Chapter Eight – Forever Tarry

They were in the kitchen. Two angels, a Watcher, and a vampire – a whole circus troupe’s worth.

It was impossible to say whether the angels ever needed to sleep. They always looked fresh, for some no-doubt heavenly reason. Even their clothes managed to maintain a recently-ironed appearance (except for Ray, but that was obviously a bit of window-dressing on his part) – creases stayed tight, collars and hems unstained and unfrayed, and there was a distinct lack of rumpling.

Lucky for some, Spike thought uncharitably.

But it didn’t matter; what did he care anyway? Angels could go through the Almighty DryCleaners four times a day if they pleased, he didn’t give a toss. He was both feeling and looking unpleasantly seedy, despite wangling a pitstop at the crypt earlier for a change of shirt, and was trying hard to convince himself that he’d rather be rumpled and seedy than angelically white-washed. Unfortunately, his current state of deshabille was a little too uncomfortable to be altogether convincing.

There was a crust of dried blood on the back waistband of his jeans, which kept scratching. And his back, which Willow had tended to briefly before she’d crashed out in exhaustion on the sofa in the living room, was itching like mad as it healed. The other cuts were almost closed over, but he still had black dried-blood streaks in his hair, on his face, all over the place. He needed a feed – not a major stretch, there was a leftover blood-bank baggie in the Summers’ fridge – and he needed sleep, he realised. He’d been pushing it, catching catnaps here and there over the past week. What he needed was about three or four hours of uninterrupted.

But at least he was back to basic black. He’d chucked the white button-down away, given that it not only wasn’t his style (or size) but, slashed up and covered in blood, it was by this stage little more than a rag anyway.

And at least he didn’t look half as bad as Rupert. The Watcher was drawn in the cheeks, and unshaven grit darkened the now harsher planes of his face unbecomingly. He couldn’t seem to stop cleaning his glasses – had them in his hand, rubbing the hem of his shirt over them at that very moment. Spike winced and looked away – presumably this obsessive-compulsive thing with the glasses was because Rupert was too distracted to remember such personal details as the fact that he’d only cleaned them five minutes ago.

The Watcher’s eyes were red-rimmed. Spike wasn’t sure if the man had been weeping, or if it was just exhaustion. Probably a bit of both, although Spike wondered when Giles had found the space and time to let out a bit of his own grief over Joyce’s death, in between dealing with hospitals, and official types, and calling people, and extra guests in the house (even if some of them didn’t get in the way or rumple much), and the Gathering business, and Dawn, and Buffy…

And Buffy.

Spike sighed quietly, and continued with what he was doing – standing at the kitchen sink, sponging blood off the back of his coat. The cut from Grace’s sword was long, but very neat; he could get it repaired easily enough. But not right now. Too much…stuff. Stuff to do.

He blinked out the kitchen windows, face feeling stiff and set, mouth mired in a grim line. The light was coming – there was a rosy glow bleeding over the sky from behind the house, and the air had that tinted shade of blue that signalled an approaching dawn. It was like looking at the world underwater. If he extended his senses more fully – if he could be bothered – he would hear the tinkle of spoons in coffee mugs as the early-bird Friday morning risers prepped themselves with cocktails of caffeine, over-sugared cereal, and sunrise television for the nightmare entry into commuter-hood.

Something interrupted. Background blather.

"…didn’t really seem happy about it, but she let him go? Spike, what did you make of it?"

"Hm?" He angled towards Giles with the red-tinged dishcloth in one hand. Not having really been listening, his reply was dry and a little short of helpful. "What? Oh, yeah. Grace. Near miss. But she choofed off at the last minute – hence the whole ‘me – not in a Hoover bag’ thing."

Giles, who looked like he’d passed the point of being able to deal with pithy comments, merely sighed and turned back to Michael.

"It doesn’t sound very typical of her, to get frustrated the way you mentioned."

Michael, who was sipping drip-filter coffee out of a thick-lipped mug, and seemed to be enjoying the change from tea, shook his head.

"It’s not. In fact, I can’t remember seeing her so obviously emotional in…well, a long time. But Spike is the objective, and she’s been thwarted twice now." He swilled the coffee around in the mug and considered. "I think knowing that she’s going to be forced to fight through her own kind to kill him has gotten to her. It must be confusing – we’re supposed to all be working towards the same goals."

"In that case, I’m glad that your goals and Grace’s have diverged," Spike said with a theatrically cocked eyebrow. He tossed the dishcloth back into the sink sans rinse, and began pulling his duster over his shoulders – mind the bandage. "I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be fighting all five of you. One rampaging Angel of Death is ample, thanks." His forehead knit together as he rummaged for a smoke. "What I can’t figure out is why is this bird still chasing after me? I mean, let’s face it – Gathering’s this arvo, there’s like a million other nasties in town, and she’s still getting all hot and bothered over yours truly."

Uriel was perched on a stool on the other side of the bench, still maintaining his permanent look of paternally frowning concern, but betraying something in his choice of beverage. A new carton of chocolate milk was open on the benchtop, and the angel was nursing a half-full glass.

"She’s still so ferocious then?"

Spike snorted and turned his back, stretching to expose the long rent in the leather from shoulder to ribs.

"What do you reckon?"

For a moment Michael’s eyes sparked with an invisible grin at the display, but he kept his face serious as he looked up at Uriel to confirm.

"I’ve never seen her so…intent. Her face, that sound she made…even her fighting style was off. And then she sliced right through me to get to him."

"Still pretty impressed about that, by the way," Spike noted with an upraised finger, head down as he helped himself to coffee.

Uriel was shaking his head, and examining his chocolate milk like it might hold a clue.

"It is strange. But Grace is such a single-minded creature…" His shrug was the closest Giles had seen to the angel admitting defeat on a subject. "I don’t really know what to make of it. At the same time, we’re not in direct contact with the Powers, and I don’t think we can possibly understand all her motivations."

If there was one thing about Giles - and it was something that had stood him in good stead when he was fighting his way through the early machinations of the Council – it was his ability to read between the lines. Uriel wasn’t saying much, but what he wasn’t giving away was probably crucial. The Watcher squinted over at the angel, his head tilting as he thought.

"You think that Grace sees something more in Spike. Something important. His relevance to the Gathering, to the Balance, could be more –"

"I just don’t know," Uriel interrupted with a sad headshake. "I’m sorry."

Giles let it drop – his face held an edge of curiousity and frustration, but there were obviously other things on his mind.

"Well," he sighed out heavily, "there’s nothing can be done about it just now. And Grace’s activities are not really of critical concern right at the moment."

"Speak for yourself," Spike countered with a glare.

"I mean apart from Grace being a danger to you." Giles clarified placatingly. His head dipped as he frowned. "There’s other problems…"

The Watcher took a sip of tea, and removed his glasses – Spike turned his head to spare himself the sight of Giles’ spectacle-cleaning ritual repeated ad nauseum.

His mouth twisted. He knew where she was – upstairs in her room, sitting on her bed, or maybe looking out the window, in whatever chair that Willow had put her in. Eyes hollow and sightless. Face closed. Expression a blank slate – dark, motionless, vacant, to the point where it made him want to rake his nails down that slate of a face just to get a reaction, something, anything…

Where Buffy really was was anyone’s guess. And the hardest part was the rather sickening realization of how self-obsessed he was, because he kept thinking that he should be able to rouse her – he loved her, remember? Didn’t that have any value? That a soulless demon could love her…surely that had to be earth-shattering, enough to wake her, to rumble her out of stupor. She should feel it in her bones, in her heart - the way he did, that painfulness ripping through him, tearing at each fibre, making him wince, his muscles twitching with the itch of it. Making him tremble, the way he trembled when he first felt her fingertips on his skin…

Spike remembered to take a final drag on his smoke before it ate itself away completely into a column of ash. More background blather.

"…tried everything?"

"Everything that I can think of, short of physical violence – and I don’t think that would be productive at this stage," Giles said, with a quick cautious look at the vampire.

Uriel was trying to find the edge somewhere in the situation. "And there’s no sign? Not even a glimmer…" He turned his gaze to Michael with an appeal. "Have you tried –"

But his compatriot was shaking his head, obviously having anticipated the question.

"I can’t do anything for her at this stage. Buffy’s locked inside her own mind right now – it’s where she feels safe. She could come out tomorrow, or in an hour…" Michael’s eyes softened helplessly as he took in the others’ expressions "…or she could be there forever."

"Well she’s not gonna be catatonic forever," Spike growled, thumping his coffee cup onto the counter in rather messy punctuation.

"You’ve spoken to her - " Uriel glanced at the vampire warily, "Will she respond?"

Spike was forced to give ground, shoulders slumping as he sighed, eyes drifting away towards the window as the morning light brightened the eaves outside

"Tried that already. Not had any more luck than Rupert or Michael there."

Uriel set down his cup of milk to run a hand through his springy salt-and-pepper hair. When he looked up again, it was with a renewed energy – but a grave, obstinately utilitarian energy that made Spike scowl.

"We need her back. Not tomorrow, not in an hour – now. The Gathering and the Balance depend on it."

Spike gave him a look of rampant disbelief combined with a generous helping of ‘fuck you’.

"I don’t give a flying fuck about the Gathering –"

"Spike." Giles’ face brooked no argument – part of it was that the man just looked so had it that Spike felt bad fighting back. The Watcher turned his gaze on Uriel with a mollifying look. "We’ll keep trying."

oOo

6.13am

On a practical level, it was Tara who had the harder job.

Buffy, who was so grief-stricken that she was beyond consoling, at least gave Willow the opportunity to rest. In fact there wasn’t a hell of a lot that Willow could do, apart from sitting beside Buffy’s listless figure, talking a little, encouraging Buffy to talk back.

Dawn’s coping mechanisms were much more external – the girl had never been one for retreat. Hysterical, her mother’s body cradled in her lap when they first arrived on the scene, Dawn had see-sawed between bouts of crescendo-ing weeping and exhausted lapses into stillness and sleep. Tara was getting pretty exhausted herself – she had her hands full with trying to be on constant call, giving comfort as best she could, and discretely moving all the sharp implements out of sight.

It was hard, being there as a comforter – although it was a role she was well accustomed to, it was draining, feeling the raw emotions trilling in the air, unable to provide much more than a soft shoulder and a gentle voice. But maybe, Tara figured, that was enough. What more could anyone do, in this situation? Nothing – nothing helped, no words of advice or well-meaning platitudes about death and grief. Nothing was going to bring her back.

Tara remembered too well the dark, glowering presence of her uncle standing behind her at the coffin, one horrible leaden hand on her shoulder, reciting the passage from the Corinthians as she studied her mother’s waxy face with a sense of disbelief, and a deep shocked detachment. ‘Blessed be the God and Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God…’

How she’d wished that he would just shut up…and something had coalesced then without her awareness, because Uncle Clay had pulled his hand away like he’d been bitten by a rattler, stammered into blessed silence, then turned and left her to contemplate her mother’s face for the last time.

Dawn hadn’t even been allowed that final contemplation – not yet. The last time she’d seen Joyce’s face was as her mother was lifted on a trolley into the back of the coroner’s car, and Dawn and her sister had stood on the sidewalk, hands clutching each other, faces blanched, staring and staring, before Giles ushered them both gently towards his car for the drive to the hospital.

Buffy was still talking at that stage, nodding and replying to the doctor’s questions in a quiet confused monotone. It wasn’t until they’d come home and she’d been kneeling on the living room carpet with a dishcloth, mopping up the drink that Dawn had spilled at the sight of Joyce on the floor, that she’d suddenly just…stopped. Like her clockwork had run down, all action and reaction slowing to nothing. Willow had noticed. tried to rouse her, and then just sat her up on the sofa, taken away the dishcloth gently…

Tara brushed her own hair out of her eyes and pushed up a from her chair as she heard the familiar sound of Dawn’s crying. Poor, poor Dawnie…it’s alright, it’s okay… Exuding a balm of peaceful energy from her very pores, Tara moved and took her spot on the side of the bed, reaching out to stroke Dawn’s hair, realizing that the girl was only half-awake – so hard, when there’s no relief even in sleep…

The sobbing hiccuped away softly until Dawn was just staring into the corner of the room, dark hair spilling over the pillow so that her too-pale face was framed in a velevety background of glossy brown skeins. When her voice swam up, thickly and quietly, Tara thought it sounded like it was coming from a million miles away.

"You went through this, didn’t you."

The girl was gazing away somewhere, nowhere. Morning sunlight was starting to drift in through the curtains. Tara considered the question briefly, surprised, but not disconcerted.

"Yes. Yes, I did." She felt her eyes soften a little as the memory filtered up…bubbles of pain. "It feels like a long time ago now."

"But…it’s not that long ago, is it." Dawn turned her head for the first time to regard Tara carefully. "What – about five years?"

"About that," Tara nodded tightly.

Dawn gazed at the red-haired witch sideways, assessing, wondering. Then she seemed to gather something inside herself.

"And you couldn’t…you couldn’t do anything for yourself, back then."

Tara frowned. "Couldn’t…" Understanding seeped through, and with it a whole new facial expression. The hand stroking Dawn’s hair stilled. "No, Dawn – I couldn’t. Not back then. Not even if it happened again today, I still couldn’t. You can’t just make it go away. That’s not how it works."

Dawn’s eyes teared again suddenly as her face contorted.

"You can’t? Not even a little bit? Please, Tara –"

"Dawn." Tara stopped herself from sounding as stern as she felt, then grimaced a little as she tried to explain. "Dawn, I know – it hurts. It really hurts so bad… But the hurt has a reason. I know it sounds stupid, but…this grief, it helps you later, you know? It makes you strong –"

"You’ll excuse me if that just sounds a bit too Oprah for me right now," Dawn interrupted dismissively as she rolled her face to the side again.

Tara let the frown take over as she looked down at the grieving girl on the bed. Better to stamp on this once and for all.

"Then think about this. The depth of your grief is a mark of your love and respect for the one you’ve lost. The depth of your grief…and how you get over it."

How long had Dawn been holding this secret hope? Of having her grief magically erased, or…worse? Tara watched Dawn’s face as the hope, no matter how far-fetched or unwise, was smothered – the girl began to cry again in earnest, looking between Tara and the window.

"It’s not fair! She just came home, and it’s not…it’s not fair…and I can’t – I don’t think I can –"

Tara leaned in as Dawn’s arms went up helplessly, gathering the girl for a hug.

"I know…honey, I know. It’s alright…shh, it’s okay…"

Pats. Hair stroking. Consoling noises. Gentle voice. Tara let herself slip into the rhythm of grief, and felt less ineffectual, although she knew that her efforts were little more than a drop in the ocean.

The muffled knock at the door wound itself through the sound of Dawn disjointedly mewling herself into quiet. Tara looked down to check – Dawn nodded slowly, pulling herself up into a seated position on the bed, and rubbing at her face with her hand.

The witch lifted her eyes to the door.

"Come in."

The door handle turned, and the door moved – but only a fraction. Whoever it was was having trouble. Then there was another little push, and Gabriel was standing in the open gap, shoulder nudging the wood, a tray with a plate and two steaming mugs balanced awkwardly in his hands. With a tentative look from Dawn to Tara and back again, he lifted the tray.

"Uh, hi. Is it okay if I…" Flustered, he took a step back. "Cause, you know, I can come back if you –"

Tara smiled gently to reassure.

"No, it’s okay, it’s fine. Come on in."

"Hi, Gabriel."

Tara looked back at Dawn quickly. The girl’s greeting was listless, but it was a definite improvement. Buoyed by the response, Gabriel took a step into the room and stood there fidgetting for a second.

"I got, um, hot drinks. And, um, cookies. If you want them, I mean. Michael said, maybe, you know, you both might like –"

He’ll be stuttering as bad as me next. Tara nodded and maintained the smile.

"That would be great. Thank you." Watching the angel grin, then fumble and search for an appropriate space to set down the tray, she stood and swept the piles of used Kleenex off the dresser and into a trashbasket, nodding her chin towards the spot. "Here. Just…yeah, that’s it. That’s great. And hey, no spillage. Thank you."

She watched him fuss over the tray, handing out the drinks to herself and Dawn with a nervous gentleness.

She watched him hand over Dawn’s mug with a delicate care, and wondered if he’d really associated much with humans before, for any extended length of time. It was something she’d noticed about him that afternoon at the dorm. He knew the mannerisms, and he had the lingo down pat, but there was just this edge of…something. Youthful naivete? Like a human teenager, it was like he was…practising, was maybe the right word. Practising being real. Trying out, testing his limits, what he knew in theory but what actually worked in reality.

Maybe just as interesting was Dawn’s response. Tired, haggard-looking, she still managed to give him a quiet lift of the lips. She’d brushed her hair away from her face, and sat up to accept her mug. Whatever Gabriel was doing, it appeared to be helping. He was offering her a cookie, and she took one, even though Tara knew for a fact that she wasn’t going to eat it. When he straightened to leave, Dawn looked almost disappointed.

"Okay, there you go."

"Thank you."

The little smile again. Tara watched the interaction with curiosity. Now the angel was flapping his hand towards the stairs, looking between the two women on the bed.

"Do you… Is there anything you need? Cause, I mean, I can get you anything you want from downstairs…"

"I think we’re okay," Tara smiled.

Gabriel looked hopeful. "You don’t want some breakfast, or something like…"

"I’m…not really feeling very hungry," Dawn admitted with a somewhat dispirited slump.

"Sure." Gabriel stopped the little blather-dance for a second, long enough to centre and take a breath, then he looked Dawn squarely in the face. "Dawn, I’m really sorry about your mother."

"Th-Thank you." But it was no use, she couldn’t help herself – no matter how she steeled her insides it was still too new, and the tears came out hotly just the same. With an angry scrub at her face, she stared into her mug. "I guess you’ve seen all this a million times before. You’ve been around so long, longer than Spike – you must be used to it."

The angel blinked and Tara watched him bite his lip with a wan frown.

"You never get used to it."

"You guys are all downstairs talking about the Gathering…" Dawn smeared her hand across her face again, then began picking at the handle of her mug, as if she could scratch off the porcelain enamel with just her thumbnail. "You must think I’m a real baby or something."

Her face crumpled again, and Tara immediately stood to walk around the end of the bed and come to Dawn from the other side, wrapping her in a warm, one-armed hug.

"Oh, honey – you know you’re not –"

But before she could continue, Gabriel had interrupted, propping himself on one knee beside the bed, looking at Dawn intently.

"We don’t think that - I don’t think that at all." He gave her a restrained smile as he reached forward to tuck a loose strand of long brown hair behind her ear. "I think you’re being incredibly brave."

Dawn sniffed, then puffed out a tired breath.

"Right. For some reason, contemplating the end of the world was easier than this…"

She blinked suddenly, and her eyes got oddly large and bright as she turned her head towards Tara. The blonde witch got the uneasy sense of cogs rolling round.

"Tara…you still need me for the protection spell, don’t you."

It wasn’t a question. But Tara was already inclining her head and frowning.

"We don’t have to use you, Dawn. I’ve been thinking about it a lot – it’s dangerous, and you’re tired –"

"I want to do it." Dawn cut in quickly, face firm. "I want you to explain to me how we’re gonna do it, all the details."

Tara considered for a moment. Dawn was right – they did need her. But it was a risk too; the girl was young, and on shaky emotional ground. And Tara just didn’t buy that whole ‘needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one’ crap – sometimes the insignificant ‘one’ ended up being the whole crux of the matter…

But it was difficult to say no, when Dawn looked more animated at this point than she’d been for quite a while. It could be important, not only for the Gathering, but for Dawn’s recovery from this trauma, that she have a purpose to fulfill, a goal to focus her energies on.

Tara thought carefully, trying to weigh the balances. She gave Dawn a hard, assessing look.

"You don’t have to do this, you know."

The girl took a deep breath in and met her stare bluntly. Any misgivings Tara had went a long way towards being erased.

"I want to. You need me anyway. The Gathering’s this afternoon…and I’m sick of crying."

oOo

The thought had occurred to Spike on other occasions, but it seemed particularly relevant at that moment. He was walking upstairs to go and sleep in Buffy’s room, and he was feeling quite tired – inasmuch as vamps get tired. But this seemed to be more a part of the cycle of hyper/downer which seemed to be his own system, unique to himself, something that the demon in him had exacerbated rather than created.

After the rush, the comedown. After the ride, the slow, frustrating feeling of walking through treacle.

Sometimes, after a full night of activity, he could feel almost relaxed, and the slow-down that started at dawn would seem to spread through his body in a gentle glow, until he felt almost warm, and he would stretch, and roll into bed, and put his hands behind his head and close his eyes with a satisfying sense of repletion.

But other times were just like the bumming-out flatline of post-high – like you’d just fallen in a dizzying, exhilarating swallow-dive from atop the tallest skyscraper in New York…then hit the concrete face-first with a sickening, flesh-slapping thud, every muscle squealing in agony, the bones in your face crunching into splinters, driving slivers into your brain…

Which, night after night, could make you kinda tired.

And make the boots you’re wearing clunk even more heavily than usual on the stairs.

He put his hand on the rail and tried to soften his elephant-tread, remembering suddenly that Dawn was supposed to be still in bed. She could be sleeping, or trying to get to sleep, or back to sleep, or something like that. The effort to stay quiet took him as far as the top of the stairs when he saw Gabriel, empty tray in hand, closing the door to Dawn’s bedroom with the kind of exaggerated nervous care that Spike remembered feeling on odd occasions when he was first turned and barely understood his own physical strength.

And naturally his first flaring-red rection was ‘strange boy leaving Dawn’s bedroom – kill first, ask questions later’, but he managed to stamp on that in the space of a jaw-clench, remembering Tara’s presence, and contented himself with giving Gabriel a suspicious once-over glance.

The angel countered with a polite, somewhat uncertain smile as he sidled past Spike, heading downstairs, and was completely taken aback by the grubby-looking vampire’s question.

"She doing alright then?"

Gabriel wasn’t quite sure what to say that wasn’t going to sound too glib.

"She’s…emerging," he said with a serious nod.

Spike just lifted his chin in acknowledgment, and Gabriel turned, feeling like he was being dismissed. Then the vampire’s voice made him look back.

"I look out for Dawn you know."

The sentence was left hanging in the air, barely inflected, with a blank accompanying expression, but there was no mistaking the meaning, and Gabriel wasn’t that naieve. But he wasn’t completely gutless either. He met Spike’s gaze evenly.

"I’ll keep that in mind."

Spike seemed to approve of the response – he nodded his head once then turned away, too shagged to bother with the rest of the pleasantries. Gabriel lifted his eyebrows – this job just gets weirder and weirder – and headed down the stairs.

Spike, meanwhile, had made it to the door to Buffy’s room with a sense of relief – at last, a chance to lie down – but waited for a beat with his hand on the doorhandle, hoping that he would walk in, and she would turn around, and her eyes would focus on his face, and he’d see that she had been crying but bloody hell she was awake, and then she would open her mouth and say –

Which wasn’t what she said at all, but it’s what he wished she’d said. That way he wouldn’t have singed his hand coming into the room. The shaft of light coming through the window was wide and, even so early in the morning, burningly bright, and Spike cringed and swore, and lifted the side of his coat up to cover himself. Then he staggered over to the window and pulled the curtains, cursing Willow’s inanity and lack of forethought, but understanding why it might have seemed sensible at the time. Because Buffy was sitting in an armchair in front of the window, looking out as the Sunnydale landscape brightened, not registering any change of expression or even blinking, but at least she wasn’t staring at the curtain like she was now.

He kneeled in front of her, watching her face carefully for any trace of conscious awareness, animation, but there was nothing. She looked like a waxwork at Tussaud’s, which he remembered was just a perverse burlesque when it had first started, a titillating peep-show…

And this grief of hers seemed almost as perverse. Catatonia – who ever heard of such a thing? Snap out of it, you silly bint… But he understood, in a way. They shared a common sensibilty like that, which was bizarre, but there you had it. The same sensibility that came out with words like ‘effulgent’…

Because how would he act if she died?

A constant threat, which he still stubbornly and arrogantly refused to contemplate. He’d probably be the same way – catatonic. And then he’d probably go out and try to get himself a nice suntan…

"Hey, love."

Words felt like they were being sucked into a vacuum, but it wasn’t an altogether pointless exercise. She was still in there. She could blink and wake-up right now. It was possible.

"Are you okay?"

He stroked her cheek gently with his thumb, his fingers drifting through the delicate hairs at her temple. Then he looked at the picture and frowned. Willow had changed Buffy out of the overalls and into a pair of loose sweatpants, had even wiped the demon goo off her neck and hands. But Buffy still had those plaits framing her face, lending a child-like helplessness to her blank expression that, though appropriate maybe, revealed a vulnerability to the world that she might not otherwise have liked.

He knew her understanding of vulnerability now, and it had been something of a shock to realise how closely it resembled his own – show people your vulnerable side and they tend to either pity you or play your weakness to their advantage. Neither of these positions was very comfortable, and whatever the problem it was usually better to just grin and endure it.

Yeah, he understood. And he appreciated that she might not like to still be sporting carefree kiddie braids in the wake of her mother’s death. So he reached out a hand, and carefully unwound the hair tie from one side then the other, then let his fingers loosen each braid gently.

It was like unfolding origami – a kind of hypnotic over-under, in-and-out that smoothed the features of his face. And at the end, he was running his fingers through soft strands of her hair, a pale-yellow curtain, like the silk from an ear of corn. Funny how the hair retained the memory of the braid, kinking gently even after he released it.

The result was Buffy, vacant, staring eyes filling up a wan face, with a fan of blonde, wavy hair the frame. Spike let his hand fall away, didn’t notice how it settled onto one of Buffy’s as if seeking reassurance, and just allowed himself to examine his work. There – it was done, but he wasn’t sure if it had had the desired effect. She still looked kind of exposed. But at least she seemed a bit less girlish, and possibly a little more comfortable with her hair out.

Hoping he’d done the right thing, Spike stood up with a slow sigh, and repositioned Buffy’s armchair so that she had a wedge of open window in front of her. If she had to stare, better to be staring at something. Then he half-staggered to the bed, the bed that she’d been so reluctant to make love on only the night before, and let himself drop onto it, butt first, then collapsing backwards with an exhausted and totally unnecessary out-breath. There was an accompanying twanging sound.

He kicked off his boots and shrugged out of his coat while still lying on the bed, then wriggled into a more comfortable position lengthwise. And then he was free to just lie there and look at her. And let his eyelids get heavy. And hope for the best.

oOo

He snaps awake, and knows what he has to do.

oOo

9.02am

Uriel looked at Rupert Giles with cautiously amused concern, then inclined his head towards the man with a thoughtful smile.

"What would you say if I told you that I could fix those glasses so you’d never have to clean them again?"

Giles glanced up, blinking, then took in his own methodical movements – handkerchief, one lens then the other, then back again… He stopped and replaced his spectacles over his wry expression.

"I’d say you could probably spare yourself the bother. I’m sure that within five minutes of any spell you performed I’d be back at it." He reached for his teacup with a weak grin. "I’m just relieved that I’ve found a healthy alternative to smoking or biting my nails."

He cleared his throat suddenly, as if to clear his own moroseness, and nodded at the papers on the kitchen bench before them, just a few sheets with some scrawled notes and diagrams that formed the basic battle plan.

"So, that’s pretty much everything? There’s nothing else we have to cover?"

"No. Well – yes, there’s one other thing we need to discuss."

"And what might that be?"

"Hm."

Uriel poured himself another chocoloate milk slowly, then frowned when the dregs of the carton only made it halfway up the sides of the glass. He rose to fetch another carton from the refrigerator, and somehow managed to maintain his air of gravity even as he spoke over the top of the fridge door.

"Mr Giles, you’ve been a Watcher for some time now, so I’m going to assume that you know a thing or two about prophecy and pre-ordainment, and other such matters."

"Well, yes, I suppose." Giles was squinting at him curiously now, feeling a dull pang of misgiving at the turn the conversation was taking. "What of it?"

"I don’t know if you’re aware, but the Gathering operates in a kind of similar way."

Psalter was settled back at the counter now with his milk, making the ordinariness of pouring himself a drink, the common-placeness of it, filter down into his words. Trying to take the sting out.

"It’s important that my friends and I be there. And it’s important that other members of this company maintain certain roles, including you – although I’m still not quite sure what Mr. Spike is doing involved in all of this…" He scratched his head for a second then went on. "But when I said before that we need Buffy awake, I wasn’t talking about her role in the battle. I was talking about her role in the Gathering itself."

Giles’ expression flattened out.

"So you’re saying that Buffy’s presence isn’t merely expected, it’s essential."

Uriel was nodding seriously, finally meeting the other man’s eyes.

"This isn’t about her fighting prowess. She could stand at the front of this company and not lay a finger on a single demon, but what’s important is that she’s standing there."

"Oh dear. I think I’m beginning to understand." Giles sat back heavily and pressed his temple with his fingers, the gesture revealing a wealth of frustration. "I wish you’d told me this sooner."

"Would it have helped?"

"Well – well, maybe not," Giles conceded, then shot Psalter an irritated glance. "You might have told me all the same."

"I apologise." Uriel looked genuinely contrite. The milk-moustache could have contributed. "I just…didn’t want to panic you unduly. But time is getting short, and if you know a way to wake Buffy up – traumatically or otherwise – I suggest you use it."

"I know a way."

The interruption of a new voice, so close at hand, made Giles start and both men glance up. Spike, still looking a little bloodstained, dusty and tired, was leaning against the kitchen lintel bonelessly, seemingly engrossed in the process of lighting a fag.

"Would you please not do that?" Giles said in wan remonstration.

"Made you jump, eh?" Spike glanced up with a hint of his usual spark, deliberately ignoring the possible reference to his smoking habits. He slouched towards the kitchen bench and pulled up a stool. "Still got the touch then. Light feet."

"And fingers," Uriel muttered, plucking the pink plastic lighter out of his hand. "Doesn’t this belong to Ray?"

Spike shrugged.

"You want to know how to wake up Buffy or not?"

"We assumed you were getting to that," Giles said, eyes flicking over Spike with curiosity. Interesting how now she’s always Buffy, not just ‘Slayer’.

"Yeah, well, I was. I am. I mean, I know how to wake her up." Spike ashed into a stained tea-saucer and gave Giles a careful look. "Don’t know if you’re gonna like it though."

Giles’ hackles rose.

"And why is that?"

"Because he wants to Awaken her."

Another voice, from a different corner. Giles started again as Angel opened the basement door enough to slide through.

"Gah."

"Sorry."

Giles was genuinely pissed off now.

"Either of you pull that stunt again and I’m getting matching cow bells for your respective necks."

Spike had ‘just try it’ written all over his face, but the expression was competing with a look of abject contempt as he watched Angel ease into a place on the opposite side of the bench. The expression was returned with equal venom. Both vampires were looking at each other like they were waiting for a siren to go off. Giles rolled his eyes and inserted his teacup in the intervening space, imagining the furious blue and red glow of Japanese fighting fish.

"Gentlemen, if you don’t mind…"

Spike ignored him, smiling thinly at his rival.

"Thought you were at Willy’s."

"I came back," Angel countered quietly. His hands were in his pockets as he leaned against the fridge. "You’re still lurking around, are you?"

The corners of Spike’s mouth dropped and his eyes went hard as marbles.

"Why wouldn’t I be?"

"Of course – why wouldn’t you be?" Angel’s suave stare became piercing, and his voice was a subtle hiss. "Plenty of grief and misery for you to feed on, you must be having a ball –"

The words were hardly uttered before the blonde man struck. Giles felt a breeze pass him but hardly saw the blur, and only realised that Spike had lunged across the bench when the supposed-ashtray flew by his elbow to shatter on the floor. And by the time he looked back up, an interesting tableau was suspended over the counter, bare inches from his face – Angel, fangs bared, pulled halfway across the bench by the collar, his fists curled into the lapels of Spike’s leather coat, the younger vampire blanched ivory with thinly contained fury, game-face contorting his features as his right hand throttled his rival and his left hand pulled back in a fist…

…and between them a distinguished-looking African-American man, calm and unruffled, with his right hand restraining Spike’s blow and his left hand pushing back Angel’s shoulder. Giles narrowed his eyes, mentally losing track of a calculation of exactly how fast you'd have to be to out-manouever two master vampires.

"Gentlemen." Psalter’s tone was brusque. "End it. Right now. Or, if you prefer, I can show you both the door and you can finish this outside."

Spike’s eyes broke contact with Angel’s momentarily to flick to the curtained kitchen window and back. And the dark-haired man glanced at the rectangular pattern of sunlight on the wall high above Spike’s head. There was a beat, and then by mutual agreement they released each other, lathing on the hate-filled glares but hands out and obediently open as they broke off and eased back into their separate corners. Psalter smiled, pleased.

"Excellent. I’m glad you both see it my way. Now –" He turned the full force of his clear gaze on Spike. "- how exactly were you planning on rousing Miss Summers?"

"Like he said," Spike muttered tightly, not looking at the other vampire, "I’d have to Awaken her."

Uriel looked over at Angel expectantly.

"And what does that mean, specifically?"

"Specifically," Angel spat out bitterly, staring daggers at the blonde, "it means that he’d have to bite her."

"What?" Giles sat up sharply, then frowned. "Wait…actually I know what he’s talking about."

Uriel caught his considering expression.

"And this will help how?"

"It’s…from what I know, it’s a way of raising new fledgling vampires after they’ve been turned, when the transition from death to unlife is particularly difficult. It evokes a link between vampire and fledgling…" Giles was rubbing his forehead, obviously trying to dredge up a memory, but he still found time to scowl sideways at Spike. "And I’m not sure how it’s supposed to help in this situation either."

Spike sighed, trying to be forbearing but finding the role rather confining.

"It’s a calling back – don’t you get it? The link is the key, but the bite is the trigger –" He shrugged, thinking about it. "Kind of like a psychic slap in the face, I guess."

Angel grumbled darkly near the fridge.

"I’ll give you a - "

"Don’t start," Uriel shot back, holding up a hand and keeping his eyes on Spike. "But Buffy’s not a vampire – and I hope we’ve established by this point that turning her is out of the question."

The man’s voice was so dry it practically crackled on the air. Spike just rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t ignore the jibe.

"And I hope we’ve established by this point that turning her is the last thing on my mind. She doesn’t need to be a vamp. It’ll still work."

I think. He tried to mask a lack of confidence with sincerity. He really had no idea whether an Awakening would do the trick or not. He’d seen it done, heard about it…the rest was just luck and guess work. And a dead woman had visited him in his sleep to suggest the idea, so he figured that had to be good for something.

"But you have to bite her," Giles said flatly.

Spike took in the Watcher’s grim expression, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. A ritual was a ritual – you didn’t fuck around with that stuff like that. Things could get messy. As opposed to…

"Yes, I have to bite her."

"But you haven’t shared blood," Uriel noted.

"No, but we’ve –" Spike straightened and stared at him pointedly. "We share something else."

"I think you’re taking a few liberties –" Giles said with stringent emphasis, " - with the concept of psychic links between vampires and their kin. Not counting the already noted fact that Buffy’s not a vampire."

"No, but she’s a Slayer – she’s already got the psychic mojo happening," Spike explained, waving a couple of fingers at his head in loopy demonstration.

He ignored Angel’s continued glaring, and looked at the other two men with impatient expectation. Should’ve just gone and done it, none of this decide-by-committee rubbish… But there was always the chance that it wouldn’t work, and he knew Giles too well to trust it to luck. Fighting off the apocolypse with one of those stake-sized holes in your chest could be a real pain in the arse. He put his hands in his pockets to stop himself from fidgetting.

"So what do you think?"

"I’m…I’m not sure," Giles frowned.

Angel cut in abruptly.

"I think Spike’s been trying to bag his third Slayer for years, and this is just an appetizer."

"Nobody asked you," Spike snapped back.

Giles squinted at Angel for a moment.

"Do you mean you think it’s a bad idea generally, or a bad idea because Spike’s involved? And I might ask how you knew that he would bring it up?"

"Cause he thought of it himself," Spike said, stating the obvious with an irritated growl.

There was nothing he could do to deny it, so Angel just scowled at Spike and tried to explain to Buffy’s Watcher.

"It seemed like a possible idea. I checked a few books in the Magic Box as well. But," he amended with a black look at the other vampire, "I really don’t think that Spike is the ideal candidate –"

"Oh, and you’re such a prime specimen, are you?" Spike plucked a cigarette from his pocket and lit up with elaborate disdain. "Yeah, you do the ritual, that sounds great – right up to the part where you bite Buffy and that little raincheck clause kicks in, and then you turn into an obnoxious prick and eat all her friends."

Angel ante-ed up smoothly as he took a step closer.

"Well, at least you don’t have to worry about turning into an obnoxious prick – you’re already there."

"And don’t you forget it," Spike snarled.

"I’m confused," Uriel muttered wearily, stepping forward again with a sigh to part the combatants.

"It’s a long story," Giles replied, looking equally tired. "Suffice to say that Angel can’t Awaken Buffy without risk to his soul. Spike is in a better position to do the ritual. And…" Giles conceded gently, "…if what Ray said is true then Spike is the proper candidate in any case."

Spike’s expression softened with the admission. He nodded at Giles in gruff appreciation.

"Why?" Angel said, bewildered.

"I’ll tell you later," Giles waved at him, trying to control his sudden sense of fatigue. "At the moment, I think that if we’re all in agreement then we’ve no time to waste. We should perform the ritual now. Uriel?"

The angel was already nodding.

"By all means, the sooner the better."

"Like right now?" Spike said, taken aback. It was one thing to have the idea, but…

But Giles was already repositioning his glasses and rising from his stool. He extended a hand from Spike to the stairs.

"After you, I assume."

oOo

For one thing, it was disconcerting. And secondly, it was…well, it was private, wasn’t it? He didn’t exactly need an audience. He might cop one of those blind-siders for his trouble – unlikely, but not out of the question, considering that he’d once had one just by thinking about whacking Harris over the head, so anything was possible. Or Buffy might wake up and go into convulsions or something – in which case having others on hand was probably a good idea, he reluctantly conceded. Or…or something else could go wrong, or –

Or what would more likely happen would be that his own knees would start knocking, and when his fangs sank into her neck every bloody person in the room would hear him moan in ecstasy…

God, it had just been so long. In fact, twenty-four hours on pig’s blood was too long, but there you had it. And he wasn’t a mindless idiot – he might not have tasted warm, living human blood for a long time, but he still had a modicum of self-control. Nobody was going to have to pull him off her. That was one thing he was certain of.

He just couldn’t be one hundred percent sure of how he would react. And they were all just standing there – Uriel, Rupert, and the big poof. He had to draw the line somewhere.

"Right. Everyone out. Into the hall, the lot of you."

"What’s the matter, Spike – a touch of performance anxiety?" Angel murmured with a snarly grin.

"No," Spike returned acidly, "but you’re giving me a headache."

"I want to be on hand for this," Giles raised his voice a notch. "I’m not entirely convinced it’s going to be effective."

"You and me both," Spike clipped off. "And you’ll still be on hand, just six feet further away."

Uriel shrugged and moved out of the room and into the hall; Angel tried staring Spike down for a second, but the younger man was having none of it.

"Get out. Give the lady some privacy."

Giles stepped into the breach and pushed Angel gently toward the hall, flicking his eyes at Spike in a way that read ‘this had better work’.

And if the blonde vampire’s heart could have hammered, it would have been staccato-ing out morse code to the same effect. He turned his back to his audience with a deliberate twist on his heel, and stared at Buffy’s armchair.

But his fingers were twitching more than a little as he took the few strides to the chair and stood in front of the Slayer with the gaunt, unfocussed gaze.

There were no special invocations, no words of power. It was a simple cause-and-effect thing – focus, bite, extend your mind, call her back. And he had no idea how it was supposed to go, but he had to start somewhere. He took one of her hands gently and gave a delicate tug.

"Buffy…love, you have to stand up now."

And she did.

So he kept her steady with a hand on her tiny waist, the fingers of his other hand still entwined with hers. She looked so...listless. Deader than he was. Very vulnerable – the vulnerable again. He lifted the waist-hand and tilted her chin up gently so she was looking into his face

and her eyes looked so utterly glassy that he almost despaired then, but he frowned to guard himself, and brushed her hair off her neck. His fingers were trembling, and even to him they felt icy cold.

His eyes strayed from her face to her throat, pulse drumming there, and it was his undoing: he moved as if entranced now, losing awareness of their audience, of the room, whether it was day or night, every extraneous fact that wasn’t her skin, her scent, the heat that she exuded, the blue vein at her neck, the blood blushing there and

his stomach clenching convulsively as his head drifted down, and his eyelids fluttered closed, and she smelled so intensely, deliciously wonderful that

his fangs extend of their own volition, and he can feel his groin flare and harden as his lips brush against the soft vellum of her neck, and his hand on her waist is squeezing tight and her fingers in his must be bruising but he doesn’t care

which feels like a kind of betrayal and makes him stop a hair’s breadth from biting down, long enough for a lifetime, long enough to whisper hoarsely, "Buffy…love, I’m so sorry…"

before he opens his lips and sinks into her, that first gentle pop as the skin breaks, teeth sliding in smoothly and then that first wash, that hot piercing draught

gliding over his tongue filling the hollows of his mouth, and he lets it fill him, and groans, whimpers, it’s so perfect, so rich and sweet and fuck

and your eyes roll back in your head as the transfusion makes you jerk, and an involuntary moan

like the vein under your lips jerks, your fangs slide loose and you close your mouth just in time to catch the last addictive drops, throat swallowing on automatic

and he noticed the dull glow of daylight behind his eyelids

but consciousness was returning, and with it an awareness of two things: one, that Giles and the others had crossed the boundary he’d set and were now standing arrayed behind him, and two, that the steel cables around him were Buffy’s arms, around his neck, around his back. She was panting. She was staring at him, but she was blinking, and her eyes were flicking all over his face. And she looked terribly pale, but alert.

And that was about all he had time to register, except for the explosive blazing happiness in his chest, before she moved faster than a snake, whipped back a hand and slapped him sharply across the face.

He let his head come back around slowly, taking in her expression. Shocked, scared, distraught – and awake. She looked wild-eyed at blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth – a blend of Spike’s and her own – and burst into tears.

His first instinct was to grab her and pull her close, as close to his chest as he could get.

"Not quite the reaction I’d been expecting, love," he muttered roughly into her hair, "but it’ll do."

oOo

10.09am

Hands moving evenly, fingers warm and relaxed on the plates, not fumbling, a kind of preternatural calm…

"You want mayonnaise?"

Dawn pulled the jar out of the fridge with an expectant look, to meet Buffy’s answering nod, even though her sister had her hands too full of bread and butter knives to make eye contact.

"I want everything. The pickles too."

"I thought you hated pickles?"

"Today," Buffy said emphatically, "could be my last chance to like pickles. I’m giving them one final window of tastebud opportunity."

She kept buttering. It was soothing, in a warmly domestic way, in spite of the fact that she’d never really gone in much for the whole domestic deal. Giles had discretely inquired if she’d wanted him to go out and fetch takeaway but she’d objected, saying that she preferred to do it herself. For said reasons, as a calmative, but also in consideration of the fact that this could be her last meal on earth, and ergo, the banality of food preparation might soon take on the characteristics of a late lamented memory.

Even if it was only sandwiches. She’d offered the grilled cheese option – trying to satisfy everyone, Dawn’s predilection for greasy toppings and Giles’ preference for a hot lunch included – but everyone seemed happy with white sliced and cold cuts.

But she wasn’t really cooking for ‘everyone’ anyway. She’d dispatched Tara and Willow back to their dorm, after extracting a promise that they’d both get some sleep, Tara in particular. Then she’d encouraged Uriel, Gabriel and Angel away to the Magic Box. ‘Thank you’s all round. Right now Giles was in the hall, phoning Xander and Anya to remind them that they had to meet Ray at the shop for weapons prep around town.

But the first thing she’d done – the first thing, after a mental absence of nearly twenty hours, and now suddenly feeling as clear as glass – was to let Spike shoo everyone out of the room, and then have a good bawl. He hadn’t said anything, just sat beside her on the bed with one arm around her, letting her water his t-shirt for the better part of half an hour. Occasionally he’d given her little pats, or rubbed her back, or made gentle rumbling noises that she took to be his version of ‘there there’. No ‘never mind, don’t cry’, or ‘it’s alright’, or ‘buck up, you’ll be okay’ – none of that crap, for which she felt a profound relief. And when the initial tsunami was over, she could still look him in the eye, feel dignified, see how her grief caused him some degree of pain…see that he missed her mother too.

Then it was just a matter of finding a sweater that covered the enormous Spike-induced hickey on her neck, and splashing some water on her face in the bathroom – a quick prepatory look at herself in the mirror: stocktake: Eyes – red, Face – haggard, Hair – still in hideous kinky mode from scarcely-remembered braids.

Her image had blinked back at her for a momentarily forlorn second.

She’d sighed at herself sympathetically. Not much point trying to get around that. Instead of a complete makeover, which she didn’t have the heart, energy or time for, she settled for scraping back her hair in a ponytail and smoothing on a thin film of moisturiser. Then she’d kissed Spike to pink her lips (him, standing in the doorway, face an almost-blush of sudden pleasure and surprise) and made for Dawn’s room.

"Dawn?"

"Buffy!"

Her sister’s leap off the bed, an enveloping hug, and a brief saturation of tears. Buffy had led Dawn back over to the bed, taken in Gabriel’s acknowledging smile as he politely and quietly excused himself from the room - Spike letting him out the door with a vaguely satanic darkening of the eyes - and met Spike’s gaze in a brief theatre of meaningful glances and eyebrow movements –

What’s his story?

But by then Tara had caught her attention with an impulsive kiss on the cheek.

"It’s good to have you back," the witch smiled.

"Thanks."

And Buffy let her gratitude for Tara’s care show through in her reply. All the same, she’d kept the happy reunions short, and after a little time spent rocking in Buffy’s hug Dawn had sensed her sister’s desire to keep moving. Apart from all the preparations that needed doing, sitting still was dangerous. Too easy to get lost in contemplation again, and frankly they just didn’t have the time. Dawn was blowing her nose as Buffy nodded gently towards the door.

"Are you ready?"

"As I’m gonna be," Dawn sighed.

"Well, we can eat first, battle later. We got a few hours."

Once downstairs everything went in pretty short order: direct Tara and Willow home to rest and prepare, over-ride Angel’s objections and send him off to the shop with the heavenly hosts, butter the sandwiches. Lift the knife, scrape, spread, smooth… All very serene and methodical.

Except for…that.

An insistent scratching noise made Buffy look up. Spike, who hadn’t strayed more than three steps away from her since she came to, was standing at the far end of the counter near Dawn, picking out the grouting from under the corner of the countertop laminate with the tip of a large, ugly-looking hunting knife. He had his bottom lip caught in his teeth, as if this activity was taking up all available concentration. The look Dawn was giving him indicated that she thought he could, quite possibly, be completely nutso. Her mouth was opening to speak when Buffy interrupted, her voice light and patient.

"Spike?"

"Hm?"

"Stop doing that, and do something for me instead?"

The vampire’s head bobbed up obligingly.

"Sure."

Buffy elaborated as she buttered.

"First, I want you to go to the chest in the living room and do a complete weapons check. Weed out all the useless stuff, and anything too fiddly or heavy. I’m sure you’ll know what to take and what to leave."

"Fine."

"Then," she went on smoothly, "go upstairs and check my room too – you know where my trunk is. And I want the crossbow under the bed, it’s my favourite."

"No problem."

"One more thing," she pronounced evenly.

"What?"

She looked him square in the eye.

"Bathe. Please." Her voice was edged with dry humour. "For me. You need it, and we are going into an apocolypse after all. So, y’know – best foot forward and all that."

Spike, who was blinking at her request, now tilted his head in a sardonic bow.

"Anything for you, pet."

He tucked the knife into his belt and loped out of the kitchen, Buffy grinning at his departure and calling out.

"Towels are in the hall closet!"

Spike waved a hand airily without looking back.

Dawn was snorting as she artfully arranged cheese and iceberg lettuce on white bread.

"If Spike was wrapped any tighter around your finger he’d be cutting off your circulation."

Buffy grinned again and returned her eyes to the bologna she was doling out.

"I know. And it’s funny, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. Especially now that he knows he really loves me."

Dawn baulked.

"He loves you? Like, real love?" She took in Buffy’s mild nod with a curious frown. "But I didn’t think he could. I mean, doesn’t the whole no-soul thing kind of get in the way?"

"Ray says not. He says it’s, y’know – l-u-r-v-e."

"Wow."

Buffy was pinking up just a little now as she studiously applied meat to bread. Dawn smiled slowly.

"I mean, a big wow. That’s…that’s cool." Her smile widened mischeviously as she looked at Buffy’s cheeks redden. "So, I guess it’s not just that the sex is good…"

"Dawn!"

The girl rolled her eyes.

"Buffy, hello – fifteen here, not five. Plus, ya know –" She tapped her nose and cast a meaningful glance at the ceiling. "- not deaf or blind. I think it’s great. He loves you, you love him…" She stopped and looked at her sister speculatively. "You’ve told him, haven’t you?"

"Told him what?"

"That you love him," Dawn stated with a ‘duh’ expression.

Buffy blushed again and checked the sandwiches.

"Well, I mean, I think he knows that…"

Dawn frowned.

"You should tell him."

"Tell him what?" Giles said absently as he walked in. He looked a little fresher in the face and his hair was smoothed back, as though he’d splashed his face with water.

"Uh…" Buffy gawped, then thrust a plate into his hands. "That all the sandwiches have mayonnaise. Hope that’s okay."

After a beat, Giles took the plate with polite aplomb.

"I’m sure it will be fine."

He smiled at her, appreciating her sheer presence, and Buffy smiled back, before snatching a moment to glare quickly at Dawn, who was mouthing ‘Tell him!’ behind Giles’ back.

oOo

10.34am

Light steps on the staircase. The curtains had been drawn in her room – a gentle artificial night. Spike was sitting on her bed, damp hair sticking up in a wild white profusion, a towel draped around his neck, bare torso and barefoot in black jeans. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips and he was frowning deeply at the crossbow in his right hand, the fingers of his other hand fiddling at the top of the grip.

Buffy’s thoughts were split between admiring the subtle play of his muscles as he worked, and lamenting the fact that he didn’t appear to have changed his jeans in about a month.

"All done?"

He glanced up, eyes softening in welcome.

"Oh, hey. Yeah, pretty much. Just this bloody thing…" He aimed at the opposite wall and grimaced in annoyance. "The sight is off, but when you adjust it it keeps flicking back."

Buffy covered the few steps between them quickly and took the weapon from his hands. She made a brief show of checking the aim before shrugging nonchalantly.

"Hm."

Then she moved over to the desk and laid down the bow as she toed off her shoes. She could hear the tiny confusion in Spike’s tone behind her.

"I thought that was your favourite?"

"It is."

"Oh." His brow creased a little. "Right. Well, all done downstairs then?"

"Yup." She strolled around the bed, stripping off her sweater as she went. For some reason, in spite of personal disaster and the imminent threat of global annihilation, she felt wonderfully light and relaxed. "Lunch eaten, plates in sink etcetera. I’m not going to worry about a few dirty dishes when the end of the world is nigh."

She pulled the curtain a little tighter, and began removing her sweatpants and tank. Spike had turned his head to follow her movements and by the time she’d shed the bulk of her clothes to stand in shadowed relief, wriggling out of her socks in her bra and knickers, his eyes were blinking and his mouth was ever so slightly agape.

Buffy came up behind him and slid the towel from around his neck. His gaze narrowed, but he still had to swallow before he could speak.

"Where’s the Bit?"

"Magic Box. Giles took her. She has to prep for the spell." She tossed the towel into the corner before giving him an almost brazen smile. "Why? You feeling shy?"

He gave her his best ‘what do you think?’ look by way of reply, before squinting at her again.

"So, everyone’s on the job… What are we supposed to be doing?"

"Gathering weapons."

Buffy was kneeling on the bed behind him now, and ran her arms smoothly around his neck – a vast improvement on a damp towel, he noted. Although how she could concentrate enough to speak while her lace-covered breasts were brushing against his back he had no idea – the facility was almost beyond him, but she didn’t seem to be having any trouble.

"We’re gathering weapons here, and I’m having a shower and a change."

Her fingers were trickling over his chest and stomach, and Spike closed his eyes as she began feathering kisses onto the skin where his neck met his shoulder. When he tried to talk, his voice came out more than a little husky.

"Not much time then, eh?"

"Oh, we’ve got time," Buffy replied with a soft smile. His ear was tempting her now, and when she darted her tongue in delicately Spike let out little gasps, which was an added bonus. "I’m notoriously long in the bathroom."

oOo

12 noon

Last afternoon of the last day…

…any old where."

Anya watched, vaguely disconcerted by the impropriety, as Ray tossed a couple of swords and a mace behind a park bench. He was displaying a distinct lack of ceremony, or even interest, about the whole procedure and instead seemed more intent on practising his leering grins – on her. She frowned at him in vague reprimand and turned to Xander for support.

A pointless exercise – Xander was smiling happily and sinking axeheads into the trunk of a nearby tree, enjoying the prospect of being given permission to leave a flagrant mess. Anya sighed and her shoulders drooped.

Ray took in Anya’s expression with another grin.

"Relax, honey. I’m gonna clean up after us."

He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at the weapons, and suddenly they weren’t there anymore. Xander jumped.

"Wha..? Hey – hey, how did you…

\\\

…and the correction tumbled off his lips automatically.

"That’s vasis, not vasa."

And winced as he said it, noticing Tara’s grimace.

"Sorry."

"No, don’t be," she sighed. "It’s kinda crucial that I get this right."

Dawn rubbed her back sympathetically, unconsciously reversing their comforter-comforted roles of only a short time ago.

"Maybe you should take a break. You want a peppermint tea? Or I could get you a soda?"

Tara smiled at her. Goddess – what a diference a few hours makes. Was I this resilient at fifteen? Or is it a case of ‘made not born’?

But of course Dawn had never been born, Tara remembered. She blinked at the thought and her eyes came back to the…

\\\

…there."

"There?"

Her eyes closed and her head rolled back drunkenly so he could hardly hear her soft reply.

"Yes."

Tiny, imperceptible movements which meant a lot, and within a minute he could feel her muscles clenching uncontrollably around him, and he had to clench his teeth in response. And she rocked close, closer, gently, her breasts brushing against his chest as he rubbed his palms down the length of her spine, kneading her tailbone at the end of each pass.

The gentle rocking drew him on, lulling him towards release. Her mouth against his ear was like a startle, the smell of her hair and her humid breath.

"Spike?"

"Yes?" This time his answer almost imperceptible.

"Have I ever told you…" she whispered, then nipped down his neck. "I’ve been wanting to tell you…"

By the time her lips and teeth reached his collarbone his orgasm was beyond his ability to rein in.

"God. Yes?"

But she ignored him, smiling quietly and feeling him tense under her, enjoying the sensations as he groaned and let his head sink forward into the crook of her neck.

He was breathless, which was ridiculous, but he couldn’t be bothered thinking about that at this point. He let his cheek slide down to rest against her chest, and trembled faintly with the aftershocks. There was a creak beneath them.

"I think this chair is going to collapse."

"I think you’re right," Buffy returned with a sage nod, showing no interest in moving, and running her fingers through the hair at his nape. She sighed, a little too heavily, and Spike wasn’t too caught up in listening to her thudding heartbeat to notice.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing." She sighed again. "I should move. We should move. I’m supposed to be showering…"

"I know," he murmured, returning to listening to her heart sounds. The skin beneath his cheek was as hot as a skillet, and slippery with sweat.

"…picking out something suitably apocolypse-y to wear," she went on, frowning a little. She scratched on his nape gently. He was nestling, she realised with a grin.

Then she remembered something.

"Spike?"

"Hm?" Lazy, sated, warmed. This moment, this brief period of time – the calm before the imminent storm...

"Spike, you know I…

\\\

…before letting himself read on. And with each familiar line, the ire rose all over again, he couldn’t help it, it was pathetic but there you had it. Something he should be able to control, something he should have let go of a long time ago, and all it took was a few smart-assed comments, and the look on her face, and Ray’s gentle explanation, and it all started levitating inside him, bitter in his throat, choking and hot, like bile.

Which is where his eyes lost focus.

He let the book with the specially-designed protective leather cover snap shut, and then sighed.

"Never jealous. Yeah, right." Sotto voce.

"What is?"

The voice from the right flank had made him jump, just barely, and Angel nearly berated himself before remembering.

It was disconcerting because Michael looked so solid. So real. The broadsword he was holding sure as hell looked real anyway.

"Love, right?"

"Come again?" Angel blinked.

"It’s love," Michael answered with a smile. He seemed preoccupied with testing the edge of his blade. "I remember the quote – kind of an occupational hazard. ‘Love suffers long and is kind; love is never jealous, does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.’"

The angel pronounced it with such delicacy of tone and such a sense of victorious hope… There had to be a chance, Angel realised, that something good would come out of today’s disasters. All of them.

It still didn’t help his situation any. He nodded uncomfortably.

"Uh, yeah."

"Don’t worry about it."

"Huh?" Confused now.

"Saint Paul’s talking about the love of God," Michael explained with a shrug. "Kinda hard to emulate, considering that you’re not a god."

Angel relented and smiled warily.

"Or human," he pointed out.

"Or human," Michael grinned in reply.

He swung the sword in a short, neat arc. Angel could tell he'd had practise. But something in the angel’s manner made him feel like throwing back a little reminder.

"I was a man once, you know."

Michael’s eyes flicked up, and then he nodded thoughtfully.

"I understand." Then he shrugged. "But either way, I’ve got another one for you."

Michael twirled the broadsword with one hand as his other rose in the air, and then there was a small book in his palm, pages opened appropriately, and he offered the book to Angel with a smile before wandering away.

It was such a casual piece of theatre that Angel couldn’t help but give a snorting smile, then let his gaze drop to the proffered lines. And his smile gradually spread and lightened as the words began a mental echo:

\\\

…take the other side, but you’re not to move out until we give the signal. Just remember that protecting the Slayer is the priority and are you listening to a single thing I’m saying?"

"Uh, yeah."

"You’re not. And stop looking at the girl – you know it’s futile."

At which point Gabriel started to get riled, of course, which Uriel always found both interesting and vaguely entertaining. It wasn’t like they could keep secrets from one another as a company, so it was all reduced to a kind of bantering ‘I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know’ discussion. For some reason Gabriel insisted on maintaining an air of teenage rebellion about such exchanges, which at least provided a bit of spice.

"You can’t say it’s futile when you don’t –"

"I can. It’s futile."

"Will you stop saying that? You don’t even know the Outcome."

"I don’t have to know. There’s only three options, and as far as maintaining a friendship with Dawn is concerned they’re all bad."

"You don’t know that. She’s not even human."

Uriel placed the books down on the corner of the Demon Map and tried to speak gently.

"I understand. Really, I do. But it doesn’t alter the fact that –"

"I mean, anything could happen. Everything might change after this afternoon. The whole order of things could change. The rules aren’t set in stone, you know."

"Rules are rules, Gabriel."

"But if –"

"I think," the older man began flicking through a book, losing patience at last, "that you’re getting a little too involved with your role."

Gabriel huffed, then plucked self-consciously at the hem of his t-shirt – a black lithograph of a samurai warrior on a psychadelic blue background. The t-shirt looked quite old, which it was, and so were the jeans and the sneakers. Like he’d been wearing them every day for a year. In fact he’d never laid eyes on them before this morning.

It didn’t matter – he still felt justified in being indignant. He squared his chin.

"And what’s wrong with that?"