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

The silence could've been shattered by a single pin drop. His words---they will die---hovered in the air, skewering the hope that had begun to grow in Cortina's chest as efficiently as one of Buffy's thousands of stakings, freezing the hearts of the others.

It wasn't even really that much of a shock to the Slayer. Her interrogation of the Council Director back in Sunnydale had carried with it hints of darker stories behind the Vroleks and the Soul Eaters, tales he'd been unwilling to completely share at the time. The carefully chosen words, the way he'd start and then stop as if he feared revealing too much, all of it made sense now in light of this admission. But there was no more time for games, not with lives hanging in the balance. Not with souls being messed with as if they were candy.

"Tell her about the ritual, Q," Buffy prompted, breaking the silence. Her muscles were stiff against Spike's, his fingers methodically stroking the veins that pulsed in her wrist. It was an oddly comforting gesture, but his attention was just as riveted on the scene playing out before him as the others.

Poor Cort, she heard him think, and felt his pity for the Vrolek weigh down the calm that had previously been suffusing him. She deserves better than this.

"Yes," Giles repeated. The tone of his voice sent shivers down Buffy's spine and she realized she'd never heard him sound so…dangerous before. "Tell us about the ritual, Quentin."

Travers sighed. "For obvious reasons, you know now that it does not actually kill the Vroleks that participate in---."

"Participate?" Cortina spat out the word, stepping forward to stand just behind Giles' elbow, knowing that if she separated the barrier between her and the bound Englishman, she would not be able to control her actions. "You make it sound like they joined a game. Say it for what it is."

He refused to let her visibly ruffle him. "As I was saying, the ritual does not actually take life in its completion. Have you not wondered in all these decades since your husband gave us the children---."

"Sold you my children. Please. Don't play your condescending word tricks on me at this point, or you're going to find yourself without a tongue to speak at all."

More silence where Travers regarded the two facing him. One last time to try to explain. Any more interruptions and he had no doubt that one of them would step forth to rip his heart out. He wasn't even sure which one it would be at this point. "It is a binding ritual," he said simply. "It requires Vrolek demons in order to work. The problems arise because magic doesn't work on your species. So we found a way to circumvent that, using qualities of the pelanthrope crystal that we'd heretofore not known. It allowed us to take advantage of the uniqueness of Vrolek physiology so that the children of the wind could be safely housed, thus preventing them---."

"Wait a minute." Giles' eyes narrowed as he took a step forward. "Did you say…housed?"

"It is a binding ritual," Quentin repeated as if that was enough explanation. "Not a death ritual. It binds the Soul Eaters to the host. Or, hosts, as this case may be. Cortina's children became…" And here he was going to have to use the word he'd dreaded when Buffy'd pressed on the same issue. God help me, he thought. "…receptacles for the Soul Eaters."

"But they're still alive," Cortina whispered. Though her voice was low, it echoed in the underground chamber, sounding hollow and desperate as she tried to assimilate the information he was now providing.

"They're in stasis," Travers clarified. "The pelanthrope is a powerful healing crystal. In order to ensure that the ritual would…endure, my predecessors deemed it necessary to place them within the crystal's field, keeping them alive for as long as they remained there. We don't know how the children of the wind were able to break free from it. We only know they did. And by following their paths, and learning what we did about Miss Summers and the cleansing ritual, it became quickly apparent who their new targets were."

"But if you had the Vroleks already," asked Willow, broaching the question she knew the others would be too afraid to ask, "why did you come after Cortina? Why not just put them back in her…back in?" Nope. Couldn't say the word. That one hurt even her.

"Because they are useless to us now," came the reply. "They are mere shells any more. The Soul Eaters have…destroyed what uniqueness the demon children had." In spite of his trepidation, his watery gaze was steady on Cortina. "That is why we sought out another."

"You bastard!" She leapt forward, fingers curled into deadly talons, and would've gouged his eyes out if Giles' arm hadn't shot forward and scooped her around the waist, dragging her back against him. The muscles in his arms bulged as he strained to contain her, for once the full measure of her demon strength unleashed in his presence, and his head bowed forward so that his mouth rested at her ear, the knowledge that he wouldn't be able to hold her for very long this way only too obvious.

"It's not his fault," Giles hissed. "I detest what's happened, too, but Quentin has merely inherited this problem. He is not the one who did this to your children, Cortina. Don't exacerbate the situation by stooping to those levels."

"Rupert is correct. I was merely---."

"Shut up!"

The Watcher's voice was a gunshot in the cavern, blue eyes glowing in his fury, causing all but Spike to flinch at its intensity. Only the vampire understood the primal protective instincts that were now controlling the other Englishman, that driving need to shield at whatever cost the woman that he loved. His measure of respect for Rupert rose, even as his own grip on Buffy tightened.

"You would deny me this?" She had turned against him, pale blue eyes searching his, and Cortina couldn't keep the haunting incredulity from her tone. "After…after everything?"

"He could be wrong," Giles replied. "Remember, he believes there is no way to kill the Soul Eaters, either. It's quite possible your children will survive whatever…this state of…inertia they are in. Don't allow the hate to control you. We're better than that…remember? You're better than that."

The confusion masked the fear on Quentin's face as he watched the pair in their struggle. "Forgive me for my ignorance," he said, "but…did you infer you've discovered a means to destroy the children of the wind?"

"We believe so," Giles said, not even looking at him, his spectacled gaze still locked on his lover. "Spike, why don't you show our guest your most recent gift from the Soul Eaters?"

The vampire eased his hold on the Slayer, sauntering forward to stand before Travers, and pulled his shirt over his head to reveal the healing burn on his chest. "Courtesy of a little dream walk," he drawled.

"How…is that…possible?"

Spike shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. But we figure, if they can hurt me, then we can hurt them."

"Which is what we're planning on doing." Buffy stepped up to stand beside the blond vamp. "We're done running. We're pitching our tents and waiting for the Soul Eaters to show up so that Spike and I can finish them off, once and for all."

"What if you fail?"

Their responses were simultaneous, his accented baritone blending perfectly with the Slayer's clear voice.

"We won't."

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

All throughout the caves, there were decisions being made.

In the library, Cortina and Giles were discussing what they were going to do about her children. Should they free them on the chance that Travers was wrong? Did they leave them as they were? Could she bear watching them die all over again if the head of the Council was right?

In the grotto, Buffy and Dawn were debating the pros and cons of attempting to bring Joyce back, with Willow and Tara standing by to be friendly ears should the need arise. Their questions were much the same as the pair in the library. Was it worth it if something turned out wrong? Were they strong enough to watch her die again? For that matter, were they strong enough to deal if everything was mostly right with the eldest Summers woman but she still needed their help?

Spike's decision had already been made. He had no doubts as to what form the Soul Eater would take once he lapsed back into dreams, and he had decided that the best way for Buffy to deal with what had happened was to watch it for herself. Somehow, his words, his explanations, always seemed to make things worse, so he was going to trust her eyes to see the truth. Then, once she knew, they would fight the ghost bitch and get rid of her. Once and for all, as she kept saying.

His mouth twisted into a smile as he lit the last of the candles. If there was one thing about his Slayer that he knew he could always count on, it was her dedication to protecting those she cared about, the way she stood her ground to battle whatever came at her, regardless of the circumstances. He had no idea how she was going to react to the tales of his past, but felt a kernel of hope budding deep within his stomach every time he remembered her response to the wellspring he'd shared with her.

Spike was going to trust her. He was going to trust in the feelings they had about each other, and he was going to trust that Buffy had learned enough about him, both before and after the cleansing, that she would see that he wasn't exactly the same person he'd been back then. Oh, part of it was still there, still colored every other choice he made. But he'd moved on, had grown. Most importantly…he'd learned.

He just wanted her to see that.

That being said, he was taking advantage of the slight reprieve they had while they waited for the Soul Eaters to be close enough to warrant sleeping to have one last burden-free moment of peace with the Slayer. Well, more like many moments, all strung together. Closing off his mind so that Buffy could have a few minutes of privacy with her sister, the vampire had slipped back to the room they'd shared, to the bed where they'd first consummated and declared their feelings for the other. He wanted it to be special. He wanted her to feel loved. He wanted it to be…beautiful.

Like her.

Spike?

Right here, luv.

Where are you?

Carefully, Spike opened up his thoughts just enough so that she could see the bed, and felt the gentle start of recognition warm inside her head. You and Bit get everything sorted?

Yeah. There was a pause. Are you…looking for privacy? Or…can I…

Privacy for two. If that's OK for you. There's not something we have to do to get ready for anything?

He heard her sigh. Dawn's going to help Willow and Tara with the spell to try and save Mom while we're asleep, she explained. Dolly's going to do some more taxiing around so that they can get the stuff. So…if that invitation's open…

Always for you, pet.

He felt her quicken her pace as he turned back to give the room one last survey, the candles lit beside the bed, the fresh flowers he knew she loved adorning every other free space. Thank god Cort believes in one-stop shopping, he thought, and noted with satisfaction that everything was as he wanted it. Of course, if it could've been done without the specter of these damn Soul Eaters over their heads, it might've been better. And one thing was for sure. As soon as they got back to Sunnydale, Spike was investing in a new place. Something nice. For both of them.

He didn't turn as he felt her step into the doorway, heard the slight catch in her breath as her eyes scanned the bedroom. Instead, he waited for her to walk up to him, knowing she would, his lashes fluttering closed as Buffy slid her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against the curve of his spine.

"Well, aren't you the big ol' softie," she gently teased. "Should I be calling you the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man? You've got the skin for it."

"I think you're goin' to find out I'm hard all over," he chuckled, his eyes opening, and was rewarded as her hand slid down the flat of his stomach, gliding over the erection under his jeans.

"So what's the special occasion? I'm not missing anniversaries already, am I? Because I am the world's worst when it comes to remembering these kind of things."

"No special occasion." The rumble reverberated throughout his torso as Buffy's fingers slid inside the zipper to trace the veins along the length of his cock. "Just thought we deserved some down time before everything goes to hell in a handbasket."

"Does hell fit in a handbasket?"

"Let's not find out any time soon."

He could feel her lips trailing across his shoulder blades through the cotton of his t-shirt, the contact so near and yet so far away. Gently, Spike reached down and pulled out the small hand inside his jeans, tugging tenderly at her arm so that she was forced to stand before him. "Let me do this my way," he said softly.

Buffy was transfixed as she watched his blond head lower to meet hers, his cool mouth gliding effortlessly over her forehead, down her temple, along her jaw, until his lips came to rest on the pulse point at the base of her neck. As the tip of his tongue darted out to trace the scar from his bite that rested there, her eyes closed, basking in the attentions of his mouth as he suckled at her skin. She would never be able to get enough of this, she decided, moaning softly as her hand came up to tangle in the curls at his nape, holding him closer as his own fingers worked the buttons of her blouse. And she would fight to her dying breath to make sure she didn't have to lose it.

That same breath was quickening as the cool cave air met her already heating flesh, her nipples hardening to tight buds as Spike's palm brushed over their tips. So barely there…cooling her flesh while at the same time scorching her in flames. She wanted it harder, her back arching to force him into more direct contact with her breasts, only to feel him lift his hands to her shoulders, firmly pushing her away so that the distance was maintained between them.

"My way," he reiterated.

"Your way is too slow," Buffy pouted. Nevertheless, she stood still as his mouth came back down, sucking her in for the lightest of kisses, before gliding to the soft flesh of her ear lobe.

"My way will make you scream so loud, we'll have our own skylight 'cause you'll be bringin' down the bloody roof," he murmured.

The promise sent shivers down her spine, and she felt the moisture that was already beginning to seep through her pants cling stickily to her outer lips. When his hands slid under the shoulders of her blouse, pushing it to fall silently in a huddled mass to the floor, Buffy nuzzled her cheek against his, smooth skin to smooth skin, feeling the harsh angle of his cheekbones cut in delicate slices under hers. The sensations made her mouth water, and her lips parted, sliding to meet with his in a featherweight caress.

It was the gentlest of kisses, but lasted an eternity, sucking…nibbling…and…oh god when did the room start spinning?...all the while, Spike's nimble fingers working the fabric and fastenings of the Slayer's trousers until she stood naked before him.

No fair. You still have all your clothes on.

In due time, pet. In due time.

Strong hands guided her back to the bed, those lips never leaving hers even as her knees buckled beneath her, her body collapsing into the mattress. She didn't remember it being so soft, but frankly, she probably wouldn't have remembered her address at that moment in time. A tiny mewl escaped her throat as he stretched out beside her, his fingers returning to trace curlicues around her nipples.

When his mouth finally abandoned hers, Buffy closed her eyes and sank into the cool fire the caress of his tongue was lighting across her flesh. He was taking his time, not an inch of her exposed skin spared from the bounty of his kisses, licking across the line of her clavicle…the hollow at the base of her throat…around the ripe curve of her breast…each stroke punctuated with an ever-growing insistency from his hands as they followed.

There was no world…well, there was, but it didn't matter, nothing mattered, only her and Spike, and this moment, and the next, and the need that was rising deep within her pelvis, causing her clit to tingle in anticipation of his nearing mouth. Her fingers clawed into the blanket as he nipped at the jut of her hip, trailing a line of raw bites across the top of her thigh, instigating a series of quivers throughout her muscles.

"Spike…" she whispered. "Please…"

He ignored her, lost in the scent of her desire, his own flesh begging for succor even as he denied it. Darting out his tongue, Spike ran the tip along her outer lips, feeling the coarseness of the hairs as he lapped at the moisture that was collecting there. Her hips bucked, driving her heat into him, and he grazed the hard nub at the rise of her inner folds with his teeth, chuckling when her hands clutched at his head to force him deeper.

Chest rising up and down in a vociferous rhythm…breathing not working the way it should…thousands upon thousands of singing lights skittering behind her lids. Every lap at her juices, every nip at her clit, every stroke of those long fingers that were now gliding in and out of her channel…all of it served to destroy what tenuous hold she had on her surroundings, drowning in the eddies that were undulating through her flesh.

Her orgasm brought her knees up, curled her legs around his shoulders to hold him in place, quivering and shivering and crying out as it rocked around her. She felt the door inside his head crack open, his own satisfaction at pleasing her leaking out to suffuse her limbs in lava, his love intermingling with hers as she drifted along on the aftershocks.

Somewhere, somehow, his clothes disappeared, the pale ivory of his body pressing against hers, the tip of his dripping cock hovering at the nexus of her thighs. His mouth was back on hers---I could die like this, he thought---while one arm slid along the line of her spine to hold her to him. One lift, one slide, and he was delving into her wet heat, taking his time though it ached inside not to just plunge in one rabid stroke. Each time he did this was sweeter than the last, a nectar that quenched his thirst for her even as it made Spike hunger for more, and when he felt himself buried inside, the heavy sac of his balls resting between the cheeks of her ass, he waited, silently counting off, making it last. It was only when she realized what he was doing and slapped playfully at his hip did the vampire begin the excruciating journey out, measuring each thrust in and out in the eternities of light being with Buffy gave him.

Whenever he felt himself getting close, Spike would stop, holding himself inside for however long it took for the tightening of his balls to relax, all the while feeling his Slayer's powerful hands massaging the corded muscles of his back as he kissed her delectable mouth, swallowed down her delicious breath as if it was his own. She came at least twice more before he even considered establishing his own release, each time her body shuddering beneath him, spurring him further.

His orgasm broke through the barrier he'd placed on the fount of his emotions, and lost in the swell, they swept over the pair in bittersweet sparks, catching and igniting and burning, pledging the earth and heaven and everything in between as they reveled in what both knew could feasibly be their last time together.

I love you so much, Buffy's mind whispered through the miasma that surrounded them.

I know. There was a pause. No matter what, luv…my heart will always be yours. Just…remember that.

She knew that all of this was the result of Spike's decision to share with her the source of his agony in his past, that he worried about how she was going to respond to whatever it was he was going to share, and wished she could convince him that it didn't matter. He wouldn't believe her, of course. Though he came across all swagger and sarcasm, she knew that deep within the folds of leather lived a frightened young man who'd never been shown true trust prior to being turned to his current state of unlife. Buffy could only hold his hand, and do what he asked, following where he would lead, watching what he would show…and believing in him to the end.
Because that's what you do when you love somebody, she thought, snuggling her cheek into his shoulder, lashes tickling his skin.

You believe in them.

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

Every time she stopped moving, the trembling began again. Losing her temper in front of Travers had really been expected; Giles didn’t doubt for a moment how deeply hearing the story about her children affected the Vrolek. Frankly, anything less than the display she had given would’ve surprised him even more. In spite of her struggles, too, he knew that she had willingly acceded to his restraint, the tempering of her more natural instincts to destroy those who barred her path shining brightly for him if not for the others.

It frightened him to a degree how well he knew Cortina, how much of her spirit called out to his, and how easy it was getting to read her moods, to judge what her next move would be. It shouldn’t be this rapid, Giles knew. Only on the rare occasion in his forty-plus years on this planet had he ever known such an affinity for another, and the irony that it was a demon who now seemed to be the one to place his world into an order he’d previously only dreamed about did not escape him.

For the first few minutes after settling themselves in her library, he had held her, arms wrapped around her shoulders, silently wiping away the tears that flowed freely from her eyes. She had cried so much over the past few days---too much, she had said on more than one occasion---and though these tore at his heart just as much as the others, there was a quiet sense of peace that accompanied them, like they were being drawn from the bottom of the well and only exiting her body in an attempt to flush out the remaining anxieties from her flesh.

The tremors that had begun shivering her small frame had driven her to her feet, and Giles had watched in mute fascination as she began prowling around the stacks, vocalizing her thought processes in a stream of consciousness that was both revealing and disturbing. So many questions. So many decisions to be made. And he could only be there as a sounding board while she hashed it out in her head. As much as he would like to believe otherwise, the choice would have to be hers, and hers alone. For these were not his children, a fact he was growing increasingly aware of with each passing minute.

“He had no clue about the possibility of killing the Soul Eaters,” Cortina was repeating for the sixth time. She kept coming back to this statement; this was the foundation to which she was clinging. “It’s as you said. He’s hardly omnipotent. For that matter, I’m beginning to think he’s not even semi-potent.” This last was said with a quick flash of a smile in his direction, one of her feeble attempts to gain some levity in the situation. She was desperately attempting to maintain control, and though it hurt to watch the struggle in her face, Giles found himself overwhelmed with a surge of pride at her fortitude.

“Why don’t you just come out and say it?” His voice was low, probing, but not confrontational, even as she hesitated in her route to look over at him quizzically. “You’ve been going over the same things for the last fifteen minutes, Cortina. I think you know as well as I do what your decision is. You’re just frightened of saying it out loud.”

She lowered her eyes then, hiding the shine from his gentle gaze, and resumed her pacing. “It’s hard to believe that I would be scared of mere words,” she said. “It’s not like they have any actual capability of physically hurting me.”

“It’s natural to be apprehensive of anything with power. It doesn’t, however, negate the fact that you’ve already reached your decision. Say it,” he coaxed.

Cortina disappeared around the edge of the one of the rows of books, and Giles could hear the shuffle of texts being pulled randomly from the shelves, dusty pages breathing in the air as she flipped through them, the slide of leather against the wood as they returned to their resting places. When the words finally came, they pricked the tension that had been knotting the Watcher’s shoulders, and he bowed his head as he listened to her whispered words.

“I have to get them out of there,” the Vrolek said. “I can’t just stand by. Not any more. I can’t watch them exist in some kind of limbo where it’s impossible for me to touch them, or hold them, or even know that they can hear me when I say I love them. I’ve spent the last century coming to grips with their deaths. Probably grieved for a lot longer than I should’ve, but when you live as long as I do, the passage of time becomes relative.” There was a pause, some more books being moved around. “If Travers is right, and they die when we take them out of the protection of the crystal, at least they’ll die feeling my arms around them. They’ll die knowing I fought for them until the end.”

When he heard her steps round the stack, Giles lifted his eyes to look at her wan visage. The corner of his mouth lifted in a gesture of reassurance at the silent plea in her gaze. “They would be very proud of you,” he murmured. “I know I am.”

“You don’t think it makes me selfish? That I’d rather they die with me, than live without?”

He shook his head. “Can you call what they’re doing, living? You’re freeing them, Cortina. That’s a noble thing. There is no reason for you to experience guilt regarding this decision. It will be difficult enough to face the consequences without adding your own self-flagellations to the mixture.”

His reference to consequences clearly gave her pause, and a slight color rose to her cheeks as she stepped closer to the table at which he sat. “There are…other issues, you know,” she said softly. “If Travers is wrong.”

He did know, and nodded. This discussion was coming much sooner than he’d anticipated.

“Have you considered it?” she continued. Another step closer. “Have you…wondered what it would be like?”

“I think the more appropriate question is…should your children survive, does there remain a place for me in your life?” His small smile was sad. He knew what she wanted to hear, but he wasn’t sure he was capable of saying it. “Our time together has been…extraordinary, to say the least. You’ve…touched parts of me I’d long thought dead. Opened my eyes to the possibilities of more than my Watcher existence. For that, I will always be thankful.”

Her movements stopped, her body growing rigid as her eyes widened. “You’re breaking up with me,” she said, disbelief in her voice. “Now? With everything that’s happening? How could you---?”

“No.” He was before her in a shot, his hands on her upper arms, feeling the stone of her flesh beneath his touch. Her entire body was rigid, pale eyes darting, unable to stay on his for more than a second at a time. “That’s not what I meant. But answer me honestly. Best case scenario…Quentin is wrong and your children are perfectly fine. Do you truly believe it’s possible for me to have a place in their lives? A human attempting to parent…demons?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. I thought we’d learned by now that, fundamentally, you and I are not that different, Rupert. I mean, perhaps it would be harder if I was a different species. One that was…more of a threat to humans.”

“Dolly did say that Vrolek children bite,” Giles gently teased.

Cortina rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe she’s still cranky about that. I told her not to provoke them, but did she listen?” She shook her head. “So, there are developmental issues. It’s not like humans don’t have the same thing.”

“We don’t bite people.”

“You’ve never been around toddlers, have you, Rupert? And don’t get me started on the whole hormone-driven teenage years you lot are stuck with.” A heavy sigh accompanied the slight relaxing of her body as she lowered her head, her fingers straying to fiddle with the buttons of his shirt. “What I’m saying is, that every species has their own growing pains. Sometimes, they’re a little dangerous, but if they weren’t manageable, we would’ve all died out ages ago. I couldn’t think of a better male role model for my children to have than you, Rupert. Even if you do refuse to believe that Descartes was a genius.”

The re-emergence of an old debate distracted him momentarily as his hands fell from her arms to fold across his chest. “I never said that,” he argued. “I merely stated I had issues with a man who began his philosophical inquiries by doubting all knowledge without exception---.” He cut himself off as he caught her looking up at him through her lashes, and shook his head. “It won’t work. You’re not going to divert my queries by rehashing some inane discussion we had over tea one night. This is a serious matter, Cortina. We shouldn’t be joking about it.”

“I’m not. I’m trying to show you that it’s not as serious as you think it is. Not everything is an apocalypse.”

“You have to know…I don’t understand how I can fit into that role in your life.”

“And you know what? I don’t know how it would work either. But I do know you have great instincts, and that you’re kind, and intelligent, and it would be very hard for me to imagine my future without you in it.” Finally, she lifted her gaze and he was relieved to see that some of the pain regarding her decision seemed to have filtered away, like she was coming to peace with it, accepting its potential consequences in hopes for the best. “I’m not asking you for any promises. I’m just asking that you don’t automatically dismiss the possibility.”

Giles nodded, lifting his hand to brush back the hair from her cheek. If she had pressed, he suspected he would’ve succumbed to her wishes, his current feelings for her overwhelming to say the least. He didn’t understand why she was giving him the choice when her own desires were so apparent, but he would not deny the gift she was offering. Perhaps time was all he needed to reach a decision. After all, she’d been able to make a much tougher one, just as Buffy and Dawn were doing at that moment in the grotto. Yes, that was probably all he needed. Just a little more time.

Lowering his head, the Englishman brushed a kiss over her forehead. “You are one of the bravest people I have ever known,” he said. “Not only for facing a choice that I’m certain every parent dreads, but also for suffering in this delusional fugue where you believe I would make a good…” He swallowed before saying the word. “…father.”

She giggled at his difficulty in saying it. “Well, I’ve been called worse things,” she said, and pressed her cheek against his chest, listening to his heart pound away inside. “Thank you.”

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

Travers’ gaze was cold as he watched the two witches sort through the supplies they had just teleported in from the Council building. “You’re holding that upside down,” he instructed as Willow examined a small oblong-ish statue. “If that remains in that position during the spell, you will only proceed to disintegrate Joyce Summers’ physical remains.”

The redhead frowned, glancing at the still tied-up Director out of the corner of her eye before carefully turning the object over. “Uh, thanks,” she said, and set it down on the ground alongside the rest of the stuff.

“You do know you lack the power necessary to successfully perform the spell, don’t you?” he continued. “I’d thought your skills were far more advanced, but now that I know you were not the ones who actually rescued Spike, I’ve reverted to my original assessment. You are not strong enough.”

“Is there a reason we didn’t gag him?” Tara asked her girlfriend.

“I think it was some veiled reference from Giles about respecting authority,” Willow replied, shooting Travers a dirty look before adding, “Even if they’re lying, back-stabbing, pompous meanies.”

“Perhaps it would be wise for me to call in someone to help you,” Travers said. “A third source from which you can draw to ensure the spell’s completion.”

“Giles is going to help us, so thanks, but no thanks.” She didn’t want to admit to the older man that she was actually afraid that he was right, that she and Tara didn't have enough power between them to do it, but there was no way she was going to give him the satisfaction to know that his ramblings were starting to get to her.

The cavern was silent for a moment as the two girls worked on organizing their ingredients. Only the soft gurgle of the water as it lapped intermittently against the stones along the bank sifted through the air.

“Do you have means to detect the approach of the children of the wind?” Travers asked, breaking the lull.

After sharing a look with Tara, Willow sat back on her heels and nodded at the Englishman. “Dolly and Cortina gave us some hints on how to find the Soul Eaters,” she explained. “We’ve got wards set up out in the desert to let us know when they get close. That way we can give Buffy and Spike the heads up to do their sleep slaying.”

He nodded, eyes thoughtful. “Ah, yes. This…attempt to kill them. Pardon me if I’m a trifle…hesitant to put my faith in such a plan. It seems unnecessarily foolhardy when there is a perfectly good means of controlling the children of the wind without risking either the Slayer or Spike.”

“Buffy and Giles warned us you might pull something like this,” Willow warned with a wag of her finger. “Cortina’s our friend. We don’t go Sybil-ing our friends by sticking an entire demon species in their bodies. It’s not nice.”

“And what if their plan fails? Will you stand by and watch your friend die?”

“They won’t.” She was sure to emphasize the “they.” After everything, Spike was turning out to be just as much of a friend as Buffy. “If it looks like the Soul Eaters are getting too close, Dolly’s just going to whisk them to safety and we’ll try again later.”

“The traditional stalling technique. I see.”

How did Buffy put up with this guy as a boss for so long? Willow thought as she felt her defenses jump up, her lips pressing together as she bit back the retort that jumped to her tongue. “It’s not stalling,” she finally said. “It’s very much stall-free. It’s, well, you know, it’s…” In quiet desperation, she looked to Tara for help.

“It’s regrouping,” the blonde chirped, her chin high.

Willow lit up. “Yeah, regrouping. That’s it. Not stalling.”

“And when will you attempt the spell to resurrect Ms. Summers? You’ll have quite a small window of opportunity, you realize. The children of the wind should most likely be close in proximity, but not so close as to be a true threat.”

“Don’t worry. We have a schedule. We know what we’re doing here.” She frowned again. “Why are turning into Chatty Cathy all of a sudden? Are you deliberately trying to distract us so that this doesn’t work?”

“On the contrary, Miss Rosenberg, my only desire since the children of the wind escaped has been to ensure the Slayer’s happiness and wellbeing. Everything I’ve done has been in the name of keeping her safe. I have no wish to see her harmed at this point in time. She is far too valuable to us in our current battles.”

“But you kidnapped Spike.”

Quentin sighed. “As I’ve already explained to Miss Summers, we did so only with the best intentions.” As he regarded them, he blinked once, twice, and then gave them what they thought he was trying to pass as a smile. “Believe it or not, I am your ally in this matter. Use my wherewithal if you wish. Or don’t. The choice is yours.”

It was pointless for him to speak further, he knew. The witches were faithful to a fault, loyal to their friend and her mentor without question, and all he could do was be honest at this point. They didn’t believe him, but that was partially his own doing; after all, he had been the one to order their kidnapping, even if it hadn’t been his original idea. I must remember to speak with Clive about that when we return to London, Quentin thought. His suggestion most certainly did not work according to plan.

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

She had no idea how long they had been lying there. Hours, probably, although in so many ways, it felt like nothing. A blink. Not nearly enough time. But was there ever really enough time? she wondered. She’d always taken the issue of her life expectancy relatively lightly…well, as lightly as could be expected. She knew it was part of the Slayer gig. And as much as she fought to keep that expiration date as far away as possible, Buffy also knew that she’d long ago come to terms with the possibility that it could end at any single moment in time.

And there it was again. Time. The lack thereof.

Beneath her cheek, Spike’s skin was reassuringly cool, and delicately, Buffy traced the burn marks that remained on his chest. “At least it doesn’t hurt anymore,” she commented softly.

“Wouldn’t matter if it did,” he said, his voice barely audible, eyes closed as the arm that was wrapped around her traced the line of her spine with a single finger. “I can take anything as long as I know you’re safe.”

She lifted her head, the candlelight dancing in her eyes as she looked at him. “You’re not going to go and do something amazingly stupid like try to kill this thing on your own when we go head tripping, are you?”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile even as his lids remained shut. “Now, would I do something like that?” he drawled. He chuckled when her tiny hand slapped at his shoulder. “Think I’ve learned my lesson, pet. In this together. I promise not to do anything profoundly daft until you show your pretty little face.”

Her lips parted, the short intake of breath to speak the only sound in the room, only to be stopped by a quiet rap at the door. Immediately, Buffy stiffened, and simultaneously, both she and Spike turned to look at it. “Come in,” she called, and felt her heart thumping in her chest.

The door creaked open and Willow’s red head poked apologetically around its edge. Her eyes were solemn. “It’s time…”

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

Everything was going to happen in the grotto.

Giles had been the one to make the decision. In the face of everyone's distraction, he was the one who was rallying them forth, keeping them focused on the plan, barking out orders to demon guards and Dolly alike. With the possibility of failure all too real, the Watcher had decided that centralizing everyone within the cavern surrounding the stream afforded Dolly the best and easiest means of transporting everyone out, should the need arise. So, Joyce's body was brought in and laid out, with Willow and Tara preparing their restoration spell, while a makeshift bed was created for Buffy and Spike near the water's edge.

Cortina hovered in the background as the final arrangements were settled, watching as Spike nuzzled Buffy's hair, his whispered words of love lost to everyone but her. Who would've guessed that just a routine sweep of her caves a month earlier would lead the lot of them to where they were today? she thought. If her guards had let Buffy and Spike remain where they'd been hiding, she would never have met them, or Rupert, or learned about the existence of her children…

She shook her head as if that would dispel the what if's from her skull. It was pointless dwelling on the past when this was where they were today. Take what they'd been given and try to make the best of it. Hope for chocolate mousse and pray they didn't get mud pies.

With a bright smile that didn't quite connect to her eyes, Cortina strode forward to the lovers' sides and lightly touched Buffy's shoulder to get her attention. "I wanted to say good luck," she said when the blonde turned to look at her. "Dolly's going to be getting me out of here soon, so I'm going to miss all the festivities. Darn the awful luck."

"You know, we're going to have to do something about this no-magic thing around you," Buffy said. "You're going to miss out on all the good apocalypses this way."

"Make them some old-fashioned, hand-to-hand fights, and I'm there." The Vrolek's pale eyes slid up to Spike's, softening when she saw the flash of worry buried in the cerulean depths. Poor vamp was really scared about this, she thought sadly. Gotta love his bravado, though. Probably only Buffy and I can see the truth. "Don't be getting yourself killed now," she instructed him with a false sternness in her voice. "I need someone around who can keep me company during the day when these two---," she gestured to Buffy and Rupert, "---go riding into the sunrise trying to save the world."

"Goin' to do my best," Spike replied. "Dying's not exactly high on my to do list today."

In an uncharacteristic flash of emotion, Buffy leaned forward and gave Cortina a quick hug. "As soon as we kill these things, we're going to settle the Council's issue with your kids," she promised in a whisper only the Vrolek could hear. "I'll even let you hit Q."

Her smile was sad as she pulled away from the embrace. "I'll hold you to that," she murmured, and then turned to Dolly who was waiting off to the side. "I'm ready. We should get me out of here so that these guys can get the show on the road."

The group was silent as the two demons disappeared in a soft whisper, leaving the gentle pitter of the water in the stream the only sound bouncing against the stone walls. Even Giles took a moment to reflect on the noticeable void Cortina's absence left in them, in spite of the fact that they all knew this departure was necessary for the magic to work effectively. It wasn't just about the restoration of Joyce Summers that would be at work here. In order to ensure Spike and Buffy would fall asleep, a slumber spell would be done to each of the pair in turn, with Dawn as the trigger for ceasing it, should the presence of the Soul Eaters get too close for safety. The teenager would be watching them, scanning their bodies for wounds that might suddenly appear from nowhere, ready to pull them back to the waking world should the threat become too severe.

"Spike." Giles' voice cut through the tension, causing his Slayer to jump and reflexively curl her fingers around the vampire's forearm. "Please. Get into position. We need to start."

"Right." A quick glance at Buffy, a shy lift of his mouth, and Spike turned away from her, striding with deliberate nonchalance to the bedside. He paused, frowning at Dawn's obvious discomfort as she hovered near the foot of the blankets. "What? It's not like you haven't seen me sleepin' before, Bit."

She shifted her weight uncomfortably, an embarrassed flush creeping into her cheeks. "Um, it's not that. It's…you know." She gestured vaguely toward his chest. "Your shirt. You have to take it off. So we can see if…you get any more burns or gaping wounds or anything."

"Ah. Right." With his fluid grace, the vampire pulled the cotton over his head and was halfway facing the bed when a sly smile curled his mouth and he glanced wickedly back at the teenager. "You sure that's goin' to be enough?" he teased, his hands straying to the fly of his jeans. "Hellbitch could make a swipe for my---."

"Spike!"

His innocence was feigned as he looked back at Buffy. "What? I'm just sayin'---."

"Saying is not sleeping. Get into bed." She could hear his chuckle inside her head and had to refrain from laughing out loud herself as she saw the shocked horror that stretched her sister's eyes and mouth into saucers. Bad vampire, she chastised him as he settled himself on top of the blankets. Trying to corrupt the innocent teenager with your potential nakedness.

You know I wouldn't have done it, luv. Just wanted to see her face, is all. She saw the smile lingering on his face as he flashed on the memory. Gotta admit, it was funny.

Now is not the time for funny.

It sobered him immediately, and she felt the sigh of resignation waft through his thoughts. Right, there. A vampire being hunted for his soul isn't funny at all. It's wonderful, bloody irony, that's what it is.

Spike's eyes fluttered shut, and he stretched his arms out along his sides, exposing as much of his flesh to the scrutiny of the others as possible. With the vamp in position, Willow stepped forward, a small vial in her hand.

"How long will it take?" Buffy asked.

"It should be pretty much instantaneous," the witch replied as she knelt at Spike's side. Dipping her finger inside the bottle she held, she began chanting under her breath, the words of whatever language the spell was in, unintelligible. Sticky fluid stuck to the digit she pulled from the vial and carefully, she pressed it against each of his closed lids, watching as it seeped beneath his lashes to disappear into his eyes.

Buffy clung to the line between her and Spike's minds as she saw her best friend lean forward, her mouth pursed to---.

---love you always, pet---

---blow softly into the vampire's ear.

He was gone.

Silence. Shattering, ear-splitting silence. And Buffy had never before felt more alone than she did at that exact minute.

"OK," she chirped, ignoring the strain in the people around her. "My turn."

As she approached the bed, Willow held up her hand to stop her. "You have to wait a few minutes," she said gently. "Spike needs to get into a REM cycle, or this won't work."

"That just means you have to wait to put me under," Buffy said, carefully brushing her friend's arm aside. "That doesn't mean I can't lay there and hold him while I wait for you to do it."

They didn't stop her. What was the point? She was right. Folding herself over his inert form, stroking the sharp line of his clavicle as she nuzzled into his shoulder, wasn't going to do anything to affect when Willow did the second half of the spell. It would give Buffy a few moments of peace before the nightmares began. And her friends and family were the last people on earth to deny the Slayer even a second of that.

When it was done, Willow sat back on her heels and gazed down at the two blond lovers, one chest rising, the other deathly still. She was grateful for Giles' distraction; he'd been too absorbed in his thoughts to pay much attention to her while she put the pair to sleep. If he had been listening, he would've noticed how the incantations had varied, how the words she'd whispered to Spike had invoked not vague dreams, but specific memories. That had been at the vampire's request. She hadn't pressed as to why. It wasn't her place. But when he'd come to her before, pulling her aside while Buffy talked with Dawn, she had seen the naked need in his face for this to happen and had agreed before rational thought could interfere.

They were still dreams, she reasoned later. Just dreams of the memory lane variety. Nothing that wouldn't prevent the Soul Eaters from putting in an appearance.

She hoped.

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

The first thing she noticed was that she couldn't breathe. Well, she could breathe, just not very well.

A quick glance down and Buffy's face crumpled in dismay. Oh, crap, Spike, she thought as her gaze swept over the delicate lines of the long dress that clung to her thin form, the sweeping ruffles edging the skirt. How the hell do you expect me to fight when you've got me looking all Upstairs Downstairs?

Looking up, the musky scent of the cobbled street assailed her nostrils, the mist swirling in lazy tendrils around her feet. She felt a brief sense of panic when she saw it, and then eased, taking as deep a breath as the corset she was wearing allowed. The smell's not the same, she thought as she took a tentative step forward. It's not the Soul Eaters. It's actual mist. Can't hurt me. Unless Spike is dreaming about killer fog now. And if he is, I'm going to kill him. We sooo don't need that right now.

"Miss Summers!" The voice stopped her from the path forward she was taking, and Buffy turned to see a portly man standing on the walk behind her, a long handlebar mustache making him look like something out of a Dudley DoRight cartoon. "You're going in the wrong direction," he said. He gestured toward the house beside them. "Master William is waiting for you."

Her gaze slid to the dwelling, drinking in the long, thin windows that looked like gashes across its front, the orange and scarlet flutter of candles behind the net curtains almost making them look as if they were bleeding. The distant tinkle of a piano emanated from inside, and she could hear the muffled rumble of many voices, could see now the shadows of those same people standing within. It was a party, it seemed. And she was invited apparently. Because Master William was waiting.

Following the gentleman into the house, Buffy paused just inside the door, drinking in the carefully placed furniture, the spotless sterility of the décor. Immaculate, and expensive, and not at all what she would've expected. Just because she had access to Spike's memories didn't mean that she had necessarily dipped into them all that frequently, so seeing this house---was it his or someone else's---came as a surprise. She was still too used to it being all about the Big Bad Spike, not about the bloody awful poet William.

"He's in the drawing room," her guide explained.

Hazel eyes darted between the multitude of closed doors going off the foyer. "And the drawing room would be…?"

His arm swept to his left, and she followed its path with her gaze, her feet still rooted to the floor. "Master William is waiting for you," he repeated.

"Right," she muttered, and stepping forward, pushed the door to the room open.

It seemed as if the bulk of the party was inside, the small room crammed with people, men of all shapes, sizes, and ages scattered about, some with cigars, some with tumblers of amber-tinted whiskey. The women seemed to be confined to the seats in the room, except for the one who sat at the piano, playing the dainty melody that Buffy had heard in the street. A fire roared in the fireplace, and the first flush of heat crept up her breast, reminding her of the tight corset and her lungs' current restrictions.

"Would Miss Summers care for something to drink?"

Her affirmative response froze on her lips when she turned her head, the sight of the twinkling blue eyes behind the glasses catching her by surprise. "Spike!" she said, and then blushed when a few of the guests glanced sharply in her direction. "I mean, William!"

He was chuckling as he bowed deeply, his eyes sweeping over her curves within the dress. "Is there a time period you don't look absolutely luscious in?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur when he straightened.

It was disconcerting at best, she decided. In so many ways, he looked like an older version of that child on the playground, the light brown hair carefully arranged yet still managing to slip into curls across his forehead. His body was leaner than what she was used to, not quite filled out as he neared the end of his teenage years, a delicacy accentuated by his long, slim hands, hands that looked as if the hardest thing they'd done was turn the page of a book. And yet, in spite of his careful mimicry---actually was it mimicry if he'd really been there? Perhaps memory was a better word---of the manners of the period, she had no problem seeing the Spike inside the façade…the glitter in the sapphire depths of his eyes…the sardonic curve of his mouth as he edged himself to her side…the liquidity of his movements, boneless and ever so lithe that promised more than an eighteen-year-old Victorian male should even know about.

"I've got a bone to pick with you," Buffy accused lightly.

His hand found the small of her back, fingertips dancing up her spine. "Get outta those clothes and I've got a bone I can give you," he teased.

She blushed. Again. As inviting as his innuendo was, it seemed horribly out of place amidst the throng, and she glanced furtively around, wondering if anybody was paying them any attention. "I'm serious. Well, I guess my bone is with your subconscious. It couldn't have picked a more suitable place for a demon fight? Like…the training room at the Magic Box maybe? Lots of nice weapons at hand, and I wouldn't have to be trapped in the Iron Maiden here."

The reference to his subconscious immediately sobered him, and Spike straightened even further, shoulders thrown back as he turned his head to look out over the crowd. "About that," he said softly. "There's something I need to tell you. You might not like it much."

Buffy frowned. "Is it the Soul Eater? Is she here?" She craned her neck, eyes jumping from one woman to the next, wondering which one was his mother. Access to his memories did not mean she had a picture of the woman who'd raised his human self anywhere to be had, and she found herself wondering why that was.

"No. I was told…Mother would be late in joining us." His words were awkward, hints of that nervous young man he'd been prior to his turning shining through, and he seemed to all of a sudden not to know what to do with his hands. "How they can mess with my head so much, I'll never know."

"Don't knock it. It's giving us the means to kill them." Her hand slid up his arm, hesitating when he stiffened beneath her touch. "Can we slip away? Is it something you're not comfortable talking about here? Because personally, I'd love to get out of this dress. Maybe that subconscious of yours can whip up some jeans for me," she joked.

"That's just the thing, pet." When he glanced down at her, his glasses began to slide down his nose, and his hand rose automatically to push them back up. "Not really sure how much control I'm actually goin' to have this trip out. It's not my subconscious steering the boat."

"What're you talking about? Of course, it is. I watched you go to sleep. This is your dream."

"Not exactly." He took a deep breath and for the first time, Buffy realized that he'd been breathing all along. Is he…? She stopped the thought, saw the flush in his cheeks and before he could continue, lifted her hand to touch his face.

Warm. Alive. Oh my god.

The surprise of it caused the room to swim around her, the air she'd been struggling to hold onto exiting her lungs with a vengeful whoosh, and her hand shot out to grab on to the wall behind her in an effort to stop herself from pitching forward. It hadn't occurred to her to think of him as being human before, yet made perfect sense considering where they were. Had he been human when they'd been on the playground? He must've been and she'd only been too wrapped up in her grief to notice, too tired to see the life that had crawled beneath his skin.

"Buffy?" His arm was a rock around her waist, steadying her, the tiniest of cracks in his voice as his concern sent his pulse to race. Spike began guiding her toward the door. "C'mon. I'm getting you out of here so that I can explain this in peace."

The quiet of the hall wrapped around her, and Buffy found herself crazily wondering what had happened to the man who had brought her in. She stumbled as Spike eased her into a chair, crouching before her to scrutinize the sheen on her forehead, the panting she couldn't seem to control. "I'm going to get you some water," he said.

"No." Her fingers curled around his arm, coaxing him to stay. "I'm all right. Honest. Just…you're breathing."

He looked embarrassed by that, ducking his head as his cheeks flamed. "Yeah, well, turns out I'm almost always human in these little jaunts," Spike admitted. "Guess I managed to leave that detail out, huh?"

"Guess so." Sitting made it easier, the black spots that had been dancing before her eyes now a pale shade of gray. Now that the initial shock was gone, she was feeling guilty for over-reacting so, and her mind raced to change the subject. "What were you saying inside?" she prompted. "Something about this not being your dream?"

Right. Time to tell. "It's like this. All this stuff about my mum I didn't want to share…I thought, maybe if you saw for yourself what happened, it might…you might…it might make more sense than if I tried tellin' you myself. Sometimes, my mouth doesn't seem to be attached to my brain and what comes out of it ends up making things worse."

A chill settled in her veins. "What did you do, Spike?"

He stood then and began pacing the corridor in front of her. "It's not bad," he rushed. "Least, I don't think so. Not any more bad than if I'd told you, or if you'd tried sussing it out on your own. And I know what's goin' to happen, more or less, so that's good, right?"

"What. Did you. Do."

He sighed, pulling off his glasses in a gesture remarkably like Giles. "I asked Red to put a little spice in her mojo," he admitted. "Asked her to make me dream about something specific. To…make me re-live the stuff I've been…afraid of you seeing."

"William?"

The voice behind him made him stiffen, his hand jerking to return his spectacles to his nose, and Buffy saw the flare of his nostrils, the slight tremor in his fingers as he visibly composed himself, slipping into his Victorian persona with the ease of well-worn slippers. "And let the show begin," he murmured, low enough so that only Buffy could hear.

"We have guests, William. Do not suppose I shall allow you to malinger in the hallway when you have a responsibility elsewhere."

Buffy frowned, rising slowly to her feet. Her hand reached out to touch Spike's arm, but he stepped adeptly away from her, expertly maintaining the traditional veneer he'd affected. She watched as he bowed his head, turning away and aside to expose the young woman before him.

"My apologies," he said, and her eyes widened when she heard the change in his accent, the roughness gone and replaced with the silky tones of the uppercrust. "I was merely aiding Miss Summers. She was…unwell." He lifted his gaze, his hand gesturing between Buffy and the new arrival in the hall. "I don't believe you have been properly introduced. This is Miss Buffy Summers, here from across the ocean. Miss Summers, may I introduce my father? Mr. William Burbidge, Senior…"

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

Hunger licked along the wind that carried them closer to their repast, soaring above the stratum of mortal men as they focused on the light and dark, beckoning to them in taunting languor as if to say the promise of their souls would ease away a century of deprivation. They were tired of the games, the hide and seek the pair were playing, and yet could not stop…would not stop. They had traveled too far, and too long, to cease the hunt now. The dark and light would join with them, feed them in power as the children of the wind devoured their very essence, and nothing would stand in their way.

To trespass within their dreams was a luxury, a taste of the potential that would sustain them, and too tempting to ignore, so as soon as proximity allowed, they called within the ether to those minds, stretching to combine and control inside the heads of the light and dark. The tendrils that met them were unexpected, powerful, and though sense should've dictated they withdraw, the children of the wind found themselves bound by the magic that they encountered, unable to break free, drawn into the web encircling the pair they sought.

It was wrong. Even as they found their essence being absorbed into the unconscious world swirling around the dark and the light, the Soul Eaters felt the differences, knew they lacked their usual control and were entering dreams that were more than just dreams. Magic. Memories. And this time, nobody would have the power…

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

Even if she hadn't been introduced to him, Buffy would've known this was his father as soon as he opened his mouth. The voice, though not a match for this current incarnation of her lover, was the same as Sunnydale Spike's, that deep rumble that emanated from deep within the chest, the edges just slightly coarsened by the effects of smoking. Cigars, she reasoned, as her gaze flickered over the carefully manicured fingers. That seemed more in keeping with the time. Though his accent was more genteel, the choice of words so stuffy he even made Giles sound normal, if she closed her eyes, Buffy would've sworn that it was Spike who was currently speaking, and not William Senior.

The similarities did not end there. The coloring was different, yes---where William Junior sported light brown curls and blue eyes, his father was dark, both of hair and aspect---but other features were the same. The nose, slightly too wide…the mouth with its full bottom lip…the wide forehead. He carried himself stiffly, as was the norm for the period she was discovering, with proud chin held high, an obvious intelligence glinting in the brown depths of his eyes, and while he was probably close to Giles in age, he was still trim, a compact build not hidden by the well-tailored suit that hugged his frame.

"My sincerest apologies," Mr. Burbidge was saying, stepping past his son to stand directly before Buffy. His bow was courteous, but as his head lowered, her eyes widened as she saw an unmistakable gleam in his own gaze as they raked over her slim form. She knew that look; she'd seen it often enough on Spike's face to recognize frank desire when she saw it. It was just disconcerting to see it on someone who was not only old enough to be her father, but also borne in an age where such impropriety was frowned upon.

"I do hope that your illness is not a reflection on anything we have served this evening," he went on to add as he straightened. "I would be most upset to learn that Mrs. Prescott's cooking was not up to her usual standards."

"No, it wasn't the food," Buffy assured, flashing him a bright smile in spite of her unease. "I was just too…warm. Spi---William was kind enough to…let me sit out here so that I could cool off."

The glance Mr. Burbidge shot his son was questioning, but cold. "Though William has much to learn of his duties, I cannot fault his gallantry in assisting such a beautiful young lady as yourself." He smiled down at the young woman. "Return to the party, William," he instructed. "I will tend to Miss Owen's needs."

Spike had already started to move before the order was complete, but the sound of the name from his father's lips visibly shook him, stopping him in mid-step and jerking stiffly to stare at the two. Buffy met his gaze with confusion, and wished that she wasn't stuck inside a dream unable to read his thoughts.

"You mean, Miss Summers," Spike said. "From America. I've only now introduced you, Father."

Mr. Burbidge waved a hand in dismissal, not even bothering to look at his son who now hovered just behind his shoulder. "Yes, I am fully aware of that," he said. "I'm certain your mother is looking for you, William. Miss Owen and I---."

"Miss Summers." His voice was harder this time, and Buffy caught a hint of the dangerous vampire peeking through the Victorian façade as Spike circled his father to stand at her side. His body was stiff as he stared at the older man. "This is not Miss Owen, Father. It's Miss Summers. Please stop calling her that."

The battle between blue and brown forged the air in copper as they glared at each other, the arguments flying unspoken in the face of their stand-off. The familiar play of muscles flexing under Mr. Burbidge's powerful jaw caught Buffy unawares, and she frowned, stepping back and slightly behind Spike as her gaze darted between the two. So recognizable, and yet eerily wrong, like a beloved costume worn by a common thief. But if these were memories, perhaps not so wrong. Just…unexpected.

In spite of the decorum of the era, Buffy had no doubts that William Senior would be able to more than handle himself in a more violent age, and understood without having to be told that this was something Spike himself had known, even as a human. How disconcerting, she thought, that the soft-spoken intellectual Spike had been, only interested in the beauty of the world surrounding him, had been raised by a man who courted with the very same danger the vampire would later embrace. Yes, it was wrapped in the appropriate manners and a well-cut suit, but the inclinations were still there; she'd been the Slayer for too long not to recognize a bad guy---or even a potential bad guy---when she saw one.

Mr. Burbidge was the first to break from the staring contest, and turned an apologetic smile to Buffy. "Again, my sincerest apologies you were feeling indisposed," he said, and bowed as he stepped backward toward the party. "I trust you will be rejoining us as soon as you are able to tear yourself away from my son's rather awkward care." One last glance at Spike, and his voice took a distinct chill. "Do not tarry, William. Your mother will be most displeased if you are not present when she comes down."

As soon as they were alone, Spike's hand curled tightly around Buffy's arm, pulling her further away from the door that remained slightly ajar. "What was that all about?" she asked, frowning as she looked up into his drawn face. "Who's this Miss Owen and why doesn't he seem to get it that I'm not her?"

He ignored her questions. "You're goin' to have to wake up here, luv," he said in a rush, his accent reverting to its crasser cadences. "I think I've buggered this little arrangement up, and I'm not usually the one who finds it so easy to break out of these little dream walks of mine. So, let's rise and shine, and hightail it outta here, all right?"

"Is there a problem?"

"I'll explain it once we get out of here," he said. "Just open those gorgeous eyes of yours, and get Red and Dolly to pull their little strings to get us the hell away from all this." He paused, watching as the Slayer closed her lids, the tiny line between her brows deepening as she seemed to be struggling with something internally. A minute passed, and the distant sound of his father's voice caused him to jerk more than once, but Spike remained intent on the blonde's face, waiting for her to vanish before his eyes, just like she had every other time she'd been wakened.

It never came.

"I can't," Buffy finally admitted after several more minutes of this, asserting her sight again to gaze up at his concerned face. "Maybe it's the magic, but something's not letting me get out of here like I normally can."

"Fuck," Spike muttered. Pulling off his glasses, he rubbed in frustration at his eyes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Colorful language aside, you're not telling me anything useful here, Spike." Her tone was wry, slightly amused at his seemingly extreme reaction to what looked like such a little thing. "So I have to play at being this Miss Owen for a while. It's no big. OK, so not real keen on the whole need to be all Meryl Streep, but it's just a dream---."

She winced as his fingers dug into her shoulders, forcing her to look up at him. "It's not," he hissed. "That's just it. This---," and he gestured wildly about him, indicating the room as well as them, "---is part of what I wanted you to see. Miss Owen is part of what…was one of the…" His blue eyes widened as a flash of understanding burned inside his skull. "Buffy, if you can't get us out of here, I can't guarantee you're not going to get hurt."

She shook her head. "That's why Dawn's watching us, remember? If the Soul Eaters lay a hand on us---."

"I didn't mean by the Soul Eaters. I meant, by me."

It took a moment for his words to sink in, and Buffy's jaw dropped slightly as her hazel gaze scanned his face. He meant it. Somehow, Spike believed that he would be responsible for harming her in some way, and that was why he wanted them to get out. Was it part of what he needed her to see? What exactly had he done? Her lips parted to respond, to try and allay his fears, when a throat clearing from behind and above them drew both of their attention.

There was no mistaking who the new arrival was. The cheekbones, the vivid blue eyes, the soft coloring…this was where Spike had inherited those features so vividly etched into her memory, and yet, as Buffy stared up at the face of the his long-dead mother, an icy vortex of fear seemed to settle in her gut. The softness of the older woman's beauty may have been an accurate replication of Mrs. Burbidge, but she was sure the chill in those sapphire orbs was not. The Slayer had seen that same hungry gleam in another mother's eyes, in another dream where laughing children swirled in glee around a playground, and hardened herself as the woman descended the stairs.

"What an interesting choice, William," she said as she came level with the pair, her slim hand resting on the banister. "Isn't it amazing how the subconscious works? I would hardly have assumed you would opt to share such memories with…" Her clear voice trailed off as her eyes clouded, resting on Buffy's face in mild confusion. "Miss…Owen?" she queried, struggling with the name. "But…you're not. You are the dark one, not…" Her gaze returned to Spike. "I don't understand this game you're playing, William. She should be…but I can't…seem to…state something as obvious as her real name."

"Perhaps that means you will be forced to restrain yourself from hurting her," Spike replied, and Buffy noted that he'd returned to the refined accent of his youth in the presence of his mother, even if his words refuted her apparent identity.

Mrs. Burbidge smiled, a small chuckle escaping her thin lips in spite of her obvious discomfiture at the situation. "And perhaps that means I will be privileged in watching you do exactly what you fear the most," she said lightly. Lifting her hand, she patted Spike's cheek affectionately. "I don't understand what you've done here, William my boy, but I will play along for now. It should prove…" Her azure gaze flickered to Buffy. "…interesting."

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

A shadow passed over Dawn's face as she watched her sister begin to twitch along the makeshift bed they'd constructed. Only a couple minutes had passed since Buffy had fallen asleep, and already Willow and the others were preparing the spell to try and resurrect Joyce, leaving the youngest Summers female to watch over the slumbering lovers as they attempted to face off with the Soul Eaters.

When the twitches turned into unintelligible muttering, her sister's placid face began to screw up in what could've been pain, and Dawn stiffened, her fingers tightening around the leather sac in her hand. "Willow?" she called out, not letting her eyes move from Buffy's form.

The witch immediately responded, scurrying to the teenager's side. "What is it?" she asked. Her eyes scanned the sleeping bodies.

"I think something's wrong with Buffy."

There was more muttering, a few more uncomfortable shifts in her rest, and then the Slayer settled, although the frown that now creased her brow didn't ease. "She's probably just arguing with Spike," Willow said, turning away. "Not like that hasn't happened before."

"But…" Dawn gnawed at her lip, the cord of the sac twisting around her fingers. The vampire was eerily still; it was only the stirrings from her sister that had raised her doubt. "Wouldn't Spike be arguing back?" she said. "It's not like he's just one to sit back and take what she shovels."

The question made the redhead pause, her own frown appearing for a brief moment. "They're not getting all wound-y, are they?" she asked.

"No. Not that I can see."

"Then they're fine. Spike's not dust, Buffy's not bleeding, nothing can be wrong. But good job on the lookout, Dawnie. Just let us know if anything else changes, OK?"

Behind her, the trio went on with their preparations, focusing on their task at hand while Dawn deliberately loosened her grip on the bag in her hands. Everything's fine, she thought. Willow wouldn't let anything happen to them. Everything's going to be just fine.

She just wished she could believe it.

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

Buffy had never been so bored in her entire life. As she sat on the divan near the window, a bevy of other young girls seated around her gossiping and chittering in such a fashion that made the Slayer start thinking even Harmony would be a better party companion than these, her eyes kept straying to where Spike hovered at his mother's side, watching as he fetched her an assortment of foods and drinks as the evening progressed, smiling deprecatingly whenever she would make a comment to one of their guests that was obviously meant to be amusing.

The charade was confusing. On the one hand, it was obvious to her that Spike was aware of her presence yet did nothing more to assert his recognition of her, while on the other, he was almost melting into this portrayal of an adolescent William, slipping into the role of the shy and sensitive young man she knew he had been with an ease that surprised her. More than once, Buffy had tried to break from the group that had seemed to adopt her to approach him, but had been dragged back by insistent hands, scolding voices about the inappropriateness of interrupting their hosts, and giggly mockery of the younger Mr. Burbidge. Their disdain for the vulnerable aspiring poet was almost palpable, and she found herself sitting on her hands so that she wouldn't reach out and slap the silly smiles from their faces. No wonder Spike likes being a vamp so much, she thought irritably. If I'd had to put up with these simpering twits for more than this party, I'd probably have staked myself just to get away from them.

So she sat in relative silence, wondering just what exactly Spike had been so frightened about in dredging up these memories, entertaining herself by counting the flowers in the wallpaper before moving on to replaying the movie "Grease" in her head, recasting it with Spike as Danny Zuko and herself as Sandy. Who could be Rizzo? she wondered. Because Willow is definitely Frenchie…

She shook her head, bringing her mind back to the present. Or the past. Or whenever the hell she was. Spike had to have a reason why he wasn't going after the Soul Eater just yet, Buffy reasoned, but then again, Mrs. Burbidge had been the epitome of Victorian grace the entire evening. Maybe he can tell when things are going bad. After all, he was the one who knew when it was Mom, and they've been playing with him all along. He's probably got their whole sitch sorted and will tell me when it's time to make our move. She sighed. At least I hope so.

She watched as his mother beckoned him closer, his lean frame bending to hear what she whispered in his ear. His pale skin blanched, and she caught the furtive glance he shot in Buffy's direction, but Spike quickly straightened, adopting that obsequious smile he wore around the older woman, and nodded his head curtly before turning on his heel to exit the room. The adrenalin immediately shot through the Slayer's veins, her senses on alert. Maybe it was finally time. Except…why had he left without her?

Out of nowhere, the portly man who had guided her inside appeared at the edge of the divan, ignoring the other girls as he leaned forward to address her privately. "Master William requires your presence in the study, Miss Summers," he said.

So he hadn't forgotten her. She smiled. Time to get this show on the road. Spike must have a plan.

As she rose to her feet, it slowly dawned on Buffy that this messenger was the only person outside of Spike who seemed to recognize her for herself, and not this Miss Owen that everyone kept calling her. I wonder why that is, she thought as she followed him from the room, and shuttled the observation to the side to ask her lover later. It's not like it matters; it's all just a dream anyway. And pretty soon, it will all be over with.

He stood away from the open door of the study to allow her to enter, his wide face impassive as she brushed past. Greeted only by the presence of wall-to-wall books, Buffy turned back to him with a frown. "He's not here," she said.

The messenger was already guiding the heavy wood door closed. "Master William will be with you momentarily," he said, and vanished from her sight.

The problem with this particular dream, Buffy decided as she stepped to the middle of the room, was that everything in it to this point had been too real. Well, of course it's too real, she thought, it's all stuff that actually happened to Spike; at least, that's what he said. But still, when discontinuity of his subconscious stepped in, fast forwarding or creating anomalies that disrupted the fabric of the memories unfolding before her, the Slayer found herself temporarily laboring to maintain her equilibrium. Like Mr. Messenger Guy popping in and out like the Great Gazoo from the Flintstones. She grimaced. I've really got to stop watching Saturday morning cartoons with Dawn, she thought, her fingers trailing over the dark mahogany of the desk that dominated the room. I'm turning into Xander.

Her back was to the door when it opened, an almost imperceptible creak to the hinges reaching her ears. "Miss me, pet?" she heard, and had turned halfway around, a smile on her face, when his hands curled around her waist.

She knew right away it wasn't him---the touch too light, the fingers the wrong shape as they tugged at her flesh---and jerked back against the edge of the desk as she pulled herself from William Senior's caress. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded, angry glints dotting the hazel as she stared up at him in amazement.

He chuckled, and when he tilted his head in such a Spike-like way, dark eyes sweeping over her, Buffy felt her stomach plummet, wrapping her muscles in stone as he slowly stepped forward. "I do like this game of yours the best, I believe," he crooned. The voluminous skirts of her dress gave him anchorage to lock her against the wood with the lower half of his body, and her eyes widened at the unmistakable erection pressing into her pelvis, even through the many layers of clothing between them.

"Get. Away." Her voice was cold, chipped in ice as she lifted her hands and pressed against his chest, summoning her strength to send him crashing through the wall if she had to. The anger melted into fear, though, when he remained solid beneath her touch, his own fingers wrapping around her wrists and pinning them tightly. Her wince of pain was real, and for the first time since entering the dream---memory, she reminded herself---Buffy realized she wasn't the Slayer here, which meant she didn't have her Slayer powers.

She was a girl. In the company of a very bad man.

And she was beginning to suspect where Spike's fears had stemmed from…

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

He had long ago decided this was the stupidest idea he'd had in bloody forever. As soon as he had begun the charade of returning to the party with his mother at his side---correction, that hellbitch Soul Eater in the guise of his mother--- Spike had found himself relegated to the back of his head, locked within young William's body as it went through the motions of reliving the events of the past, helpless to do much more than occasionally take control of his sight and look over at Buffy.

Those moments were too few, and confusing at best. She'd been captured the entire evening by a swarm of young women, and while Spike knew it was in actuality his Slayer, the image of her was overlaid with that of the long-dead Miss Owen, creating a mishmash of features that were both Buffy and not, like one of those holographic child toys where the face changed depending on how the plane was tilted. Happy…sad. Buffy…Miss Owen. Spike…bloody awful teenaged poet.

He desperately wanted to go over to her, to grab her hand and drag her out of the place of his youth, but William refused to relinquish reign over his corporeal form---and how strange to think of his dream body as corporeal---relegating a fuming Spike to rant and rave in the recesses of his mind.

If this played out as he remembered, he knew how this was going to end. It wouldn't be pretty. And the odds of Buffy being harmed were great, unless he could find some way to break the spell that he'd asked Red to cast.

You couldn't just tell her, could you, he silently seethed, berating his vampire self with the livid rage of impotence. No, you had to go and take the coward's path and let her see it for herself, all because you didn't trust how she would interpret your words. And now look at the mess you've gotten the pair of you into. Locked inside a nancyboy's head, forced to play toady to the bitch you came here to kill, incapable of even going up to Buffy to tell her exactly what's going to happen because poor William didn't have the spunk to walk up to a woman, let alone the stones to speak to her. That brand of temerity would not present itself until after he'd returned from university, which wasn't for a few years down the road in this trip down memory lane. And it damn well wasn't going to help Buffy tonight.

When his mother's voice had drifted up to him, complaining of the cold and asking him to fetch her shawl, Spike felt his heart shrivel within his chest, a chill dread icing over his skin as William hurriedly agreed and set to his task. This was it. This was why he'd left the party that night so soddin' long ago. The fact that he could still see Buffy sitting on the divan in the window did nothing to assuage his growing fear at what he knew was coming. If she was in fact there to play the role of Miss Owen, she would soon know firsthand exactly what Spike had wanted her to see. Would she hate him for putting her through this? He wouldn't be surprised if she did. Seeing the path he'd taken was one thing; being the prey within it was another.

The details of the memory of this night had escaped him over the years. Now, though, Spike found himself drowning in the colors and smells as William gathered the shawl from his mother's sitting room. Her scent, a mixture of lavender and camphor, hung in the air like a gossamer trail begging to be followed, evoking an eruption of nostalgia through the vampire that threatened to offer him a return to control.

For a moment, William faltered, frowning as he glanced back into the room, blue eyes sweeping over the elegant curves of the furniture, the book of poetry sitting on the table, his mother's needlework carefully folded in the basket next to her favorite chair. Inside his mental cage, Spike drank in the sight the young man's eyes gave him, unseen hands itching to pick up the text, to glance through it and see his mother's delicate script on the inscription. Fears for Buffy washed away as he eddied in the moment, pangs of regret for simpler days sluicing through him to root his form to the spot. This was unlike his other nocturnal forays. Those had been entered with foreknowledge of pain and suffering, penance to be paid for inflictions caused within the bowels of his past.

For all his intervention, for all his desires to open that final door to the Slayer to allow her true understanding of who he was, why he did the things he did, this was a rueful malaise for what might have been, brought about by the soul he no longer doubted he had. It wasn't Buffy's either, he'd come to realize. It couldn't be. Hers was still intact, merely tarnished by its contact with his demon. No, the driving force that had been burgeoning the array of emotions coloring his thoughts and actions since the cleansing could only have been the result of gentle William. The pain. The anguish. The fear. The desire for more. For respect. Well, that had really been about since before the cleansing, but it didn't negate its current presence as well.

The reminder of William shattered the brief power Spike held over the body that housed him, and the young man turned away from the room, pulling the heavy door closed behind him. The vampire could hear his host's thoughts---Mother will be waiting, mustn't let her get too cold---and almost sighed as he saw the egress to the study looming before them in the corridor. And here it was. Back to the root of it all. The reason they were bloody here in the first place.

And what he wouldn't give to be able to go back in time and not make the request of Red. To have the balls to just tell Buffy what had happened. It wasn't like he was pained by what he knew he was going to discover; as a vampire, Spike had certainly done far worse than anything his father had dealt in his mortal existence.

No, it was the destruction of innocence that frightened him now. William's innocence as an adult world he had no cognizance of prior to this evening destructed around him. Buffy's innocence as the perceptions she had of Spike's human time on this earth came into conflict with the immediacy of what she was about to experience and witness.

Each step nearer made the voices he could hear on the other side of the wall louder. Muffled, still, but undeniably there. And it became a litany of remembered sensations, a path that he'd started with the casting of Willow's spell, one that he had no recourse but to follow.
The niggle of curiosity that tickled William's stomach.

His father's voice. Laughter.

A woman. Not a scream, but perhaps a shriek, its tenor unknown.

Fear. Coursing through his veins. Adrenaline hastening his heartbeat to enliven the nerve endings in his skin.

The cool knob beneath his tremoring hand, his mother's shawl dangling forgotten from the other.

Pushing the door open, his mouth open to speak, the words reversing their route to choke in his throat as his brows shot upward, eyes bulging in surprise---William's surprise, knew this was goin' to happen, poor sod---at the tableau before him.

His father stood at the side of his heavy desk, his jacket off, his shirt undone and pulled from his trousers. Deep scratches etched his chest, but the older man seemed oblivious to the rivulets of blood that were oozing down his abdomen, his attention focused instead on the struggling form before him.

William's breath caught.

Miss Owen.

Not Miss Owen, you wanker. Buffy. The bastard's got his hands all over my Slayer. And the vampire raged within the young man's skull, powerless to do anything but watch.

Her wrists were caught in his father's grip, pinioned over her head so that her arms twisted in pain as she fought against both the confines of her clothing and the attentions of her attacker. Crimson colored her nails, and Spike noted with smug satisfaction that she had drawn blood in her resistance to Mr. Burbidge's assault. Her clothing was still intact, though her skirts were pushed up around her waist, her undergarments starkly white against the dark wood of the desk and the ebony of his trousers.

She saw him first, catching the sight of the young man hovering like ice in the doorway out of the corner of her eye as she thrashed to break herself free. He saw the recognition set ablaze the frustration in her eyes, the relief almost pouring off her flesh.

"Spike…" she called out, but it wasn't that name either man heard, though it landed on the vampire's consciousness like an arrow through his chest.

It was the sound of his son's name that drew the elder Burbidge's gaze to the door, steeling the desire that had flamed his skin. "Shut the door, William," he directed, almost a hiss through his teeth.

But the young man was frozen, and Spike could feel the tumult of thoughts and feelings battling inside his head. The betrayal. The anger. The disappointment. And most importantly…the fear.

"I said. Shut. The. Door." Harder, angrier, dangerous glints in the dark eyes.

"What are you doing?" William's voice was barely audible, though to the room's occupants, it seemed to boom against the paneled walls.

The danger dissolved into amusement, his father's head tilting as he scanned the thin form in the entrance. "I would not have presumed it would interest you. Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps you would like the opportunity to find out for yourself what it means to be a man."

"Spike!"

Her second cry yielded a furious slap across her cheek by Mr. Burbidge's free hand, and Buffy's head smacked against the desk with a harsh crack. Returning his eyes to his son, he smiled. "We will be disturbing the party if you continue to stand there with the door open," he said, opting for a different tack.

Again, William didn't move. "Mother wanted her shawl," he said aimlessly, as if that was an explanation for his continued presence. "She was chilled."

"Then I suggest you get it to her. I will join you…momentarily."

No! Spike screamed, but was not heard, mute to the memories playing out in this netherworld of his dreams. He felt the vise gripping his human self loosen, lost the vision of the sight within the study as William ducked his eyes. And just as it had occurred over a century previously, the young man pulled the door quietly closed behind him, leaving Miss Owen---Buffy---within the vicious embrace of his father, the imprint of her voice as it called out to him for aid echoing inside his head.

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

The door closed. It actually closed. He hadn't stayed. Or helped.

Buffy blinked.

When she opened her eyes again, the study was gone.

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

Instinctively, she knew it was the same house. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Buffy hovered against the wall, feeling the heavy weight of her skirts around her legs, remembering the brutal claws of Mr. Burbidge's touch pinching and squeezing her flesh through her clothing, the heavy scent of cigar smoke and alcohol on his breath as his mouth had savaged her throat. Even without her Slayer strength, she had fought him, succeeding in drawing blood when she'd scratched at his chest, and though it should have filled her with some sense of accomplishment, it instead left her empty, vacillating between confusion as to what the hell was going on and frustration that she was trapped inside it.

It was all part of Spike's past in some way, but how much was real and how much was just an affectation brought upon by his unconscious, she had no idea. And she needed to know. More than anything else, she needed him here to explain it all.

The creak of wood settling behind her raised Buffy's senses, pressing her into the wall as her head turned in the direction of the sound. Silence, and then another creak, this time closer.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Buffy?"

She almost wept at the sound of her real name and threw herself toward its speaker, colliding with Spike's very solid chest in the space of just a few seconds. Her cheek nuzzled the silk that covered it, her arms wrapping around him as she clung in relief, and relaxed against the steadying rhythm of his heartbeat within his breast.

"Sshh," Spike said, and lifted his hand to brush the hair away from her cheek, lowering his mouth to the top of her head. "We have to keep our voices down. Everyone is asleep."

"What's going on?" she whispered. "Do you have any idea what's been going on with me in this whacked out dream of yours? And can I just say?" She pulled back and stared up into his face. It was older than it had appeared earlier, a little fuller, and she realized that his voice was slightly deeper as well. They were still in his memories, albeit a little farther into the future. Or past. God, thinking of the time issues was enough to give her a headache. "Your dad is a scary, scary man."

"I know. I was there, luv."

She couldn't see his eyes clearly in the dark, only black pools gazing down at her. "You were there? But…I called to you, and you didn't…I thought it was William."

Spike sighed. "It was. And me. It was both of us, if you can believe it. Just not me steering the boat, which is why I couldn't answer you. Seems I only get my hands on the soddin' rudder when I'm not an active participant in the memories I was hopin' you'd see." The break in his voice was noticeable, and his lids flickered closed as he leaned down and pressed his forehead into hers. "I'm so sorry, pet. This wasn't s'posed to be like this. I didn't know…you were just…it was s'posed to be like a play or something. Where we watched. Not where we…" He swallowed the lump in his throat, angry at the tears that were now stinging his eyes. "Please tell me he…he didn't…that you…" Fuck. He couldn't even say it out loud.

She felt the damp on his lashes and lifted her mouth to brush her lips over his. "I'm OK," she assured, more of a breath than a voice. "As soon as you left, I showed up here. So nothing worse than some not-so-nice gropage."

"Thank god," Spike muttered, and his hands came up to scoop her face between his palms, pulling Buffy's mouth hungrily to his as he sought to share his relief in their kiss. It felt like forever since he'd been able to hold her; not having control, having to watch as if behind glass, had been more crippling than he'd thought. It was only when he could once again taste freedom that he realized just how much he valued it.

They were both gasping for air when they parted, and Buffy sensed the memory of William Senior's touch receding from her awareness, unable to compete with the practiced hand of her lover, even when he wore his Victorian persona. "Will you tell me what's going on here?" she queried. "Did Willow's spell go wonky? I thought this was supposed to be about whatever happened with your mother."

"It is. That was the night it truly started for me." He was beginning to slip into the more tempered tones of the era, and the realization that maybe she might be losing Spike again scored Buffy's heart in bloody slivers. "That was the night I learned the truth about my father."

"So…that…really happened?" She saw his reluctant nod and couldn't help the next question that came tumbling from her mouth. "All of it?"

His lips curled in scorn. "I ran like the child I was. Afraid of him. Afraid of what he would do if I stayed. Or if I told. Miss Owen called out to me for help and I…I…I went back to the party and gave my mother her bloody shawl and said nothing. I kept his damn secret, and when he returned to…to…" His breath hitched, thick with the sobs he could no longer contain. Stupid soul, he thought, except he knew he probably would've cried even without it. Because this time it hadn't been Miss Owen who had been at his father's mercy. It had been Buffy, and though she said she was fine, Spike knew better, knew he shouldn't have allowed anyone to hurt her in such a way. This was all his fault, when all he ever wanted was to protect her, and if she didn't toss him to the curb when this debacle was over, he would be mightily surprised.

She cradled his head into her shoulder, trying to soothe away the century of pain with the gentle caress of her fingers at the nape of his neck, the knots that tensed there refusing to yield beneath her ministrations. "You couldn't have stopped him," she whispered. "I was there. William would've been no match for his dad. It would've just made things worse."

"I should have tried. At the very least…"

It was her turn to shush him. "But it's over now, right? It's all in the past. You wanted me to see him. I get it. You were afraid of looking like a coward, that I'd think less of you. But I don't. So now we can concentrate on the Soul---."

"But you don't. Get it, I mean. That night was---." He broke off as the distant sound of voices filtered into the hallway, stiffening visibly before her eyes as his head swiveled to look past her. "Don't think I'm going to be at bat here for a bit, pet," he said, struggling to maintain his persona as William came to the fore. "Sit back and get ready for act one, scene two."

It was like a shutter being drawn over his eyes, and even in the dim light, Buffy could see the vampire disappear, the young man he'd been return to power. He held himself stiffly, shoulders thrown back, eyes trained on the door behind which the voices came. When she laid her hand on his arm, he seemed oblivious to her touch, choosing instead to step forward, his breath coming in short pants as the lines appeared between his brows.

"William?" she whispered, but knew even before she'd finished uttering the name that he wouldn't respond. He didn't see her. She wasn't really there. This time, at least, she was just there to watch.

Buffy followed his laborious tread as he neared the room, cocking her head to listen with him. The voices were louder here, and easily discernible. His parents. Arguing. Briefly, she wondered how the Soul Eater was reacting being caught up in the web of Willow's spell, and then decided that what was happening to Spike was probably happening to it, being locked behind the ghost of the past as time replayed itself. The sense of justice it gave her was surprising, and she had to bite back the smile that rose to her lips. Now was not the time for merriment, even if it was at the bad guy's expense. Well…maybe a little.

A crash from the other side of the heavy wood caused both of them to jump, Buffy back and William forward, his hand leaping to the doorknob as he visibly struggled with himself and some inner decision. Fear played across his features, mingling with residual anger, and flashes of the vampire he would become streaked in resonance through his eyes.

The choice was made for him as the door opened, just the narrowest of spaces, startling him away as his mother slipped out, clad in her nightgown, long hair plaited down her back. Her head was bowed as she turned around, and though she knew the Soul Eater was somewhere inside the slim frame, even Buffy couldn't help the sharp intake of breath when she saw the bruising mottling the sculpted line of her cheek.

"William," Anne Burbidge said, surprise at seeing her son sending her hand flying to her face in a vain attempt to mask the remnants of her recent battle.

His hand caught her wrist, preventing her from hiding, and behind the well of tears, Buffy saw the anger etched in his eyes, his dark gaze darting from his mother to the door, and back again.

It was as if some unspoken communication passed between them, an accepted tenor of silence, propriety winning over pain. Slowly, he released her from his grasp, and straightened, chin lifting as the smallest of sad smiles lifted the corner of his mouth. "Shall I fetch you a damp cloth?" he queried quietly, visibly cringing as yet another crash came from behind the door.

"That would be…" She winced in pain as she attempted to smile in kind. "Thank you."

They had turned from each other, William aimed for the stairwell, Anne toward a door further down the hall, when his voice stopped her, the subdued words that rumbled from his throat constricting Buffy's lungs in vestiges of ache. "There should be more to life than pain, Mother." His head bowed as he hesitated at the top of the stairs. "You deserve that more."

Both women watched as he disappeared into the blackness, his footsteps echoing into silence. Buffy itched to follow, but her feet remained planted, all awareness that she shared the corridor gone. The shadows of Spike she kept glimpsing in William were growing stronger as he grew older within the dream, and though she could understand that the vampire would find these events painful to impart, she failed to understand why he feared them as well, why he feared what her reaction might be. Was she that unforgiving? Did she seem so unyielding so as not to understand about cowardice? He knew how she had run at the first mention of her death at the Master's hands and didn't fault her for it. She had run after killing Angel because she couldn't face her life in Sunnydale, and he made no mention of it.

Why was it so hard for him to think that she would not relate to this?

"Isn't he delicious?"

It took her a moment for Buffy to realize that she was the one being addressed, and slowly turned her head to see Anne Burbidge staring at her. No, not Anne, she corrected, recognizing the gleam in those blue depths. The Soul Eater. Back in control.

"He's a good man," she replied simply.

"But you are not so good," the Soul Eater crooned, and stepped forth, smiling through the bruises, no longer aware or caring of the pain. Its gaze swept over her, its nostrils flaring in hunger. "Although quite tasty in your own right."

"You'll never know."

"That's what he said. Right before I reached into his chest and played ping pong with his lungs." Before the Slayer could react, the other woman was standing before her, a slim hand locked in palsy around Buffy's shoulder, causing the young woman to grimace in pain. "You are bold for one about to die. Is it true then? Do you wish for death?"

"Only yours," she hissed, and wrenched herself free.

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

"Willow!"

The alarm in the teenager's voice pulled the redhead from the spell they had just about been ready to perform, hurrying her steps as she darted to the side of the bed. On the mattress, Spike still slept as if dead, unmoved from his original position, but Buffy was currently muttering, thrashing against her pillow, her right shoulder jerking spasmodically as if she was struggling to get away.

As they watched, a crimson stain began to spread along the thin fabric of the Slayer's top, saturating the seam in thin rivers. Immediately, Willow bent forward and ripped the cotton open, baring the jagged cut that now adorned the young woman's golden flesh. "Oh, my goddess," she murmured, eyes widening, and used the torn material to begin mopping up the blood. "Giles!" she called. "We better wait on that resurrection! I've got a feeling we're about to be clocking some extra air miles!"

"Do you want me to wake them?" Dawn asked, her voice almost a squeak.

She was answered by a worried Watcher now present at the bed. "Do it," he ordered, and waited as the younger Summers reached into the leather sac to extract a handful of the powder inside.

Murmuring under her breath, she tossed it over the sleeping couple, her breath catching…holding…pausing in expectation, only to be released in a voluble stream when nothing happened. "What's going on, Willow?" she asked tremulously. "Why didn't that work? You said that would work. Why aren't they waking up?"

Feeling the blood ebbing beneath her fingertips, the redhaired witch glanced at the now relaxed face of her friend before flickering over to the vampire's. Oh, Spike, she thought, the worry carving her features in distress. What the hell did we do?