Buffy sighed. If they stayed some distance apart it was fine, but if they got within five feet of each other it was like a bad episode of ‘The Odd Couple’. She tried to keep well away, and pretended to ignore them, while making the occasional pained face.

She sighed again as Ray shambled over. He raised an eyebrow and grinned.

"Gettin’ to ya?"

"Were they like this the whole time I was…you know?"

"Pretty much."

"God."

"Worse, even."

She rolled her eyes.

"Can’t you make them…"

"Not really. But hey, don’t worry about it. It may not even be an issue in a few hours."

"Right. Putting up with two vampires bickering over me, or…the end of Life, As We Know It. These are my options?"

He patted her genially on the shoulder.

"Relax, Buffy. You just do your job, and let them do theirs."

And by fortuitous timing, Uriel chose that exact moment to step around the planning table and walk over to where Angel and Spike were haggling over a small pile of weapons near the stairs.

"Gentlemen..."

Both vamps turned at the approach of a potential umpire.

"Tell this idiot he –"

"You’re bloody joking if you –"

"Gentlemen, shut up." The raised hand and the firmly serene tone silenced the pair in mid-complaint. Now he had their attention it was just a matter of focussing their collective energies elsewhere. Preferably in a less confined space. Uriel lifted a finger to punctuate his point.

"You both have an office to perform. By curious coincidence, it’s the same office. You don’t need to work together – but it might help. So please," Uriel let his voice soften gently "try not to allow your personal arguments get in the way of your work."

Spike and Angel exchanged a slightly embarrassed glance and made an effort to look more attentive. But their attention became suddenly more energetic when Uriel turned to wave Buffy over.

"Would you mind assisting me for a moment?"

"Uh, sure." With an uncertain nod she walked forward, standing beside the angel to cut off the chance of renewing hostilities between the two vampires. "What’s up?"

Uriel turned to explain and was stopped short.

He knew it. He’d seen it. She would use it. He almost felt sorry for the demons.

He recovered quickly and continued.

"This ‘glamour’ for Angel and Spike – it’s complicated."

"You need me to help? I’ve gotta tell you that I’m totally hopeless with that stuff –"

"No, no, it’s not like that. In fact, it’s more an issue of…mechanics." As three pairs of confused eyes caught his attention, he inclined his head apologetically. "The blessing is a simple one, but the energy is still being generated from my source, and directed through me…well, you saw what happened when Angel and I shook hands."

"No, actually, I didn’t… Oh." Spike narrowed his eyes and baulked back a little. "Oh. When you said your ‘source’, you meant your ‘Source’. Well, that’s not gonna work, is it."

Buffy grimaced on both vampires’ behalf. "I’m thinking…ouch."

Angel frowned. "Is it an internal thing, or does the spell work kinda like sunblock?"

Spike cast a droll look from Angel to Uriel. "Well, I’m sure there’s some of us who like to wallow in pain, but yours truly here-"

Uriel shook his head to silence a fresh tirade. "No, there’s an easy solution. Buffy, if you could reach out and touch them both, if you don’t mind…"

With a shrug, Buffy stepped forward and placed a small hand on Spike’s, and then Angel’s, respective chests. She looked up at them, keeping her face neutral.

God, where did that come from? But she didn’t have time to think, because Spike had started jerking back and Angel was shaking his head.

"Wait just a second –"

"Love, I don’t think this –"

Before either of them could back out, Uriel clapped a hand on Buffy’s head.

She felt a sharp, tingling shock buzz through her – she gasped. Both vampires made a short sound of surprise. There was a brief moment of paralysis – and then it was gone. Uriel lifted his hand from her crown, and Buffy stepped back from Angel and Spike, who both looked as if they’d been hijacked in some way but couldn’t figure out exactly how.

"You two okay?"

"Fine." Angel still looked confused. He examined his hands for a second, then peered across to Uriel. "What the hell happened, if you don’t mind me asking?"

"Buffy acted as a filter and a conduit – and a very fine one," Uriel said calmly.

Spike was still frisking himself carefully for any nasty lingering tinglies. "So…what? That’s it? One little ‘zztt’ and we’re sun-proofed?"

"That’s it." Uriel looked faintly amused.

"Great," Buffy proclaimed, giving her arms a little swing to clear them. She checked her watch. "So. You guys are up. You’ve got an hour to knock together as many heads as you can find between the Magic Box and Main. But don’t stray too far, okay? The priority is to clear the vicinity of the shop, give us an open exit"

She gave them an encouraging smile. Angel sighed and nodded. Spike still looked skeptical.

"And now we just walk out into the bright sunshine? Hope for the best - is that it?"

Uriel concluded his contribution with a broad smile at both vampires, then without further ado turned back to the research table. Angel gave Spike a withering glance as he lifted the mace onto his shoulder and headed for the stairs.

"I think it’s safe to assume that the spell worked."

"Oh, what, and you’re the expert on blessings, are you? Well, I don’t feel any different –"

Buffy cut him off with a quick peck on the lips when Angel’s back was turned.

"If you two fight demons as well as you argue, I think you’ll do fine," she murmured with a dry grin. She stood back and gave him his sword. "Good luck."

Spike looked like he couldn’t decide whether to grimace or grin.

"Ta."

He finally decided to grin, in that pursed-lips, sucked-cheeks way he usually adopted when he was just a little unsure of himself. Now she knew the signs, Buffy thought, it wasn’t so hard to spot. He turned for the stairs, where Angel was holding open the door and squinting out at the sunlit street, but then suddenly looked back to give her a brief cheeky salute with his blade.

"Back in a sec."

Buffy thought it was interesting, the way that Angel and Spike shared an equally apprehensive glance at the door. But even more fascinating was the way both of them unconsciously took a deep, needless breath before stepping out firmly into the light.

oOo

It was better if they worked in concert: she provided the bait, the distraction, then Xander bashed and slashed the demons a few times, and if the creature hadn’t gone down by then Anya usually got to finish them off herself.

Despite having been a demon at one stage, she felt no particular sense of remorse about killing her former kind. For one, her own life and Xander’s were in danger, not to mention the others. Two, there seemed to be something of an excess of demons, which she thought of as innately unfair. For some no doubt deeply rooted psychological reason, Anya found herself generally drawn to the weaker party, the underdog, the subjugated or outnumbered. Considering that there seemed to be about three hundred demons for every human inhabitant of Sunnydale at present, she knew which side she preferred.

This didn’t necessarily mean that she didn’t know which side her bread was buttered on. The demons were definitely the superior force – that was obvious - and it would have been quite an advantage to have re-declared her old demon affiliations.

But apocolypses were funny like that - you just couldn’t know who’d prevail at the end of the day. And in any case (the third relevant point), she was human now – a fact which Anya never came up against without a feeling of mixed surprise, frustration, and still-novel delight.

Spit. Sweat. The musk of sex. Bad breath. Sticky palms. Smelly feet. Snot. Tears. Belly button cheese.

Blood.

"Ow."

She grimaced dramatically – it was a light scratch, but fuel for more self-righteous anger directed towards the annoying serpent demon she was fighting. What was ostensibly a young man with blonde-tipped hair and a lascivious grin weaved in front of her, cock-sure, brandishing a short dagger like he was some sort of master knife-wielder.

"Did he hurt you, honey?"

Xander frowned hard at Anya’s serpent demon and smashed his sword handle into the face of the rather hairy thing he was fighting. The creature dropped abruptly – Anya was impressed, and doubly pleased by her boyfriend’s attentiveness. She pointed at the blonde man.

"He scratched me."

Xander’s face darkened. He stared at the blonde man with hardened eyes.

"Oh, you are so in trouble now, buddy."

His next step brought him menacingly closer and the demon reared back, confused.

"Hey, man – we were fighting. I didn’t know she was your girl. Hey, what did you expect –"

Anya sniffed her disdain as the demon tried to parry Xander’s attack, then lost interest a little. She looked to her right at the tableau there – it was kind of an insistent distraction.

Tara was reciting on and on in a low monotone, eyes closed, hair writhing gently, her face lit by the glow that was…Willow. The red-haired witch’s head was thrown back in abandon, and a pastel-blue light was streaming out of her face, her extremities. Surrounded by a nimbus, she glowed with light. The light powered up into the sky and danced across the heavens, a blue-white dome that flowed from the fountain that spewed out of Willow, and darted to the very edges of Sunnydale.

And then there was Dawn. Anya found that, interestingly, she couldn’t quite look at Dawn. For some reason, every time her eyes tried to linger something made her gaze flit away to look at something else. Curious.

She’s looked over at the three women every time she could snatch a glance. They kept drawing her, which she recognised was an effect of the powers involved. And now her momentary chance to watch was gone again – she turned her head back quickly in time to see Xander duck under the serpent guy’s knife and promptly skewer him through the guts. The blonde gurgled once, blinked the nictating membrane across his eyes a few times in surprise, then toppled backwards, dead as a post.

Anya grinned, then examined her scratched arm briefly, assuming a mock frown.

"Well, now. He just deserved that."

oOo

She worried a thumbnail and frowned at the air.

‘Where the hell are they?"

"They’re coming." Ray patted her on the shoulder. "Relax."

They were standing side by side at the research table, looking again at the Demon Map. Sparkling red sands now slithered thickly all over the map surface, whirlpooling in some areas – the sewers, a sidewalk verge on Main, the vicinity of the Magic Box. Although, looking at the red trickling patterns, it did seem that the space right around the shop was clearing somewhat. Every now and again, the occupants of the shop heard a shout, or a gurgling cry, from somewhere outside, and they all tried to avoid making their subsequent glances towards each other seem too significant.

They were all standing – it was asking a little too much to sit down. Gabriel was running a soft cloth over the blade of a long, gleaming knife that was too long for a dagger and too short for a sword. Uriel was at the counter, reading from a leather-bound book – Buffy couldn’t see the title but she figured it was something liturgical.

She was glad she had taken up position beside Ray. He seemed comparatively relaxed, and his occasional fatherly pats and calm manner were pretty much the only things preventing her from pacing.

She adjusted the elasticised sleeve on her left forearm again, checking to ensure that all the spare crossbow bolts on the makeshift bandolier were firmly in place. The sleeve was an invention of Giles’ – it slid up over her hand to the elbow, and had a strap which fitted into the junction of her thumb like a half-glove, and small bands along the sleeve to keep the bolts in position. Nifty.

She also had a belt-full of slim stakes slung low around her hips. The combination of excess weaponry, boots, leather pants and black top made her feel a bit like a videogame dominatrix brought to life. Gabriel had given her a quick grin, although Uriel had asked if she felt comfortable fighting bare-armed – didn’t she want a bit of personal cover? To which she’d replied that a) in her experience, a wound was more easily inflamed by embedded fabric fibres and b) she didn’t really have any spare kevlar lying around. She’d left out the bit that involved explaing that c) even if she’d had some she would probably have given it to Dawn. She knew that Uriel was a smart guy – she figured that he could do the math.

She quickly frisked herself again, hands moving on automatic. ‘Spectacles, testicles, wallet, watch’ – ha. Check, check, check. Gnaw her thumb. God. Where were they?

She grimaced over at Uriel.

"Can we just go already?"

Before Uriel could answer, and before Ray could reach up to pat and reassure again, there was a resounding bang as the front door flew open.

"Yeah! Alright! Now that’s what I call a fight!"

Four pairs of eyes lifted. Buffy gasped.

The two figures posed regally in front of the door, a dusty breeze swinging coat-hems and sunlight picking out the features of each man, lingering with an apparent delight on skin that hadn’t seen day in centuries.

Spike looked like he’d had a bucket of blood, of varying stewy colours, tipped over him. He actually dripped. He was in game face, and the muck on his face contrasted sharply with the ivory gleam of his fangs and the whites of his eyes as he grinned. He lifted one gore-smeared hand to fish his cigarettes out of the top pocket of his duster, giving Angel a nudge with his elbow in the process.

"Come on. You can’t say that wasn’t a bit of alright, eh?"

The older vampire was similarly messy – hair, face, clothes liberally streaked with goo, although he’d managed to avoid looking like he’d jumped wholeheartedly into some sort of feudal moshpit. His own fangs were less of a glaring contrast, but the shock lay more in his typical neatness being so radically disturbed. And even weirder, he was smiling. At Spike.

"Okay, okay. It was…fun."

Angel was still grinning as he turned his eyes on Buffy. And she was grinning at the two of them. She snorted at Spike’s wink in her direction, then looked over at Uriel.

"Well, looks like these two made it out alright."

The angel was staring at the pair, transfixed for a moment, and Buffy blinked. She was too used to this stuff. She was even getting a kick out of it, although much of that could probably be put down to personal history.

But they certainly made a cool tableau. Buffy grinnned again at the sight of Angel Spike in diorama on the stairs – two ancient creatures of the dark, two masters, revelling once more in the hunt but for different reasons entirely. Fists, fangs and physiques sculpted by years of the calculated sinuous grace of their state… Buffy grinned slyly. It was fun alright…

Spike shattered some of the elegant image by running his hand through his hair and then flicking the gory excess artlessly onto the floor. He was making his way towards the others, shaking back into his human guise and nonchalantly waggling the hilt and crosspiece of what had once been a sword.

"Oi. I need another sword."

"You need another shower," Buffy countered, wrinkling her nose and tossing him a clean shop dusting cloth, then throwing another at a grateful Angel. "What happened?"

"He had a run-in with a Knarf demon," Angel explained dryly, mopping off his now-human face and tousling his hair.

"A what?"

"Don’t ask me what it was called," Spike replied with a puff on his smoke and a long-suffering roll of the eyes. "It spat at me and my bloody sword dissolved."

"Oh – that demon," Buffy replied with a grin.

"Here."

Spike looked up in time to catch the sheathed scimitar Ray had pitched in his direction.

"Thanks."

Uriel and Gabriel had moved over towards them now. Gabriel’s sword-knife was balanced on his shoulder and his face was set. Uriel had a sword-sheath buckled to the left, under the drift of his long coat. Ray was standing to Buffy’s left – no longer patting, she realised, but holding a long wooden pike staff topped with a short metal barb.

They were all looking at Buffy. She blinked. Oh god - it was that time.

"Are you ready then?"

Uriel’s voice was quiet, but it was enough to make her blood freeze up a little.

Which only made her think of her mother.

She blinked again at Uriel, sighed out a prayer (…help me get through this?) and avoided the inquiry altogether.

"Let’s go."

oOo

"Your right."

"Seen it."

"Giles –"

"Get over. Anya, wait –"

"There!"

"Behind you –"

…The shorthand that develops after a while. It’s been an hour now and everyone is starting to feel it. In the beginning it started slow. One demon on the right. One behind. A pause to exchange glances. Another, with plenty of forewarning. Another.

Then it gradually starts to build up. They come in pairs. In groups. In a continuous stream. And now the sky is starting to yellow, and the ground is littered with demon parts and dead bodies and the odd pile of ash or mush or goo.

The four of them have been forced to spread out a little more thinly to guard all the access points to Dawn and the witches - the rainbow treasure at the circle’s centre.

Giles fights with grim concentration, and his bow-tied, all-thumbs librarian persona has been happily dispensed with. It’s more than book-learning – what a Watcher knows about the mechanics of combat is more than most world-class hand-to-hand experts. Giles wields both sword and axe confidently, with lethal results.

Michael is another story. What a Watcher knows about combat is what a warrior-angel has long ago forgotten. Michael holds a full half of the circle’s circumference on his own, and fights with blurring speed and an almost frightening calmness.

Anya is warming up. She’s not completely confident fighting one-on-one, but she dispatches demons with a crossbow very efficiently, dancing behind the other three combatants and aiming over their shoulders for the most sensitive spots. She’s worried that her supply of bolts might be running low.

Xander fights with old-fashioned determination and an almost foolhardy gutsiness, which is acutally partly a result of plain old foolhardiness. It’s not exactly elegant, but it gets the job done and isn’t that the point? He takes a step, and then lunges towards his opponent as he lunges with his sword.

That’s an error.

"Xander!"

Anya sees her boyfriend stagger and acts on instinct, shooting Xander’s demon opponent through the eyeball. And then she’s holding the crossbow slackly in one hand and trying to support Xander with the other. It reminds her briefly of his drunken stint at the Bronze (three days ago? four?) and she wishes for a moment that they were back there – herself, vaguely irritated, Xander, sotted but safe.

He has a hand clapped to the muscle at the top of his shoulder, and his face is starting to drain of colour. Anya takes a look at the blood seeping out from under Xander’s palm, and the way he sinks to his knees, and promptly panics.

(human physicality)

"Giles!"

oOo

The first thing that had registered was that the sky was an odd colour – kind of yellow (where has she seen that before?) and if she moved her eyes fast, she could see the occasional flash of little sparkles.

The next thing she’d noticed was the atmosphere of tenseness, and the destruction, and the lack of humans on the streets. Sunnydale was a mess – garbage and small fires dotted the landscape, and here and there she could see the occasional overturned car. People’s shopfronts and lawns were getting trashed.

Buffy had to concede that by the time she and Spike had made it to the Magic Box, streetlife had definitely started to devolve. But in the few hours since then, it was like someone had opened the floodgates, cracked the barriers, let all the monsters out…

The six of them had been fighting since they’d gotten a little way out of the Magic Box. The mess of body parts and dead demons around the outside of the shop had been testimony to the brutality of Spike and Angel’s ‘cleaning house’ attack. But even that hadn’t put off the more hardcore devotees – emerging from the shop, they’d surprised a large cluster of demons approaching with armfuls of already-burning Molotov cocktails. The fight had been brief but fiery, in every sense of the word.

And the attacks just kept on coming – individuals, groups, hordes… Right now they were engaged with another motley crew of creatures who seemed to have overcome their differences long enough to fight together against a common enemy.

Buffy raised her bow and shot an approaching Fomulus demon through the throat, then spun to kick the body away. The quick turn afforded her a glance down the street – chaos, plus demons, demons and more demons. If Halloween was the night demon-kind stayed out of sight, then this was the complete reverse. She couldn’t help but frown with worry.

oOo

"I’ve got him."

She felt her burden lift a little, then Michael was propping Xander by the shoulders, lowering him to the ground.

Anya fumbled her bow into the other hand. Michael was watching Xander’s face carefully, the paleness, the lack of focus in the young man’s eyes.

"Your shoulder," the angel stated simply. His voice was quietly pitched despite the battle raging around them.

Xander was nodding, slack-jawed and nauseated. "Uhhn. Ouch."

"Can you fix it?"

Anya was peering in like a flustered, frightened bird. Michael met her eyes firmly.

"Giles needs you."

Anya blinked a few times then nodded, stronger now, and got up off her knees. Giles did need her – he was trying to fight all four quarters on his own. The ex-demoness lifted her bow and shot out two attackers smoothly before re-entering the fray.

Michael turned back quickly to his patient.

"Move your hand away. This won’t hurt."

Xander, his injury putting him too in shock to care, let his hand drop away from his shoulder. Immediately, he felt an enervating gush of warm fluid – blood, he realised dazedly, his own blood – spill into the crook of his neck.

But just as quickly, Michael had clapped a hand to the spot. There was no sensation, Xander thought – no tingling, no roll of thunder. It was just – one minute he was injured and the next he felt…normal. It had taken less than a second.

Xander frowned as Michael removed his hand, watching the angel’s shadow of a grin. Then he was taking the angel’s arm and being pulled to his feet, reaching up with his own fingers to feel the rent near the collar of his shirt, the smooth, unbloodied, unhurt skin beneath.

"Is it..?"

"Yes."

But before Xander could ask ‘how’, Michael was giving him back his sword off the ground, and perusing him carefully for after-effects.

"How do you feel?"

Xander lifted his weapon, letting a slow, vaguely confused smile spread.

"Lucky."

oOo

The world is full of dust and ash and gore, and she pirouettes again, and she is in the Zone.

She feels like she is alone. All the creatures keep coming and her movements are becoming so smooth and methodical that it’s like slowing down. Jab and punch and shoot, and punch and kick and kick again, and spin and jump and… Like tai-chi. Relaxing, almost.

It’s only every now and then that she maybe hears a noise, or thinks to glance around, and then reality revs once, twice, and

whoah, she’s back in hyper-speed, and she can feel the bruises starting to form on her forearms and shins, and the streetscape about her on all sides is Main-cum-medieval-battleground. The demon hordes are obscuring the view up the street and she smells smoke and sees grime and tastes blood (her own, from a punch in the mouth received a while back).

And she’s not alone. The vampires flank her a little way ahead, one on each side, fighting furiously, their respective styles radically contrasting yet complimenting.

Spike is brutal and roaring, and more of a showman – flashier. He gets himself a little bloodier in the process, but that’s the price you pay for flair. His coat flips and whirls darkly behind him like a sidekick. In the moment Buffy spares to observe him, he makes a rather spectacular leap, one booted foot high on his attacker’s chest, the other kicking away the demon’s cudgel, and his left hand swoops down almost languidly with the scimitar to lop off the creature’s head. Then he launches up and flips off the body to somersault back to standing, turning in the same instant to over-hand his tomahawk into the face of another demon approaching from behind.

Buffy blinks in appreciation and turns to shoot three bolts at three separate targets in succession.

She looks up again. Angel, on her right, is more efficient – ruthless. Watching him is more like watching a skilled farmer with a scythe, cutting down everything in his path with cool economy. He’s making quicker progress up the street, attacking methodically, breaking every neck neatly, clobbering with the mace, stalking and staking with elegant aplomb. Buffy almost expects him to look up and casually shrug.

You could take this moment, take each vampire’s picture now and affix a label above each one – Angel: this is too easy, and Spike: this is too much fun.

Buffy grins, then thrusts an elbow backwards to whack a Te demon in the mouth.

oOo

She’d been sustaining the necessary concentration for about two hours now (more maybe?), and the unworthy flesh was beginning to tire. It was a little, but not entirely, like running a marathon, and Tara felt as though she was hitting the wall.

Her body was getting slightly limp; her tongue had that thick, heavy feeling she now understood was a consequence of talking aloud non-stop for a very long time. Her lips were kind of dry.

Underneath the tiredness in her body there was a sharp, laser-like thread of energy that fed through her – from Dawn, via Willow, Tara was aware – but this was only a baseline. Like a little reminder to keep herself focussed – not enough energy to draw from, and not intended to be so. When Willow had first thrown back her head, when the spell had ‘engaged’, Tara had received a complimentary jolting rush…

And the thrill of it, the basking feeling she got just by being in the backwash, was enough to make her teeth chatter and her hands shake – but stop. Reminding herself sharply that it’s not by her own naked will but by intercession that she can exercise direction. No time to go head-tripping now.

In theory, they should all be asleep. The first part of the spell encouraged the inhabitants of Sunnydale back to their houses or to a secure place, and the other ongoing parts of the spell put them to sleep and made their residences demon-proof – a combination of three quite simple magicks, but ballooned out on a considerably greater scale than Tara could have ever imagined.

So it was amazing, and it was working, and Willow’s skin under her fingers seemed to almost vibrate. But the glow and the buzz weren’t quite enough – Tara inhaled again slowly, a dizzying breath of ozone and freshness and new-cut-grass smell that seemed to emphasise her own bone-weariness, and the feeling of her own skin trembling slightly, before her tongue began to coagulate over the words.

Her eyelids fluttered and her hands, raised to Willow’s temples, felt indescribably leaden. And Tara felt the first stab of fear.

A tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye, and she couldn’t help it, oh Goddess, please, she was weak – so weak, just like her papa used to tell her, always failing at the testing time… And Tara’s eyes drifted down to Willow’s shining face as her body began to numb –

- and that’s when the large and heavy hand clasped her shoulder and the warm, low tenor cleared its throat and strengthened her tiny, now-whispered words:

Tara lifted her head and turned to meet Rupert Giles’ eyes, his gently smiling, sweat-and-blood-streaked face. The blonde witch felt her chest rise with a new breath – balmy, with the vigour of a mellow male energy, and great kindness. Her first response was to warn him.

"You can’t –"

"Not involving," he said quickly as his hand squeezed her shoulder, a comfort. "A support – a prop."

She nodded dumbly, and felt the strange new energy curl, waiting, beneath her breastbone, beneath her tiredness.

Giles gave her a purposeful look.

"Go on, Tara."

And it was enough to remind her; her eyes blinked twice, then she swallowed and opened her mouth to speak.

oOo

She works with stake and crossbow, alternating until she runs out of bolts, and then she feels no regret as she dumps her favourite weapon and rolls behind a nearby trashcan to pick up another from a small pile there that none of the demons seem to have noticed. Then she’s fighting with a Chinese sword, the red tassel dancing, marionette-like, with every slash and parry. A neat metaphoric echo – she dances too, mistress of her own strings, a flame, bright and flaring with energy, and the myriad tiny cuts and lacerations that have bled a red tint in patches on her skin only reinforces the impression…

The Angels are in another class altogether, and it was when Buffy spared the chance to look at them that they ceased to be angels and became Angels.

Because Gabriel, in his secular tie-dyed t-shirt and grubby jeans, now fights with the grace and ease of a knight – if she looks close enough she can almost see the armour and greaves he’s wearing, the tumble of his brown curls emphasising his medieval beauty but clashing with the ferocity of his attack. He uses the long knife with discriminating strategy, fighting multiple opponents with a gleeful panache similar to Spike.

But Spike could never do what Gabriel can do when pressed – in the midst of a flurry of exchanges the young Angel slips his hand around the air in a rapid scooping motion, and suddenly he’s holding and then hurling a ball of roiling fire. The fireballs, varying in size and completely under his direction, whizz through the field of battle to explode with devastating effect whenever and wherever they hit.

And he’s not the only one with pyrotechnics under his command. Ray sizzles in the midst of the company, a strange electricity prickling on his skin. When the gaggle of the demon onslaught seems to particularly annoy him, he only has to tip his long pikestaff, point and shoot. In the sudden glare of the lightning bolts smashing demon bodies, Buffy thinks that Ray has pulled off quite a transformation. She hardly sees a glimpse of the mangy old man in the scruffy clothes and dirty hat, and wonders where this gruff-faced berobed wizard in front of her came from.

She spins to kick a stake into the chest of a an approaching vampire – they’ve started to crawl out and enter the battle now that the strange colour of the sky has begun to deepen. In the explosion of dust she sees the final member of the company, and no surprises there.

Uriel has always had a kind of majestic grace, and now he seems to rise to his full, considerable height, his black coat billowing behind him, theatrical and alive. Like the calm eye of the storm, he dispatches attackers with such rapidity and poise that even Buffy has trouble following his movements. He fights like an old-style swordsman, a musketeer, elegant and instinctive, with frequent refined flourishes that make it look less like slaughter and more like art.

And when an opponent becomes too frisky, he simply gives a reproachful glare and extends a palm – and the creature is suddenly thrust back with violent force, bowling over others behind like ten-pins. Buffy has a feeling that there’s more to Uriel’s power that he hasn’t even released yet, but so far this is all he’s giving away. Whatever else he has up his sleeve, she’s looking forward to the demonstration.

Then a punch from another monster clobbers her sqaurely across the teeth, and she stops sight-seeing and stabs her sword through her opponent’s guts and wonders how close they are to the others.

oOo

Michael sliced three broad strokes, and another demon fell to pieces, dissolving messily onto the asphalt. But he wasn’t even watching the display – he’d turned to take on another opponent.

A quick look up revealed the state of play. Xander, with renewed energy, was hewing into a fresh attacker, and Anya was now fighting with a large machete, her crossbow-bolt supply having finally become exhausted. Between the two of them they were doing an okay job, but the circle of attack had become more shallow – everyone was now fighting just a few feet closer to Dawn and the witches than Michael thought was completely comfortable.

He chopped the head off a nearby vampire with barely a backwards-glance, then tried to catch Giles’ attention. The Watcher was standing behind Tara, the blonde spell-caster, and had a hand on her shoulder. Tara seemed to be concentrating strongly – and Giles was now the one who seemed exhausted. His head was drooping, and his face looked particularly haggard. Michael would have liked to pass on some refreshing energy, but with the Watcher interlinked with the witch like that he couldn’t get involved, without risk of contaminating the spell.

It was frustrating. He took out another three demons and frowned. Help was on the way, he knew, but –

"There – I see them!"

Michael looked up. That’s –

oOo

Buffy’s voice, pitched high, as she raised a hand and pointed.

"There – I see them!"

Maybe fifty feet away – maybe more. She could see the light on Tara’s face – is that Willow? – and searched for her sister. There, on the ground. Maybe. It was hard to see very well.

And she did have these constant interruptions. One of the five vampires in front of her made a move and she lopped off his arms with a raised eyebrow – Are we just careless? Did you think it was going to be easy?

But she knew that it was just they were inherently sloppy. And possibly the remaining light was making them sluggish. The sun was a burnished disc, and the sky glowed as dusk approached. She wiped blood out of her eye and took a breath.

oOo

He spotted the Main Street group about fifteen minutes ago, and you’d think they’d have covered the distance between then and now. But although they’re nearly there, it’s horrendously slow-going.

It’s like a sea of demons, a swarm, like ants - the space is filled with them and the ground is thick with their bodies. The stench, especially for one with his heightened senses, is unbelievable. Everywhere he looks, sprays of blood and mess and hacked-off limbs are flying – not to mention bright flares of fire and lightning, which is just downright fucking frightening. He’s looked down at his own hands once, in a momentary pause – slippery with gore, and shaking.

But even without turning his head at any given moment in time and space, he knows where she is. Can’t put his finger on it – it’s like her scent, or her brightness, that he’s aware of. Something like that. He’d glanced at her once, to check on her, and to watch her work – magnificent – but had found it hazardous to his health. Too distracting. Now, he settles for dispatching a couple more attackers and sensing her on the air.

Her. And something else.

Sure, right. It’s coming. Whatever the hell ‘it’ is.

He whirls and slashes. Another one down.

Her. And it. And…something else.

And he doesn’t know what it is until he slices away the curtain of demons and vamps in front of him and sees a figure.

Human. A tall, slim black woman, hair a medusa’s mass of braids. Black jeans and boots and eyes. A shockingly colourful bandeau halter. Bone jewellry.

An enormous sword.

Only by recognizing the sword, and trusting his instincts, does Spike manage to avoid the first sweeping thrust. He tumbles back, grabs a nearby vampire by the scruff of the neck and uses him as an undead shield. Grace’s sword slides straight through, and the shield dissolves in a dusty puff of air. Bugger.

But he doesn’t even have time to grimace, cos now he’s parrying madly, pure defence, being pasted backwards with every stroke, stumbling over bodies as he goes.

He wonders if anyone else has noticed that he’s now fighting the Angel of Death – again.

Grace somersaults over his head and he blocks another thrust – barely. This brings her glaring eyes and keen sword-edge up to his face. If he wanted, he could shave his chin. Bloody hell, this girl just will not let it go. His eyes dart around quickly with ill-concealed frustration and his voice is like ground glass.

"Will somebody get this bitch off me?"

oOo

Michael hacks his way through a half-a-dozen more bodies and then suddenly the obstructions tumble away. A corridor has opened up and Uriel is leaning towards him with a smile and an extended hand. Michael grins and returns the greeting clasp.

"Well met."

Uriel nods. "Indeed. And just in time, I think."

They look around the battleground. The witches are still protected – Angel has stepped in to fill the breach left by Giles, and Xander and Anya, though exhausted, are still on their feet.

To their right, Ray is clearing a bit more space with his pikestaff. At left, Buffy fights like she’s possessed. And to the rear, Gabriel and Spike –

A dark figure with a riot of braided hair and a sword goes sailing over Uriel and Michael’s heads. By the time they turn to look, she’s already rolled to standing, sword up for the next attack.

Uriel frowns. "Damn."

Michael is nodding. "They’re wasting their energy fighting her when they could be killing demons." He’s rolling up his shirt-sleeves, preparing to engage. "Let me see what I can do."

"We don’t have time for this," Uriel mutters grimly.

And he’s right. The sun is sinking at the horizon line and the sky has the peculiar coloured brilliance that signifies an approaching storm. As Uriel glances up a low rumble sounds, but whether it’s emanating from earth or sky he can’t be sure. His voice drops to a worried whisper.

"It’s coming."

oOo

Ray calls out to her from across the field of battle, but she can’t make out the words.

The sky is lightening and darkening together – bizarre shifting patterns of colour flash across the heavens. Even the demons are beginning to look around in confusion.

Buffy grimaces and throws down her broken sword.

"What’s coming?"

Uriel is suddenly there, thrusting a staff tipped with blades on both ends into her hand.

"It’s the Balance. Are you ready?"

There’s a crackle on the air, and everyone looks up.

The sun is setting.

oOo

Anya hears the deep rumble as it tickles through her stomach, and the numbness begins to creep from her feet up.

"Oh, boy. Here we go ag-

Giles wonders how much more energy he can feed to Tara without completely incapacitating himself. She’s going to have to keep going with the spell long after –

Angel finds that he’s starting to really enjoy this.

But he doesn’t have time to contemplate, as another vampire attacks and he stakes it through the heart quickly and the sudden burst of dust –

If it had had higher cortical functions, the demon might have realized that throwing itself at the Slayer at this point was tantamount to suicide. But it didn’t, so when the blade slid through its throat there was a look of surprise –

"Hold."

"It’s time."

"You must choose."

"You must choose," Dawn/Not-Dawn repeats.

"Irrelevant." There’s a trace of impatience there which makes Buffy clench her teeth. "Choose."

"The Moment," Dawn says quietly. "The Conflux. A creature of division, in a world divided."

"Good. Evil." And in a voice that brooks no opposition. "Choose."

"You must choose," Dawn repeats. "There is no choice except through you."

"Choose Good."

"The universe becomes a haven of peace. The Servants of the Powers return to their Master." Her implacable opaque glance takes in the obedient nods of Uriel and the others -–and then she looks at Buffy. "The Slayer finds ease."

"Her responsibilities come to an end. The world of demons passes away – so too the Slayer’s sacred duty."

Dawn’s eyes burn into her. "All demons must pass. None may stay."

"Choose Evil."

"Choose Evil," Dawn intones, and Spike has to lick his lips, because her voice makes the very ether vibrate with lush darkness and it tastes like blood, and honey, and wine…

"Demons hold sway. All beings burn beneath their command."

"You would be a king in such a world, vampire. A sea of blood –" She catches Spike’s nervous gaze with her own. " – like honey and wine…"

"The Good…" Buffy imagines she hears a mechanical clicking noise as Not-Dawn turns her head to stare at her and each of the Angels in turn. "All Good will perish."

"Choose Stasis."

"Choose Stasis," Primordial Power explains, "and this world continues. Everything will be as it was. No change but one."

"The Balance rests on his division." Another step brings her up to the vampire’s chin, to take in his startled eyes with an expression that is coolly judging, but almost…curious. "Not human – barely demon. No soul – yet compassion…"

"He is an abomination. Thus the conflict with the Instrument of the Powers." She makes a faint gesture towards Grace’s frozen form. "There can be no Stasis if the Balance remains."

The Power meets his gaze stolidly. "All things are possible."

Dawn regards the object under discussion. "He can be made pure demon – whole, complete."

"He can be ensouled."

"No." Spike blinks and Primordial Power clarifies. "Not the same. The dark one is a servant of the Powers – his curse is a retribution. He lies outside this sphere."

"Human. As you were before your turning."

"Then…become a new creation. A form animated by this Power. A vessel, inhabited."

"Do you understand the nature of this creature before you?"

"You choose Stasis?"

"You must be made new."

"The form must be purified."

"Like so."

no oh no god Spike –

"Proceed."

Sometimes, when you’re out swimming in the ocean, your grasp on the situation (breathe, stroke, kick, head up) will loosen. It only takes a bare moment, and suddenly the wave has you in its power, turns you, lifts you, pushes you down – dumps you, in fact (being dumped by a lover or by a big wave – lots of poetic imagery there).

You flounder, splash, feel a sting of salt in your eyes, the grazing pain of scraping the sea floor, sand up your nose, and which way is up? you have no idea. Breath is knocked out of you – you release it unintentionally, crying out underwater in a flock of bubbles when you mistakenly think you’ve reached the open air…precious resources wasted.

And then there’s the burning demand for oxygen, the claustrophobia, the sudden clamour in your chest, an the fear and pain as the current slams into you again, and again, and again…

"…unghuh…"

"Lie still. It’s alright."

When he opens his eyes a crack he immediately wants to close them again. The light seems hyper-bright. And he wishes he could close his ears too. Noisy. Adding the croak of his own voice sounds…odd.

"…what’s happening?"

"Everyone’s still fighting, but it’s okay. They’re pretty much on top of it now."

"Where’s –"

"She’s fine. She’s out in the thick of things. Didn’t want to go, but she’s needed. And she figured I could help you more. How are you feeling?"

"…like death warmed up?"

"Hah."

"Where are we?"

"Well, it looks like this place sells wedding dresses, but they’re gonna need pretty extensive renovations before start of trade tomorrow. No – don’t try and sit up."

"Unh…whatever you say then."

"Still painful in the chest?"

"More like everywhere. Aches… Ah, I’m getting too old for this."

"You will be."

"Pardon?"

"I’ll let the lady explain. She’s on her way."

"How do you know?"

"Because it’s time for me to go."

"What d’you mean ‘go’? Like ‘go’ as in –"

"’Go’ as in leave."

"Hey – hey. What’s going on, your skin is…argh."

"Told you not to sit up."

"Michael, you’re…fading."

"Like I said, gotta go. You know, Spike, that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name."

"You’re just gonna leave? Like that?"

"Sun’s nearly up – it’s time. Our mission’s over."

"But Buffy –"

"Doesn’t need any more help from us. It’s okay, Spike – really. And congratulations."

"For what?"

"Saving the world and all that."

"I feel like I’m talking to a ghost…"

"Relax. I’m still a little bit here. And I’ve got a surprise for you before I go."

"…what sort of surprise?"

"Just a little internal alignment… It’ll come in handy, believe me. Consider it a parting gift."

"Wait –"

"See you round, Spike."

"But ---