we know -" Giles began.

"You’ll get a message, too, princess. It’s just a matter of time," Spike cut in. His face was hard - had he been watching her, as she remembered? Buffy didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about him.

Giles frowned at the vampire.

"What makes you say that?"

"S’obvious, innit? The demons all trying to get the jump on the good guys - not that it’ll make a hell of a lot of difference, when it comes to the Balance."

Buffy caught his eye, stared him full in the face for the first time since she’d sat down.

"What’s the Balance?"

Spike breathed out a long plume of smoke into the air, ashed his cigarette on the floor and faced her reluctantly. He gave up his fears with a sigh.

"You got it the first time, love. It’s the end of the world."

oOo

11.29pm

Giles closed his eyes in the dark of the car, listening to the windshield de-mist, feeling the warm air from the vent blowing around his ankles, and wishing heartily for a nice hot cup of tea.

He thought briefly of today’s lunchbreak, and his quick stop at the Espresso Pump for a take-away coffee - he’d been looking outside the window, past the counter, and caught sight of something.

Nothing important, really. Just a man and a woman, both close to his own age, walking a small dog on the pavement outside, heading down Main street. It had been a terrier - or maybe a cross-breed of some sort. It wasn’t important. But it had given him a strange feeling at the time, and now he knew what the feeling was.

Regret.

He might have been like that - once. Walking down the street, taking in the sunshine in the afternoon. There’d even been an opportunity for it, when the Council had sacked him. An opportunity for a normal life.

He opened his eyes, stared out into the night outside the car, and thought about what that might have meant.

He sighed, and snorted at his own imaginings.

Instead, here he was. Sitting on the Hellmouth. Guiding the Slayer. Constantly contemplating vampires, sacred duty, and magic. A kind of life where the only hint of normalcy was a nice hot cup of tea at the end of a long day banging out the problem of yet-another apocolypse.

He lowered his head and knocked it against the steering wheel a few times.

He almost laughed then, at the mental image, and let out a pent-up sigh. Enough. Time to go home. He was tired. It had, after all, been a very long day.

He rolled his eyes, put the car in gear and eased out onto Main.

He’d offered to drive Buffy home, but she had declined, preferring to let out some energy in the training room. He thought about that. Something was obviously bothering her, apart from her anxiety over her mother, but she wasn’t prepared to tell him about it. He had an inkling though, which had been confirmed by her reaction to Spike when she’d first arrived.

Some sort of spat between the two of them…

He slapped the thought away, then changed gear as he rounded a corner, and forced himself to think back to it. Remembered Buffy’s icy tension over the research table. Remembered Spike’s seeming inability to meet Buffy’s eyes, the way he’d excused himself after the round-table discussion to skulk back out into the night. Buffy’s relief.

Yes, actually, it most definitely could.

Giles frowned into the dark, and thought some more. Had he noticed their behaviour changing? Yes, he had. And had he been studiously ignoring it? Reluctantly, he admitted that that was also true. Which, if he was supposed to be Buffy’s Watcher, was a frightful lapse of judgement on his part.

Now he was frowning at himself. He’d seen the odd friendship developing between the vampire and the Slayer, but some part of him (probably the British part, he groaned) had felt strangely loathe to bring it up. Some lingering ethical part of his personality which felt that Buffy’s personal life was her own business - and also a peculiar sense that he hadn’t wanted to put thoughts into her head that weren’t originally there to begin with. Buffy’s feelings for the vampire (or lack thereof) had been an unknown quantity, and Giles had fervently wanted it to stay that way.

Because, after all, it was rather obvious how Spike felt about all this. Giles’ brow creased, recalling the worrying looks he’d sometimes seen on the vampire’s face when he was looking at Buffy. Irritation, certainly - even annoyance. But blended equally with admiration. And something else, which the prude in Giles didn’t want to name but which was clearly spelt out.

Giles shuddered.

The idea that Buffy might return Spike’s emotions (if a vampire could be said to feel them, although that seemed to be rather academic) had been so far-fetched for so long that Giles had been happy to ignore any friendly alliance between the two of them. And Spike had been so useful as an ‘honourary’ Scooby - although doubtless he’d hate the title - that he’d had let the whole idea slide.

He realised suddenly that he’d been outrageously careless. He’d actually started to think of Spike as an ally. In fact, he remembered, he’d risked his own life for the vampire, on at least one occasion. He’d been thinking about Spike as a friend - not as what he was.

Not as a vampire.

And now, he remembered moments. Only moments - bare fractions of seconds, when he’d observed Buffy and Spike together, especially in the days after L.A. Glimpses out of the corner of his eye. There’d been times then when he’d wondered, and brushed it away as ridiculous.

Looks exchanged. An incautious word. A brushing of fingers. Whispers.

His breath hissed out in the warmth of the car.

He took the next corner rather too quickly, and brought his foot up off the accelerator, which he’d allowed to drift down. If he’d been able to knock his head against the steering wheel at this point he would have. Gladly. It wouldn’t have alleviated his feelings of guilt though.

He was on his home street now, and steadied the car. Tried to steady his thinking about all of this.

Right. There was nothing for it but to ask Buffy plainly. It might prove to be uncomfortable, but he had to know what the bloody hell was going on. And if it was still going on, to put a stop to it.

How could he have let this happen? A vampire and a Slayer…it was not only unbelievable, it was downright inconceivable. Bad enough that she’d fallen so hard for Angel the first time - but at least Angel had a soul. Spike certainly had no such claim to fame.

However long this…this situation had been going on, it was impossible that he allow it to continue. And if Spike and Buffy were having a tiff of some sort, then all the better to sever the link now, while there was an opportunity.

It wasn’t too late to remedy the problem - he hoped. Buffy would understand. She was doubtless conflicted about it in any case. And Spike - well, Spike had absolutely no say in the matter. And if he tried anything, he would have to get through Buffy’s Watcher first.

If it comes to that, Giles thought grimly, I’ll stake him myself.

He was nodding at his resolution of the latest quandary, so he nearly missed the flash of a pale shirt, and if he hadn’t been slowing on the approach to his house, he might have plowed right into the figure crossing the road.

As it was he had to swerve and brake so hard he heard the tires screech.

"Bloody hell!!"

The girl caught in the headlights couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen. She looked shocked at the near-miss, her eyes wide, mouth making a gasping ‘oh’.

Giles started to roll down the window, feeling his fingers faintly trembling at how close he had come to running this poor girl right over.

"Oh god - are you alright? Miss? I’m very sorry, I wasn’t… Miss? Are you alright?"

The girl swallowed and nodded soundlessly. Then she placed a tentative hand on the bonnet of the car - as if realising how close she’d come - looked up at Giles with a strange expression, and moved away down the street.

Giles blinked. How odd. And how bloody alarming. He sighed.

God, he was really ready for that tea.

He ran a hand through his hair, started the car again, and very slowly pulled away. As the car nosed forward, he wondered briefly what a young girl with a duffle bag and a guitar case was doing out wandering the Sunnydale backstreets so late at night. On the other hand, he probably didn’t want to know.

He ran the car into the garage, turned off the engine, and sat for a moment, until he felt calm enough to collect his keys and gear and head inside. The kettle awaited - a fact for which he was, after a day like this one, profoundly grateful.

oOo