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

“Willow…what did you do?”  Giles’ voice was crisp, slivering against the cavern walls in tiny blades that sent shivers down the redhead’s spine, and she visibly shrunk beneath his steady gaze, her face screwing up in anticipation of her protest, shoulders folding into her body in a manner reminiscent of Tara.

“It was just a little extra in the sleep spell for Spike,” she argued.  “Nothing major, just a…signpost really, on where his dreams would go.  Kind of like, yoo hoo, over here.”

“But they’re not waking up,” chimed in Dawn.  “You said you could wake them up.”  Her voice was rising, hysteria beginning to set in.  Although it had occurred to the teenager more than once since the story of the Soul Eaters came out that she could feasibly lose Buffy, or Spike, or even both, she’d never imagined that that would happen because of Willow’s magic.

“And I can,” the redhead assured, straightening slightly.  “It’s just going to need me to go in by the back door instead of being all upfront about it.”

“What kind of ‘extra’ are we talking about here?”  Giles was not ready to let go the issue of the spell, and folded his arms across his chest, hands tucked under his armpits, as he waited for a response.

“Spike wanted to dream about some things in his past,” she explained.  “So I mixed it up with a memory spell that I knew to direct him.”

From the far wall, a snort drifted to their ears and all eyes turned to look at Dolly.  “Amateurs,” she muttered, shaking her head.  It had been the first time she’d spoken since the spell had started, and her disgust with the current situation was apparent in the stiff set of her shoulders.

“Excuse me?” asked Willow.

“You heard me,” the demon said.  “You humans keep messing around with magic when you haven’t the faintest clue of what you’re really tapping into.  I stand by what I said.  You can have all the fancy titles you want, but when you get down to brass tacks, you’re just a bunch of amateurs.”

“Hey!  Where do you get off saying stuff like that?”  The young witch bridled in the face of the accusation, momentarily forgetting about her fear of Giles.  “I thought it was pretty ingenious what I did, and do you have any idea how many times Buffy has saved the world?  And died for it?  Not to mention coming back---.”

“Fine.  I’ll amend my observation.  She’s got the clock to call herself a pro, and maybe Ripper here when he’s not burying himself in doubts, but you, little girl, are messing with powers that you don’t understand.”

“But I do---.”

“Which is why your friends are now waking up from this little drabble of yours, right?”  Dolly rolled her eyes.  “Not that I’m one who hasn’t flown by the seat of her pants in her time, but at least I don’t go messing around in my so-called friends’ heads without knowing the repercussions of what I’m doing.”

“Enough!” Giles ordered, the single word cleaving the tension between the two in a vigorous wake.  “I refuse to waste what little time we have in petty bickering so if the pair of you would kindly shelve your estimations of the other for two minutes, perhaps we could concentrate on the matter at hand.”  His body opened, his feet taking him closer to Willow.  “You said you did a memory spell.  Why?”

“Because Spike asked me to.  I don’t know why.  I didn’t think I had time for playing at Columbo, so I didn’t press.  But he wanted me to make him dream about specific things, so I just mixed up the spell a little bit.  I didn’t think it would do any harm.”

“Well, I’d say not being able to wake them qualifies as harm, wouldn’t you?” sniped Dolly.

“I said, that’s enough,” Giles said tightly, then pressed his lips together as his brain worked over their current dilemma.  “You set them on a specific path,” he finally mused out loud.  “We can’t rouse them because they haven’t reached their destination yet.  That must be it.”

“But Buffy’s hurt,” Dawn interjected.  “Doesn’t that mean the Soul Eater is messing with them in the dreams again?”

“It would appear so.”

“Um, guys?”  The soft cadence of Tara’s voice captured their attention and the group looked over at the blonde witch hovering at the bed’s side.  She lifted a tremulous finger and pointed at the now-still form of the Slayer.  “Look.”

In the face of the quarreling, they had been diverted from the throes of Buffy’s dreaming, and had missed the abrupt dissolution of her muted sleep battle.  The blood still stained the skin of her exposed shoulder, but that was not the detail that Tara was attempting to point out to them.

The source of the scarlet, the gash that had suddenly appeared on the Slayer’s flesh, was gone.

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

The skirmish had been far too brief.

As soon as she’d freed herself from the Soul Eater’s grasp, Buffy’s fist had lashed out instinctively, connecting with the delicate jaw of the older woman with a satisfying crack that told the Slayer what she’d been so desperately hoping for since realizing her strength failed her during Mr. Burbidge’s assault.  Although she was without her capabilities during the course of the memories playing out in Spike’s head, in the interludes that lapsed between the scenes, she was all Buffy, with all her fortitude and every fighting skill she’d acquired in the six years since she was Chosen.  Her only hindrance at this point was the restrictive clothing weighing her down, but that was something she could work with, she decided, as she saw the glimmer of hate sparkle in the Soul Eater’s eyes.

“He is your warrior, you know,” the creature said, the lightness of her tone belying the hardness of her aspect.  “He wishes to protect you from anything that might hurt you.  Including his past.  Are you enjoying the ride?”

“Can’t say it rates anything near to Space Mountain, but it’s definitely been…interesting.”

“He would die for you.”

“I know.”

“Would you die for him?”

Nobody had ever asked that of her before, not about Spike, and for a moment, Buffy faltered.  “I love Spike,” she said.  “I’d do anything to protect him.”

“Yes, but would you die for him?  If the choice came down to his survival or yours, would you sacrifice your life, your calling, your sister, so that he would live?”  She moved closer as she spoke, blue eyes boring into the Slayer’s with a hungry fervor, trapping Buffy in a glutinous mire around her limbs, driving any thought of escape from her head.  “Do you deserve to die for him?”

“What kind of question is that?  Are you deliberately trying to win the Miss Obtuse crown here?”  This wasn’t fitting the pattern, she realized.  Never before had Buffy felt so helpless in one of their dreams, and briefly wondered if this was the reason Spike had been so reluctant to share with her the nocturnal visits he received from the Soul Eater prior to their flight from Sunnydale.  She felt frozen by the demon’s words, fighting to maintain a semblance of her own head, but it was a losing battle, her words a feeble attempt to counter the thing’s approach.

“Your darkness often exceeds his.  Especially now.  It was the birth of the light within him that freed us from our captivity.”

“What…light?  What are you talking about?”

“My William’s soul.” She was right before her now, eyes level, the faintest of smiles curling her lips.  “Its emergence---or should I say, re-emergence?---shattered the fetters that had bound us for so long.”

“He is not your William.”  She spoke with gritted teeth, the sweat beginning to bead on her forehead from the exertion of returning control to her body, and felt the smallest of fissures begin to seam in the Soul Eater’s control.

The demon’s hand returned to Buffy shoulder, the long nail of her index finger sinking through the fabric of the Slayer’s dress, making contact with her skin as it sliced through it with searing slowness.  “Ah, but he is,” she crooned.  “Or he will be.  Once we have consumed him.”

It was the smell of her own blood that broke through the immobilizing charm, and Buffy’s arm shot up, knocking the Soul Eater’s hand from her body, sending the demon reeling against the wall with a dull thud that shook the heavy panels.  “You’ll never have him,” she vowed, and launched herself forward, ignoring the pain the gash was sending down her side to tackle the other woman in a flurry of skirts and long hair.

The encumbrance of clothing kept either of them from fighting effectively, but Buffy took pleasure in the wince of pain she heard squeak from the hellbitch’s throat as the Slayer’s elbow shot backward and into her opponent’s ribcage.  Too bad Spike’s going to miss the grand finale, she thought grimly, and rolled away, preparing to rise again to finish the Soul Eater off once and for all.  When a strand of golden hair fell across her eyes, she grimaced and blinked…

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

…and found herself staring into a fireplace, the heat from the roaring fire flushing her cheeks in crimson.

Her head swiveled.  The drawing room.  She was back in the Burbidge drawing room, minus the milling party guests.  Except not quite alone. 

Hovering by the slightly ajar door, the portly messenger who had guided her path inside the house to begin with, then led her to the study to meet up with Spike’s father, seemed to be waiting for her to notice him, his mouth widening into a smile when her eyes finally settled on his form.

“The others will be along momentarily,” he said.  “I trust you are comfortable, Miss Summers?  No ill effects from our journey?”

His question regarding her wellbeing brought into startling relief the lack of pain in her shoulder, and Buffy’s hand automatically shot up to touch the joint, turning it within its socket to test its soreness.  There was none.  The burning from the Soul Eater’s attack was completely gone, and somehow, she knew that if the confines of her clothing were stripped away, her skin would be unmarked.  “Who are you?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“I thought that was obvious,” he replied.  “I am your guide.”  Footsteps in the hallway turned his head and his smile vanished.  “I’m afraid duty calls,” he said, and pulled the door open enough to reveal Spike stepping inside.

Buffy noticed that he appeared even older than he had before---his shoulders just slightly broader, his step just a tad slower---and rose when he rushed forward, recognition flaring in his gaze as his arms pulled her tightly against him.  Over his shoulder, she saw the guide slip through the doorway, and made a mental note to ask Spike about it later.

“Luv…pet…Slayer…”  His voice was muffled in her hair, his lips brushing against the tresses that were piled in a careful knot on top of her head, and it hitched uncomfortably in his chest as he fought to keep the gnawing fear in his stomach at bay.

“What’s wrong?”  She pulled from his embrace, just enough to gaze up into him, to see the blue peering from behind the glasses in anguish. 

“You’re still…her…Miss Owen…oh god…”  His lashes fluttered closed, and Spike leaned his forehead against hers, a heavy weight that seemed to press into her shoulders, leaving her surprisingly tired.  “Luv, we don’t have much time.  There’s things I need to tell you, that you need to know before this all goes cock-eyed again and I’m stuck inside the poof’s skull---.”

“I saw what he did to your mother---.”

“This is so much more than that.”  He lifted his head.  “You’re not even wonderin’ why you’re still here?”

Buffy frowned.  “I thought I was here to watch.  Wasn’t that the whole reason for getting Willow to do the spell?”

“I meant…here.  In my house.  Rather, in his house.  As her.”  A sound from the hallway jerked his head, and his body stilled as he listened, hesitating only a fraction before returning to look down at her.  “He brought her back, you see.  After word got out that she’d been…that she was no longer…”  His Victorian self was struggling to voice the words, and Spike yanked himself away, running his fingers through the disheveled locks of his hair as he began to pace the room.  He may have looked like William, and his words may have sounded like William’s, but every feral movement of that lean body was pure vampire, his frustration pouring from the membranes of his skin with a musky scent that hung disingenuously in the air.

Realization dawned on Buffy, the century-old shame of a woman wronged cloaking her shoulders in righteousness.  “I’m his mistress,” she said flatly.

“Yes.  No.  I don’t know.”  His voice was ragged, and his blue eyes blazed as he looked over at her.  “I did everything in my power to stay away from here after I learned about his…about how he…when I saw the way he…  I only came back when school was out, or when my mum asked me to.”  Spike fell into the chair opposite the seat she’d been sitting in, burying his head in his hands.  “Mum always seemed so concerned for her, clucking about like some mother hen.  I never knew for sure if she…how much she was aware of.  If she…knew what went on between Miss Owen and my father.”

Slowly, Buffy sank back into her chair.  “What was her first name?” she asked quietly.  “This Miss Owen stuff is getting kind of clumsy, don’t you think?  Especially since it looks I’m going to be walking around in her---let me tell you---very uncomfortable shoes for a while longer.”

“Melody,” he mumbled, and lifted his eyes to look at her.  “My mum called her Melly after she came to live here.”

“Wasn’t this kind of thing, I dunno, frowned on back then?” she asked.

“Yes.  Mother didn’t care.  She…hurt for Miss Owen, and when my father suggested they do something to help---,” his voice dripped in acid with the word, as if detesting the very memory it dredged up in him, “---she leapt at the opportunity and offered Miss Owen a position within the household.  As a…companion, of sorts.”

“And your father still---?”

“Yes.”  Spike wasn’t about to let her finish the thought, knowing what she was asking even before she’d opened her mouth.  “Miss Owen was only one of many, of course, but unfortunately, his favorite, it would seem.”  The vestiges of his past was creeping back into his speech, foretelling the advent of yet another episode in the vampire’s “This Is Your Life” show, and Buffy stiffened, instinctively reaching for his hands where they lay helpless in his lap.

“You don’t have to worry about me getting hurt,” she assured, forcing her voice to soothe as best she could.  “For some reason, I don’t think I can.  After you left that last time, I had this fight with the Soul Eater---.”

His head snapped up, Spike leaping back to the fore, eyes searching hers as his hands clutched at hers.  “Fight?  Why?  Are you all right?  If that bitch hurt you---.”

“I’m fine.  Now.  She got a blow in, but when I showed up here, it was gone.  That’s why I don’t think---.”

“Melly?”

The feminine voice came from the bowels of the house, drifting delicately from above to reach the two pairs of ears in the drawing room.  Immediately, Spike stiffened, shoulders going back as he tore his hands from Buffy’s, the demon disappearing under the guise of William.

“You won’t tell Mother, will you?” he asked.  “I could not bear it if she found out.”

The request came from nowhere, and the Slayer frowned, wishing they’d had just a little bit longer to talk about their present circumstances.  What was it she was supposed to keep secret, she wondered, but the look on the young man’s face was so earnest, so heartbreakingly sincere, his blue eyes unable to meet hers as he suddenly seemed captivated by the flames in the fireplace, that she felt the urgent need to assure him of her loyalty.  “Of course not,” she said slowly, and was rewarded by the corner of his mouth lifting in obvious relief. 

His hand fell to the small table at his chair’s side, toying with the book she only now noticed sat there.  “Mother needs me to be strong,” he said.  “I do not wish to fail her.”

These were sentiments she was familiar with.  “You’re a good man, William,” Buffy said, and reached out a thin hand to rest it gently on his knee.

He jerked at her touch, leaping from the chair and unsettling the table beside him.  Clumsily, he circled around so that the seat he’d just vacated was between them, only then allowing his gaze to rise and meet the confusion on her face.  “She is calling for you,” he said stiffly.  “You should not tarry here or she will worry.”

She had opened her mouth to respond, the words already forming on her tongue to say she didn’t care, when it happened.  Like someone had grabbed her from behind, yanking her backward with enough force to make her senses whirl, yet the room before her never wavered, her slim body never moved.  She could almost hear the cage door slamming in front of her, locking her inside her own skull, crippling her will as she felt another presence step forward, soft…intelligent…Melly…?

“Walk with me.”  Her voice was so low, tremulous even, with an English accent that almost made the imprisoned Slayer smile.  Hey, it’s Stuffy Buffy, she thought, but then broke from her amusement to focus on the adrenaline that had suddenly begun to course through her body’s veins.  She’s really scared, came the realization.  But of what?

“It would not…you will be…he has already retired for the evening.”  William struggled in his attempt to reply, but the sense that this was a familiar transpiration between the pair slithered into Buffy’s awareness as she found herself scrutinizing the young man’s face.

“Is it so much to ask then?” Melly queried.  “Perhaps he waits.  To reach Miss Anne, I must pass his room.  He will not approach me if he hears that I am not alone.  You know this.”

That’s when it made sense to her, this quavering dread that had seemed to settle within her stomach.  Miss Owen was as much a captive as Buffy was at the moment, only hers was within her circumstances, trapped in the home of a man she hated, whose touch curdled what little food she was able to ingest, invoked recurring nightmares she fought to suppress from the other staff.  The only one to know was William, her co-conspirator in his father’s secrets, and they shared their shame in a consoling silence, a vain attempt to protect the delicate Mrs. Burbidge from even more unpleasantness.

His gaze fell, drifting to the scattered pieces of paper that had slipped from the book onto the hearth, the light from the fireplace dancing across his meticulous script in a frenetic caress.  He clearly wanted to say no, to deny the responsibility she was thrusting at him, and looked for all intents and purposes that he would, when she spoke again.

“Please,” she asked.  “I…need you.”

Buffy almost winced as the entreaty caused the young man to crumple before her eyes, his resolve to dissipate.  Melly sure knew what strings to pull, she thought with growing annoyance at the woman she had never met.  No way in hell can William ignore that.  Shoot, there would be no way Spike could refuse it; what chance did a properly taught, Victorian gentleman have against a damsel in distress?

“Of course,” he murmured, but kept his eyes away as he strode for the entrance, holding the door open as he waited for her to go through it.

She hung back, waiting for him to take the lead, and Buffy found herself treading almost noiselessly up the stairs, mimicking William’s careful step, even following his example when he purposely skipped one of the risers.  Must be creaky, she thought as they emerged into the hall it seemed she had only just left.  He doesn’t want to wake his father.

He stopped just outside a closed door, and the sound of a rocking chair squeaking across floorboards floated through the heavy wood in a hushed whisper that inexplicably raised feelings of warmth within Buffy’s breast.  “You should convince her to sleep,” he said quietly.  “She will not regain her strength otherwise.”

A faint smile rose to her lips.  “She may appear to be fragile,” Melly said, “but your mother has a stubborn spirit.  Arguing with her is very much like trying to convince a child to eat his vegetables.”

Their shared chuckle was cut short when the squeaking stopped, Anne’s voice calling out, “Is that you, Melly?”  Two sets of eyes turned simultaneously toward the door.

“You need to sleep as well,” William said carefully, gaze locked on the dark wood. 

“I will.”  Her hand was on the doorknob, turning it within her grasp as she heard him begin walking down the hall toward his own room.  “Thank you,” she whispered, unsure if he would hear her.

The slightest hitch in his step told her that he did.

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

Spike had known even before they made the jump forward in his dream what was to come next.

Smoke.

Lots of it.

Fuck.

Grabbing the handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers in their press as he leapt from the comfort of his bed, William covered his mouth and nose with it as he raced for the door, the adrenaline in his body enlivening Spike’s undead flesh---not really, but that’s sure as hell what it felt like---inside his cranium so that even there he could feel the licks of heat searing into the young man’s bare feet.

The smoke was thicker in the hall, and he raced toward his mother’s room, not even bothering to knock as he pulled it open, tore inside to witness Anne’s inert form on her bed.  Heedless of the need to protect his breathing, he dropped the fabric shielding his face to scoop the small woman into his arms---Buffy, what about Buffy-- turning and racing for the stairs.

One step. 

Another. 

Hot, hot, so damn hot. 

Get Mother to safety, mustn’t let her know that I swore, even in my head.

And they were outside, across the cobbled street, the chill of the night air raising the goosebumps to the young man’s flesh that seemed scorched from the flames that were already consuming the interior of the house.

He laid her out along the grass that stretched beside the road, smoothing back the hair from her pale face and sighed in relief when he saw the slight rise in her chest.  Alive, she was alive, thank god she was alive.

Buffy’s still inside, Spike raged, and vented his frustration outward, trying to will his former self to hurry back inside, even though he already knew that he would.  Faster, you wanker, get in there faster.  I’m not havin’ Buffy suffer more than she already has…

And he was back inside, trying not to look at the flames that were pouring out of the drawing room---stupid bloody poems, should’ve picked them up---racing up the stairs two at a time, grateful that Miss Owen’s room was the nearest door on the landing.

Pulling it open.  

The air almost as thick inside as it was out.

Peering through the darkness to see her stirring in the bed, struggling against her bedlinens as her body registered something was amiss, even if her mind did not.

At her side.  Helping her to her feet.  Her eyes locked on his in fear.

Does she see me?  I’m here, luv, you’re going to be all right.  So sorry, so sorry, so sorry.  Please don’t hate me for this.

Almost dragging her to the door, her body fighting his, William’s momentary confusion as to why jerking his head around as she turned toward the corner.

And Spike saw it for the first time in a century---not it, not really, not fair to call her ‘it’, not her soddin’ fault---through an ashamed William’s eyes that he could forget, that he could ever not remember why exactly his father had brought the young woman into the household in the first place.

A resounding crash from downstairs frightened both of them, and Miss Owen---Buffy, damn it!---yanked herself away, urging herself toward the cradle, stumbling against the bedframe as she did so.  Her head connected solidly with the four-poster frame, and William barely caught her before her knees gave out, the line of blood on her forehead dripping into her eyes.

“We must hurry,” he hissed, trying to get her to stand on her own feet, his own consternation at so much physical contact with a female not his mother battling his need to save her from the blaze.  “Can you walk?”

“I’m not…leaving her,” she gasped, a slim hand wiping the blood from her eyes in order to better peer through the cloudy air.

It was then they heard his yells, oddly enough coming from his study downstairs, and in spite of the growing heat within the room, icy shivers ran down both their spines.  William met Melly’s eyes---Spike could see Buffy floundering somewhere within those terrified depths, hold on, luv, the Towering Inferno portion of our little escapade is almost over---and he remembered the barred hall, the fire that was already beginning to creep up the stairs.  It would be possible to save his father if he left right then to do it, but any longer would mean certain death for both of them.

She knew.

She saw it in his eyes.

And she made his decision for him.

“Save her,” Melly whispered.  “I will manage myself.”

Even as he relived it, the moments following were still a blur for Spike.  He remembered grabbing the baby from the bassinet, but the time between doing so and depositing it on the grass outside next to his mother and Miss Owen’s vomiting form evaporated from his grasp.  It was only when Anne turned her head, looked at him with those eyes that so intimately resembled his own, and asked, “Is everyone safe?,” did he snap back into the moment, lifting his chin to look at the house in which he’d been raised burning across the street, his hatred for the man he knew was still locked inside singeing him in a malevolence that shocked his gentle soul.

“Yes,” he murmured, and collapsed onto the ground…

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

Chapter 32: A Corpse Within Its Grave

As her chest spasmed, the acid from her stomach shredding the lining of her throat even as the heat from the burning house behind her licked up her legs, irritation colored Buffy’s thoughts in titian hues.  I am sooo going to have a word with Spike when this is all over, she grumbled.  Lots of them.  Some of them will even have more than one syllable.  Because in the world of bad ideas, this little dream jaunt definitely rates Guinness mention.

She was still locked inside Melly Owen’s head, unable to do more than peer through smoke-stained eyes at the baby that was already asleep on the grass, the infant oblivious to the growing crowd or the inferno from which it had just been rescued.  Anne Burbidge was cradling it against her side, crooning to it in a reedy voice---something about early one morning?---and she could feel Melly’s reluctance to disturb them as a sticky pull at her muscles.

A baby.  Spike’s half-sister.  Well, William’s half-sister.  Wow.

She couldn’t see his face.  Upon emerging with the baby, he had promptly collapsed to his knees, his head dropping so that his forehead was almost resting on the ground, his fingers fisted into the grass as if he feared letting go would somehow send him reeling from the earth’s surface.  He could’ve been praying, and for some reason, Buffy wasn’t convinced he wasn’t, knowing now just what exactly had transpired between him and his father.  It was guilt he had cast aside once he’d become a vampire, but for what she suspected was another ten years ahead of him, William was just starting to feel the mass bearing down on his soul, the knowledge that his deliberate negligence had killed his father.

More than anything, she wanted to go to his side, hold his head in her lap and smooth back the hair from his pained gaze, wipe away the lines that she knew would line his face after this event.  It wasn’t all his fault.  Melly Owen had played him.  She had chosen the exact words necessary to seduce young William into choosing his half-sibling instead of his father, taunting that latent desire to punish the elder Burbidge for his misdeeds against his mother.  What his feelings were for Miss Owen, Buffy had no idea, but there was no denying the sense of responsibility for her current position that he wore around his flesh like shackles.  She knew he blamed himself for not stopping the assault that night in the study, and wished fervently that young William could understand that there was nothing he could’ve done without getting seriously injured himself.

The clickety-clack of wooden wheels alternating with slowing hooves on the cobbled street diverted her attention, and she turned her head in time to see a carriage roll to a stop at her side.  In the driver’s seat, with the reins of the horses hanging loosely in his hands, sat the portly messenger from earlier, and Buffy felt the world seem to sharpen around her, her muscles suddenly her own again, Melly Owen banished to the wayside.

Immediately, she straightened, ready to go to William’s side.

“There is no time, Miss Summers,” the messenger said, his voice quiet but firm.  “We have places to see, people to go to.”

“No,” she argued, and her tone cut through the smoke that billowed into the street with a clarity that surprised even her.  “I’m going to Spike.  He needs me right now.”

“That’s not your Spike, and you can go to him when our journey is complete,” he replied.  “For now, our next stop awaits.”

Her chin lifted in defiance.  “You know, I’m getting a little tired of being bossed around here.  I think maybe I need to be putting my foot down on your dream hopping.  Like, on your neck maybe.”

He surprised her by chuckling.  “I am not ordering you about.  I am guiding your path so that you will see what it is he wishes you to.”

“But that’s just it.  That wish?  Gone.  Poof.  Spike changed his mind about it when he saw us being turned into Howdy Doody back there. We kind of like being stringless.  People who try telling us what to do tend to get our backs up.  Not to mention our fists.”

“There is nothing new that is transpiring here,” he said.  “These are merely the trails of his memory that he wishes to lead you down.  I am merely---.”

“---my guide,” she interrupted, folding her arms across her breasts in annoyance.  “Blah, blah, blah.  That’s the line you’ve been spouting since I got here.  Only thing is, we’re ready to call this whole thing off and start over, but we can’t for some weird reason which I’m sure you are just dying to explain.”

“It is simple.  You cannot stray from the path once you have set upon it.”  His smile faded, his mouth thin.  “Now, Miss Summers, really.  Time is wasting.  I must request you get into the carriage before I am forced to place you in there myself.”

“And I told you---.”

The vise around her chest came from nowhere, and Buffy stiffened, incapable of breathing more than a few shallow puffs of air at a time before getting light-headed.  A quick glance down confirmed that there was nothing actually there, but she’d been around Willow’s magic long enough to know what it felt like.  OK.  Maybe he’d actually been serious about the time to go thing.

“Get into the carriage,” the messenger commanded, all traces of joviality gone from his demeanor.

She had no choice but to comply, stumbling forward until her hand caught the handle on the door.  Only then did the constriction around her lungs ease, but even as she straightened, trying to regain her composure, she felt it threaten to return, the merest hint that she would revolt its only impetus to do so.

His voice floated back to her as she collapsed onto the seat, gulping at the air with impotent anger.  “Our trip will be quite short,” he said.  “Do please relax.”

Do please relax, she mimicked in her head, and kicked half-heartedly at the seat in front of her, noting with a smile of satisfaction the grunt elicited from the messenger as the force of it jarred him slightly.  She had her Slayer strength back for now; she could just hop out and tear the guy’s head off.  It wasn’t really murder if it happened in her dreams, right?  Except she wouldn’t, and she knew it.  One foot outside the carriage and she’d be like a guppy flopping around on the road trying to breathe.  It didn’t look like she was going to have any choice but to follow.

For now.

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

Even as he felt William’s control dissipate, Spike knew she wasn’t there.  His head lifted, his tired eyes searching the side of the street for her familiar form though he knew it was in vain, only to light on the Soul Eater, now in power of his mother’s faculties, as it sat up on the grass, pulling the baby roughly onto its lap.

“She’s so much lovelier in the flesh than she is in your memories,” she singsonged.  One finger outlined the chubby cheeks, flicking casually across the closed lids.  “Do you purposely remember her as less than she was?  Does it make it easier to bear?”

“I don’t remember her at all, you bitch,” Spike replied through gritted teeth, and rose to his feet.  He wasn’t going to let her see weakness in him, not after what she’d done to Buffy, and if she started playing her little mind games, well, then, he’d just have to play a little rough himself.

The eyes so like his own lifted, gazing steadily at him.  “But you do.  That’s why you did this, isn’t it?  To show the dark one that you were really a paper tiger as a human?  The head of the house by default.  Because you chose to save his bastard child instead of him.”  She smiled, but there was no mirth in it…only a glittering hunger of satisfaction.  “The child you could’ve prevented from entering the world in the first place if you’d only faced him like a man that night instead of tucking your tail and hiding behind your mother’s skirts.”

The muscles in his jaws tensed, his hands knotted into fists at his sides, and Spike deliberately tore his gaze from hers, choosing instead to stare at the house burning across the street.  “Wanker deserved what he got,” he said simply.  He couldn’t let her taunts get to him.

Even if he felt each and every one of her words as truthful daggers that sliced into his unbeating heart with their candor.

“William didn’t think so,” she continued.  “He carried this night with him to his grave.  Do you not remember all those nightmares he had?  How desperately he clung to his fancy words and delusions of beauty because he needed to forget just how black his nights really were?  He was practically drowning himself in poetry by the time he died.”

“He loved it.”

“It was an escape.”

“S’nothin’ wrong with that.”

“Anne didn’t think so.”  The mention of his mother grabbed Spike’s chin and turned it to face her, eyes steeled against her verbal attack even as he felt his resolve weakening.  “Oh, certainly, she was supportive of his endeavors.  She loved William more than anything.  But even she could see how he used them to avoid facing the real world, choosing instead to bury himself in fantasies.”

“Leave.  Her.  Out of this.”

The Soul Eater laughed, a crystalline fragment that woke the infant in her lap.  “I do adore how protective you are of her, even as a vampire,” she said lightly.  Her hand settled over the baby’s mouth, dampening its cries with a casual aplomb, not heeding the fact that her fingers were effectively blocking its nose as well.  Spike’s gaze was riveted by the tiny figure’s struggling and he only half-heard the words that continued to tumble from the hellbitch’s mouth.

“It still stings, doesn’t it?  A century may have passed but you still carry the hurt of her words within you.  And not an ocean of bloodshed, or the thousands of begging cries you’ve had since, have erased---.”

He darted forward then, snatching the baby from her arms, watching as its skin shaded back to a fragile pink from the icy blue the lack of oxygen had done to it.

She laughed.  “Silly, silly William---.”

“It’s Spike!” he spat.

“It’s only a dream,” she said, ignoring his interruption.  “Merely a fragment of your past made manifest for these split seconds.  Nothing I do now will change what happened to her in your real world.”

She was right, and he knew it, but that didn’t mean he had to stand there and watch her suffocate the infant without a care.  “I never hurt her,” Spike argued.

“No.  You’re right.”  The Soul Eater smiled.  “You saved that for her mother.”

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

The short trip was straight out of that Willy Wonka movie, she decided.  Like the psychedelic boat ride from hell that had scared her so much as a kid, images flashed by the carriage windows in a frenzied blur, allowing her glimpses into moments that left her head spinning, caused the gooseflesh to crawl over skin like feeding maggots.  It was probably her punishment for lashing out, Buffy decided, because none of it made sense to her, not in the context of Spike’s dream.  Just residual magic crap, she thought.  It doesn’t mean a thing.

By the time the coach came to a stop, her stomach was in knots, anxiety about what could possibly be coming next twisting inside of her like a writhing snake.  They weren’t done, which meant more stuff Spike had wanted her to see.  She could only hope that the worst of it was over.

A quick glance out the window afforded Buffy a familiar sight; a carefully groomed cemetery splayed out before her, the overcast sky doing nothing to dampen the riot of color the various flowers painted along the ground.  In the near distance, she saw a small crowd assembled over a freshly dug grave, with Anne Burbidge at its core. 

“Where’s Spike?” she asked, leaning out the window, hazel eyes scanning the landscape in search of his familiar form.

“Master William is…about,” the messenger said, and all of a sudden, he was at the door, reaching up to offer his hand to her in guidance.

Hesitantly, she took it, and as she climbed out of the carriage, she noted she was still in the nightclothes she’d worn at the Burbidge home.  Buffy frowned.  “Um, not that I’m complaining because it’s infinitely more comfortable, but isn’t this just a tad inappropriate for a funeral?”  She gestured abstractly to her dress.  “It’s not even black.  I think they might notice.”

“You are not really here,” he replied.  “For this portion of the journey, you are merely an observer.”

Great, she thought wryly.  What a trade-off.  Can’t get hurt, but can’t talk to Spike.  Just wonderful.

“This way,” the guide said, and began leading her around the periphery of the grass, circumventing the solemn ceremony in favor of leading her to a cluster of carriages waiting near the graveyard’s entrance.

A quick glance over her shoulder caused the Slayer to frown.  Their own carriage was gone.  “Where are we going?” she queried.

“We are there.”  He stopped, bowing slightly to indicate she should proceed ahead of him.

Her steps were tentative, her gaze searching the gathering of vehicles for whatever it was he expected her to find, skittering slightly as a horse’s neigh caught her off-guard.  It was then she heard the voices, and froze in her place, muscles locked as if she feared getting caught.

“I find it quite farcical,” the first voice said.  Female.  Young.  Probably even younger than her.  “Did you see William?  He was actually crying.”

“Well, it is his father’s funeral.”  Another girl, a little older maybe.  This one sounded vaguely familiar, and Buffy realized it was probably one of the women from the party that had been annoying her so.

The sarcasm that laced the reply was palpable in the air.  “And we know why this is happening today, don’t we?”

“You shouldn’t tell tales---.”

“It’s not a tale if it’s truth.”

“You were not there.  There could have been…circumstances.”

There was a derisive laugh.  “There were no circumstances.  We both know Mr. Burbidge died because William is a coward.  If Melody Owen had enough time to save that---.”

“Don’t say it!”

“---child of hers, then there is no excuse for William to not have done the same for his father.  He is a man, after all.”  There was a snicker.  “At least, that is what he would have us believe.”

Anger roiled in Buffy’s stomach, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides as she automatically marched forward toward the voices.  Two little bitches were about to get a huge chunk of her mind, if not a piece of her fists at the same time; she didn’t care if she was in stupid Victorian England, or if they were supposed to be proper young ladies who didn’t resort to that kind of thing.  They had no right to say that about…

“…Spike!”  She came up short as she rounded the corner of the carriage, suddenly faced with a pale William hugging himself against the large wheel.  His eyes were closed, his face anguished, and she could see the battle playing out in the planes of his face as he fought to maintain his composure.  Behind his glasses, tears clung to his long lashes, hanging like frozen dewdrops, and she saw him swallow once…twice…a third time, before dropping his chin to his chest.

“Spike…?” Buffy repeated, more softly this time, reaching a tentative hand to his hair, but stopped when the laughter of the two women came drifting to them.  When his shoulders visibly slumped further at the sound, her eyes widened.

William had heard every word.

“It is time to go, Miss Summers.”

The messenger’s voice did nothing to stop the prickle of tears from coming into Buffy’s eyes, but slowly, she withdrew her hand and straightened.  It wasn’t right, she thought.  None of them had any fucking clue what had happened to poor William, and yet he still remained the object of their mockery.  Her heart ached for the gentle soul before her, and she had to fight her every instinct not to throw her arms around him, to try and convince him that he wasn’t a monster, that those bitches didn’t know what they were talking about.  She wasn’t really there, she had to remember.  She’d probably just go through him like Patrick Swayze did in Ghost.

“You didn’t say watching was going to hurt more than actually being there,” she accused bitterly as they walked away.

“I don’t believe I said anything at all,” came the reply.

They trudged in silence for a minute, distancing themselves from the carriages, before she spoke up again.  “So where to this time?” she asked resignedly.

The messenger stopped and pointed.  “Over there.”

In the space of time it took to lift her head, the world around Buffy darkened, day suddenly becoming dusk.  The nightgown she had been wearing was replaced with the confining strictures of another dress, this one black, a long jacket shielding her arms from an advancing night chill.  She was standing at the edge of the cemetery, but the crowd was long gone, leaving behind only a seated Anne, with William hovering at her side.

As she took the first step forward, the rushing in her head she’d experienced when Melly Owen had first come to the fore back in the Burbidge drawing room recurred, halting her step as she swayed in the invisible breeze.  Crap, Buffy thought.  This is so not the time for this.  Can’t she just stay away long enough for me to talk to Spike for one minute?

But her words were locked beneath Melly’s awareness, and the Slayer was forced to watch from behind lowered eyes as she approached the mother and son.

“The carriage awaits,” Melly said quietly, carefully avoiding William’s gaze to concentrate on his mother.

Anne sighed, her head bent.  “I am shamed to confess my relief that we do not have to return to our home,” she said.  “To face it now without my William’s presence would be unbearable.”

Gingerly, the younger William knelt before his mother, smiling diffidently as he took her hands in his, gazing lovingly up into her face.  “I will be there, Mother,” he vowed.  “I will always be there.”

The gentle pat she placed on his cheek was accompanied by a small smile.  “I know.  You are a good son.  But that does not stop me from missing your father.”

Melly looked up then and Buffy could see the confusion flicker behind William’s eyes.

“But…he…”  The words hurt you hung there in the air, unable to be voiced, and the young man’s mouth settled into a perplexed frown.  She could see his mind working, his will working to exert itself and try again, and held her breath when his lips parted to speak.  “You cannot tell me you will…yearn for his…attentions.  Life with him was…disruptive, and…and…harsh, and---.”

“Enough.”  The strength in her voice surprised both of them.  “I will not have you speak of your father that way.”

“But he---.”

“I said, enough!”  Anne shook her head, extracting her hands from her son’s.  “You will show respect for him, even though he is not here to demand it himself.  It is the least you owe him.”

“I owe him?”  His incredulity drove him to his feet.  “I…owe him?”  William’s gaze lifted, meeting Melly’s, silently beseeching her to step forward and voice her support for him in this.  You know what kind of a man he really was, he seemed to be saying.  Please…help me.

When Buffy felt the young woman duck her head, deliberately sucking in the air around her to refrain from speaking, her fury erupted and the Slayer raged within her confines at her host’s silence.  Say something!  Help him out here!  He saved your baby’s life and this is how you repay him?

But she didn’t.  She held her tongue. 

And she abandoned the man who had liberated her from her prison.

It took William only a moment to understand his ally was gone, and his head tilted in quizzical sadness as the solidarity they had shared prior to the fire shattered in piercing splinters around him.  He was alone on this.  There would be no support of what he knew to be true, and if he’d thought that he would be able to find consolation for his transgression within the bosom of his family, he knew now that he’d been wrong.

“My apologies, Mother,” he mumbled, ducking his gaze.  “I should not have spoken so.  It must be…my grief.  It shall not happen again.”

His regret was enough to soften Anne’s features, and she reached up to take his hand back in hers.  “It is understandable,” she murmured, trying to soothe away the ache in his voice through her touch.  “You loved him as much as I did.  It just…saddens me that you…were not able to save him as well.  We have both lost a great deal today.”  Mrs. Burbidge rose to her feet, leaning heavily on her son’s shoulder and closing her eyes as they began making their way to the carriage.  “I am certain my William will forgive us for failing him,” Buffy heard her say as they passed her. 

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

Chapter 33: By the Incantation of This Verse

They stared at the still form of the Slayer for what seemed an eternity.  No more thrashing, no more muttering, no more blood, and though they were relieved at the seemingly normal façade she now exhibited, each and every one of them was worried.  The disappearance of her wound didn’t make sense.

And not making sense was never good.

“Maybe Buffy and Spike have killed the Soul Eaters,” Dawn offered, the tentative smile on her lips not masking the fear that still lingered in her eyes.

“No,” Dolly said, sniffing pointedly at the air.  “They’re still out there.”

“Then, maybe the spell has run its course,” Tara suggested softly, swiveling her head to look over at Willow.

“Only one way to find out,” the redhead replied.  Taking the bag from Dawn’s hands, her thin fingers dipped inside, extracting some of the powder as her lips effortlessly formed the words necessary to wake them.  She tossed it, watching as it settled over them in a fine mist, but as the group waited, watching anxiously for any sign of change, it became increasingly evident that the pair was still locked within a heavy slumber.

“And that would be a big fat no,” Willow said with a heavy sigh.  “Which means back door, here we come.”

“I don’t know why you’re bothering,” Dolly interjected as she straightened to her full height.  “Let me go get Cort.  She shows up, your magic goes poof.  Problem solved.”

“I’m not certain that’s our wisest course of action.”  Giles lifted his head to gaze at the green demon, his brow wrinkled.

“Sounds pretty wise to me.”

“In theory, yes.  But we are in no position to predict what type of effects might occur as a result of disintegrating the spell.”  He began to pace around the cavern, his steps long, his body tense.  “By dissolving the fetters of the magic through artificial means---.”

“Cort’s defenses aren’t fake!  Those are the real deal, and you know it.”

“I meant, artificial as in outside the realm of magic.  I’m well aware of the…nature of Cortina’s abilities.”  His voice had suddenly chilled, and the three girls glanced at each other, all of them shrinking slightly from the older man every time he neared.  “What I’m suggesting is that if we were to dissolve the boundaries of the spell without taking the necessary precautions, we could very well leave Buffy and Spike defenseless against the children of the wind.  A shock to their soul system, you could say.  Without the constriction of proper sleep or the rituals of magic, we’d end up losing the pair of them before any of us could react in time.”  He stopped, turning to face Willow.  “Gather the supplies you need.  We need to do this as quickly as possible.”

Dawn watched as the two witches scurried to their bags, the spell they had been preparing earlier already forgotten.  Her face blanched even paler as her eyes grew luminous.  “What about…Mom?” she asked, her voice tiny.  “Is this…going to…”  She couldn’t even bring herself to finish the query, disallowing herself from looking at either her sister at her side or her parent near the witches.

Deliberately, Giles loosened his restraint, relaxing his muscles so that he could approach the young girl as gently as possible.  “We must be prepared for any contingency,” he murmured, resting his hand on her shoulder.  “If it comes down to it, you may have to choose.”

“Choose?”  It was barely a breath.

“Willow may need help.  If that happens, we won’t have the resources necessary to complete the spell to restore your mother, which means…”  He sighed, suddenly weary.  This was the last thing he would ever wish on anyone, let alone someone so young.  To be shown that it might be possible to have your life restored, only to have it snatched away from you, replaced with a dread decision that would leave guilt no matter which way it landed, was a massive burden for the strongest of people.  He had no idea how the young teenager would cope with it.

“The choice will be yours, Dawn,” he finally said.  “This is your family here.  Consider it carefully.”

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

Her head was aching.

As Buffy opened her eyes, she found herself greeted with darkness, her head nestled against something hard, her body folded into a clumsy lump as if she’d been tossed aside like a piece of litter and forgotten.  Her eyelids were vibrating from the pain inside her skull, and she winced as she tried to sit up.

The last thing she remembered was watching William walk away with his mother, his head hanging in resignation, the slump of his shoulders clear indication of his defeat.  Her host had taken her time in following, but as she’d taken that first step, the world had slipped away from her, leaving her in a void.

A physical void, that is.  Emotionally, her senses were aflame.

More than anything, Buffy hated Melly Owen at the moment for having the nerve to ask the gentle young man for his aid in releasing her from the prison of her life, but not having the strength to stand by him when he asked for her help in kind.  She had no idea why; the Victorian’s feelings were heavily cloaked beneath both propriety and shame.  Maybe it was a fear of losing her position, but she doubted it.  Somehow, that seemed too simple for the feelings that stormed beneath her skin.  Whatever it was, the Slayer hoped that they had haunted the young woman for the rest of her days.  She deserved to suffer for what she had done to William.

Now, though, she was back in control, which actually wasn’t a good thing because every move made her muscles scream.  It felt very much like she’d taken on an army of vampires, and lost.  Of course, if she’d lost, then she’d be dead and not experiencing so much damn pain.  What she wouldn’t give for some good old-fashioned aspirin right about now.

“Buffy?  Luv?  Please tell me you’re awake.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice, jerking her head to look futilely behind her, eyes narrowed as they tried to cut through the darkness.  “Spike?” she called out.  “Where are you?  Where are we?  And why are you so far away and not holding me?  Or letting me hold you?”

He ignored her questions, but his voice remained distant.  “You have to try waking up again, pet.  Things are about to start getting bad around here.”

She laughed, in spite of the ache in his tone.  “You mean, worse than almost going up in a blaze of non-glory, watching you get humiliated for something that wasn’t even your fault, and then having to put up with not being able to get this bitch to open her mouth and tell your mom exactly what kind of monster she was married to?”  Her chest rattled, and she coughed, the muscles against her sternum aching.  “How much more do I have to watch here, Spike?  Because gotta say, I’m beginning to think this is one time I would’ve preferred to read the book than watch the movie.”

“It’s almost done.”  The sense of finality in his voice was chilling, and Buffy felt her skin crawl in fear.  “Which is why we have to get out of here.”

“Why do I hurt so much?”

She heard him move then, and though she still couldn’t see anything in the pitch of whatever space she seemed to be occupying, all of a sudden, he was next to her, his hands searching her face, molding over the contours of her cheeks, fingertips hovering at the corners of her eyes.  Instinctively, she threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, and was grateful that she was herself, that she could hug him and hold him, and try to squeeze away some of the pain she knew had to be lingering from their recent excursions.

He didn’t flinch within her embrace, instead letting his arms come up to cradle her against him, his face burying itself in her hair.

And it was then that she noticed.

For the first time since coming into his dreams, Spike’s flesh was cold.

She had to steel herself not to pull away in surprise.  Instead, Buffy willed her muscles to relax, lifting her mouth to graze her lips over the line of his jaw.  “I’m so sorry,” she murmured.  “I wish you’d told me.”

For the slightest of moments, he stiffened, as if the expression of empathy was the last thing he’d expected to hear come from her lips.  “It’s done,” he said simply.  “All in the past.  Nothin’ to fuss over.”

“If it wasn’t a big deal, then why did your brain shut it away so that I couldn’t see it?” She kept her voice as gentle as possible, afraid that any hint of accusation would make him shy away.

“It was probably protecting you,” he offered in explanation.  “No reason for you to know what makes no nevermind in the here and now.”

“Or maybe it was protecting you,” she countered.  “I saw William’s face, Spike.  I saw how hurt he was.  He felt…betrayed.  You felt betrayed.”

“No, that’s---.”

“They were wrong, you know.  They didn’t…they shouldn’t have said those things.”

“Just a bunch of babble from a group of birds that meant less than nothing to me.”

“And your mom?”  She had hoped not to drag Anne Burbidge into this, but he was refusing to give in to his pain.  “Was that babble?  Does the fact that she basically called you a failure mean ‘less than nothing’ to you?”

It was the mention of his mother that broke him, wrenching the sobs from his chest and turning his hands into claws as he clasped her to him.  His tears were slick where they fell against her neck, the despair that had been bottled within his lean frame loosing itself in a torrent.

Buffy’s hands came up automatically to stroke his hair, making soothing sounds in the back of her throat, rocking him against her just as her own mom had done during more than one of the Slayer’s crying jags in her youth.  “Sshhhh…” she crooned.  “It’s all right.  I’m here.  Just…let it out.”  Over and over again, repeating the phrases in a rhythmic litany that kneaded the muscles of his back in an attempt to massage the pain away.  She wasn’t good at the comfort stuff.  Be strong Buffy, that’s what she was.  But this was Spike, and he had done the same for her upon finding her mother’s body, consoling her in her grief, lending her the strength to get through it.  Trying to do the same for him was the least she could do, especially since each sob seemed to smash her own heart into pulp.

“I…I…I…”  His voice hitched in his throat even as the sobs began to ease.  “I just…wanted her…to be happy for a change,” he finally managed.  “I did…did…my best to make it up to her.  To make her forget him.  She deserved it.  But he was always there.”  With each word, his strength returned, and though his crying had vanished, there remained a torture in the broken tone of his voice that ripped into Buffy like a razor blade.

“You were a good son.  What you did wasn’t wrong.”

“Maybe if that bitch Miss Owen had said even two words, it might not’ve hurt so bad.  But she didn’t.  And she and Mother had this whole post-fire memorial for the bastard’s sake.  Like losing him had ruined their worlds.”

She had no idea what to say to that.  It boggled her mind that people could canonize memories to the point of non-recognition, and though she couldn’t say she would ever tolerate such an abusive relationship herself, the fact of the matter was, she’d never really been placed in the position to do so.

“What happened to them?” she asked softly.  “To Melly and the baby?”

The mention of the child caused Spike to stiffen, and he pulled away from her, leaving her alone again in the darkness.  “I don’t know about the little girl,” he said quietly, and Buffy heard him begin to pace in circles before her.

“What do you mean?  I thought you said---.”

“Miss Owen left my mother’s employ shortly after the funeral.  The pair of ‘em left for somewhere up north.  A fresh start, mum said.  I didn’t see Melly again for ten years.”  His movement stopped.  “That’s why you have to get us out of here, luv.  Because this is where we’re at now.”

“Why?”  The dread that had been there when she’d first awakened in this portion of the memory trip returned, tightening around her chest.  “What did you do, Spike?”

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

Nobody noticed her leave.

So wrapped up in their little spell---well, counterspell, or whatever the hell they were calling it---the little band of humans didn’t even see her press back into the wall, slowly dematerializing so that it wouldn’t catch their attention.

It was better that way.  Somehow, Dolly had a feeling that if Cort’s boyfriend caught wind of what she was doing, he might have a few choice words to say about the matter.  Probably in the form of a spell.  One that would hurt.

He was not in the best of moods at the moment.

Still, Rupert was full of crap, she’d decided.  His nonsense about the dissolution of the spell via Cort’s natural abilities was a product of mortal fear, and she wasn’t going to stand by and watch him make a huge mistake just because he was being a little short-sighted, especially since she could smell the Soul Eaters getting even closer.  Problem was, the humans were too wrapped up in their magic to note the encroachment of the very thing they were trying to kill.  Just as well, she thought as her form solidified at her destination.  No way can Cort argue with me about going back if she knows how bad it’s getting.

From the bed where she’d been resting, Cortina lifted her head, frowning slightly at her friend’s sudden appearance.  “Is it over?” she asked, worry coating her words.  “Are Buffy and Spike all right?”

“They will be as soon as I get you back there,” Dolly said.  “Strap yourself in.  You’re going home.”

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

He never got a chance to answer her question.

“William?  Is that you?”

The sound of Anne Burbidge’s voice drifted like a windswept feather into the dark space, and Buffy turned her head in its direction, hearing now the soft patter of footsteps that accompanied it.  The creak of a door was followed by the faint glow from a lit candlestick, and for the first time, the Slayer could see enough to tell that she was in some sort of kitchen, still Victorian, and that her dress was very much the worse for wear, torn and soiled as if she’d been in a fight.

On the other side of the room, Spike’s outline tensed, his eyes morphing to glow in the ambient darkness before shifting back to their stormy blue, his gaze locked on the doorway.  “Yes, Mother, it’s me,” he replied.

Great, Buffy thought.  We’re back to Mastervamp Theater again. 

Anne stepped inside, a gentle frown creasing her brow.  It was obvious, even in the dim orange flickers cast by the candle, that she had aged considerably since Buffy had least seen her.  Her long hair was now mostly gray, plaited to hang down her back, and the lines of her advancing years made her skin seem like crumpled parchment.  There was a slowness to her step, an almost inaudible wincing as she lifted and lowered her feet, and the Slayer noticed the softening of Spike’s face as he watched her approach.

“Where have you been?” Anne asked him.  One tremulous hand reached out to touch his cheek.  “I have been most sick with worry.  When you did not return from the Addams’ party, I feared the worst.  There has been talk, you know, of unpleasant occurrences in the streets once the sun has set.  I was frightened you had fallen prey to something…unsightly.”

“I am fine,” he assured.  “As you can see, I am in good health---.”

“You are cold.”  Her hand dropped from his face.  “I will make you a nice cup of tea…”  She turned then, and noticed Buffy for the first time, the lines in her forehead deepening as recognition slowly flared in her eyes.  “M-m-melly?” she queried, and there was a hesitancy, a shivery fear wavering that single word that brought clarity to the Slayer’s confusion.

This was why Spike had wanted her to get them out.  Why he had feared for her safety.

And why his earlier counterpart was glaring at her with barely concealed hate, flashes of gold dancing in his aspect.

Carefully, Buffy rose to her feet, keeping her limbs as steady as possible, doing her best to maintain a modicum of dignity in her torn attire.  Why she hadn’t been shuttled away so that Melly Owen could take control of this, she was only beginning to figure out.  It was probably for the same reason she hadn’t been banished when William Sr. had forced his attentions on her.

Because Melly’s actions and Buffy’s actions would’ve been one and the same.

Confused, Anne turned around to gaze at her son.  “Why is Melly here?” she asked.  Her voice was harder, a slight note of admonition tingeing her question.  “Does this have something to do with your absence these past few days?”

“I have brought Miss Owen in order to show you something, Mother,” Spike said.

“Were you attacked?  Is that why she appears so?  We must fetch the doctor---.”

“We don’t need a doctor.”  His head swiveled to stare at Buffy.  “Do we, Melly?”

“But…I don’t understand.”  Anne gazed at the pair in perplexity.  “She has been hurt.  If you weren’t attacked, who has done such a thing?”

“It was William.”  Buffy kept her voice low, even, meeting the vampire’s visage with a lifted chin.  “Does this make it better for you, William?  Does this make it all go away?”

“Be quiet!” he hissed, and she could see his control over his human face begin to falter.

Anne’s hand had been moving to curl around his arm, but the force in her son’s voice caused her to shrink back in fear.  “Why does she lie?  My William would never hurt---.”

“Your William,” he spat, and the venom oozed from his pores.  “Your William is a spineless worm, toadying to those around him because he is too frightened of his own shadow to stand up for himself.”  He edged himself closer.  “Or did you mean your other William?”  This time, his voice had dropped to a silky menace, forcing ice to run through Buffy’s veins.  This was not a creature she was sure she had ever met.  This was a newly turned vampire, feeding ravenously from the years of guilt and hate that had plagued his mortal self, more dangerous, she thought, than even Spike had been when he’d first arrived in Sunnydale.  By that time, years had tempered the edges of his loathing, quelled the memories of his human self into a controllable footnote in his history.  She wasn’t so sure that if she had met this incarnation of her lover with his current skills, he would not have notched a third Slayer kill to his bedstead.

“Is that who you wished me to emulate, Mother?” he asked.  “Your other William?  The one who beat you.  The one who reveled in hurting others.  The one who shamed you by carrying on---.”

The sharp crack of her palm across his face split the air.  “You will not speak of your father that way,” Anne ordered, her strength returned in the face of his accusations.

“Why?” he argued.  “Because he deserves that?  Please, Mother.  Admit this to yourself.  He has been in the grave for ten years now.  There is no viable reason for you to continue protecting him.  He never protected you.  That was what I did.  That was my duty.  And yet, he is the one you defend.  Why is that?  Tell me.  Please, I beg you.  Why is that?”

His tone had disintegrated to pleading, and for a moment, shame flickered across Anne’s face, her head lowering as she found herself unable to continue meeting his eyes.  She glanced at Buffy.  “Please, William, this is not a conversation we should be conducting in the presence of those who are not immediate family---.”

“I think the mother of my half-sister qualifies as immediate family.”

Her head whipped up at that, jerking from Spike to Buffy, and then back to Spike again.  “Why would you say such a thing?” she demanded.

“Because it’s the truth.”  Before anyone could react, he had crossed the distance of the room, his hand lashing out to grab the Slayer by the throat, thrusting back and upward to pin her to the wall.  He smiled as she clawed at his hands, letting his vampire visage to slip into place as he watched her struggle to breathe.  “Isn’t it, Melly?”

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

Her nails were bitten to the quick from the amount of chewing she’d done in the past few minutes, and Dawn hurriedly pulled them away from her mouth when Willow finally looked up from the book.

“Ready,” the witch said, and met the eyes of her blonde partner across the bed.

At the foot of the mattress, Giles stood with the gourd he’d rushed to get from Cortina’s bedroom, poised to begin the spell.

Dawn didn’t even pretend to be paying attention to the foreign words that spilled from Willow’s mouth, instead locking her wide blue eyes on the sleeping forms of Spike and her sister.  Every inch of her was wound in fear that something was going to go wrong, that she’d somehow lose both of them as well as her mother.  So far, no request for her to choose had been made, but that didn’t mean it might not still happen.  It wasn’t fair; she was only fourteen.  Why was she supposed to be making these kind of decisions?

The magical energy began to crackle in the air, the gourd in Giles’ hand starting to vibrate in resonance as the power increased. 

Dawn saw the flash out of the corner of her eye first, her head jerking automatically to see what it was, and gasped when she saw Cortina appear on the other side of the cavern.  “No!” she cried out, just as the gourd exploded in the Watcher’s hand.

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

Blackness.

Again.

And she still hurt, only this time a good deal of that pain was centered on her neck.

Her lungs burned as Buffy gulped at the cool air, grateful for whatever had happened to stop Spike from strangling her.  Had Anne dropped the candle?  Was that why it was dark?  But why would that have stopped the vampire?  It’s not like he would’ve been shocked by the sudden lack of light.

Speaking of…

“Spike?” she called out, straining to hear anything that might give away where she was, or more importantly, where he was.

What she got instead was a throaty chuckle. 

Female.

Fuck.

“Soooo delicious,” the Soul Eater crooned.  There was a sharp clap, followed by a blinding implosion, something sucking away the darkness into a swirling vortex to reveal the vampire’s unconscious form sprawled on an expanse of grass, the Soul Eater crouched over him, black clouds roiling in the heavens above them.

Buffy blinked, trying to focus on the sight before her, noting with satisfaction that she was no longer dressed in the period garb but in her more familiar leather pants and tank top.  She wasn’t the only one though.  On the floor, Spike was in his usual jeans and t-shirt, while the demon that hovered above him wore an outfit identical to the Slayer’s own.

“Get away from him, you bitch,” Buffy growled, straightening in spite of the pain in her limbs and neck.

The Soul Eater laughed, letting her fingers trace over the vampire’s cheeks, not even bothering to look up at the other woman.  “In due time, dark one,” she singsonged.  “Once we have been sated…”

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

Buffy’s nostrils flared as she took a step toward Spike and the Soul Eater.  “I said…get.  Your hands.  Off him.”  Though her eyes were fixed on the pair in black, recognition of her surroundings finally broke through her worry.  Her dream.  When she’d first been warned of the Soul Eaters.  This was the same place.

“Did you like what you saw?” the demon asked, ignoring the warning.  “Was it a pleasant experience for you?  My poor William.  So lost.  So tortured because he felt abandoned by those he’d sought to protect.”  Her blue gaze gleamed in the dark night sky as she looked up at the Slayer.  “He killed her, you know.  In front of his mother.  She tried begging for her life, and when that didn’t work, she tried using the child to influence him.  ‘Would you rid your sister of her mother as well?’ she cried out.  It was all far too melodramatic for words, let me tell you.  And then, when it was all over, darling mummy called him a monster and said that his actions were reprehensible.  Worse than anything his father had ever done.”  She laughed, and the crystal tones sliced into Buffy’s flesh.  “He ran then.  He couldn’t even bear to look at her, to see the disappointment in her face.  He loved her so much, and she betrayed him.  Well, that’s what he believed, at least.  It’s a shame you had to miss it, though, but then again, you wouldn’t have seen it anyway.  You would’ve been dead by that point.”

“Spike killed a lot of people before he got his chip,” the Slayer said tersely.  “Vampire, remember?”

“And that does not bother you?”

“I’m not exactly dancing in the aisles about it, but that doesn’t matter now.  He’s changed.  He’s…different.  And…why am I talking to you when I should be kicking your ass?”  She started to rush forward, only to stop when the Soul Eater’s hand clawed against Spike’s chest, fingers digging into the muscles as tiny droplets of blood began to bead the pale skin.

“Come any closer and I shall tear his heart out and eat it right before you,” the demon warned.

The threat worked, stilling the Slayer’s steps as she felt a gentle breeze begin wafting over her arms, resonating its gentle palpitations in synchronicity with her heartbeat.  Careful, she thought.  First step is to get that bitch away from Spike…

“He’s out for the count,” Buffy said out loud.  “You can help yourself to him any time.  Me, I’m just going to get more and more pissed off if you insist on messing with my boyfriend.  The smart thing would be to do me first, because let me tell you, you really don’t want to go all Bond villain on me.  I’ll kill you before you get to how you hatched your evil plot.”

The Soul Eater smiled, cruel, cold.  “You will get your turn,” it crooned.  “And you mustn’t worry.  My William will still be here when we are done.”

OK, not what she was expecting to hear.  “What’s that?” she asked with a frown. 

“Vampire, remember?”  The demon’s tone was a mockery of the Slayer’s own words.  “He hardly needs his soul to subsist.  Of course, he won’t exactly be William, either, or Spike for that matter.  He’ll be more like…”  There was a pause, as its eyes flickered away, searching for the memory.  “…Kralik?  Was that the creature’s name?  The one your Council sought to test you with?”

Dread settled in Buffy’s stomach, weighing her spirits.  “How do you know about him?”

“You forget.  We have been a part of your dreams as well, Slayer.  Shared in your memories.  We know as much about you as we do about my William.”

“Stop calling him that!  His name is Spike!  And he is not yours.  Not if I have anything to say about it.”  She couldn’t think about what the Soul Eater might do to him.  All Buffy knew was that she had to put a stop to this once and for all.

It laughed.  “But, my darling Slayer,” it said, “how can you stop us if you are not here…?”

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

The explosion embedded shards of the gourd’s shell in Giles’ hands, shredding his palms so that rivulets of blood dripped to the earthen floor of the cave.  Dawn’s scream registered just moments later, and he turned his body, a grimace of pain contorting his face, to see Cortina and Dolly off in the distance.  Anger quickly replaced discomfort, and the Watcher dropped the remains of the gourd to the ground.

“What in blue blazes have you done?” he demanded from Dolly.

“The spell,” Willow said, rising to her feet.  Her wide eyes were darting between the pair of newly arrived demons and Giles.  “I didn’t finish it.”

He held up his bleeding hands for her to see.  “I am well aware of that,” he said tightly before his furious blue gaze slid back to stare down Dolly.  “I told you not to go get her.  Do you have any idea what you have done here?”

The smell of copper hung in the air, surging Cortina forward to stand before the Englishman.  Taking his hands in hers, she quickly scanned the slivered flesh.  “We need to get this attended to,” she said, lifting her eyes to look at him.  “Let Dolly get Buffy and Spike out of here, while I---.”

“Giles?”

The sound of his Slayer’s voice both chilled the Watcher’s bones and accelerated his pulse in excitement as he looked back over his shoulder to see Buffy struggling to sit up.  A tired hand rubbed at her eyes as Tara scooped her arm behind her back, assisting in the final few inches.

“Thank god,” he muttered, and pulled away from Cortina, heedless of the injuries to his hands as he rushed to the side of the bed.  “Buffy, are you all right?”

“I’m…”  She didn’t finish the thought, her hazel gaze landing on the pale form of the still-sleeping vampire beside her.  All remnants of her sleep vanished from her body as memories of the dream and the position she’d left them in came rushing back.  Ignoring the others, her hands shot out, grasping him firmly by the shoulders.  “Spike!” she called, shaking him.  “Wake up!  C’mon!”

“Buffy, it’s all right.”  Giles’ voice was calm, and he had to fight the instinct to reach out and pull her away, his own blood beginning to trickle down his wrists.  “Dolly is here now.  We’ll merely teleport you away---.”

“It’s too late for that!”  He wasn’t moving, and somehow, the Slayer knew that nothing she was going to be able to do was going to rouse him from the deep slumber.  Something was wrong with him, something because of the magic, and now he was helpless to defend himself.  “That bitch is there, and she’s already got him.  Or is starting to get him.  Taking him away now isn’t going to do anything but leave his soul behind for her to snack on.”

“What are you talking about?”

She shook her head, laying back down on the bed.  One hand traced the pale outline of his muscled arm, the worry darkening the grey-green of her eyes into a summer storm at sea.  “He was still unconscious when I woke up.  I think it’s part of whatever broke Willow’s spell.  God, and she was there, and she was back in control, and she kept making these threats.”  Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them spill, turning her head to look at her Watcher.  “I have to go back to sleep.  I’m going to end this.  Here.  Now.”

He knew there would be no arguing with her, and sighed, his shoulders slumping.  “Cortina will have to leave again,” he said quietly.  “I will put you under myself this time.”

She couldn’t help the relief that flooded her face.  “Good,” Buffy said.  “Because I’ve had just about enough of the angst-fest as I can handle.  If I’d had to watch one more hour---.”

“What are you talking about?” Willow interrupted.  “You and Spike have only been asleep ten, fifteen minutes.”

Buffy shook her head.  “No way.  I had to sit through that whole party, bored out of my mind, and then there was the stairs, and the fire, and…no.  There’s no way all that crap happened in ten minutes.”

“They were dreams,” Giles explained.  “They don’t occur in real time.  They’re condensed, and while it may feel like days may have passed, in actuality, it’s only a few seconds, or minutes even.”

“Does that mean…you…haven’t done anything about Mom yet?”  Buffy let her gaze slide to Dawn’s, and frowned when the teenager gave her an almost imperceptible shake of her head in denial.  “But there’s still time…right?”

“Yes, but not very much.  Our window is closing.”

For the first time, she seemed to notice her Watcher’s wounds.  “When did you get hurt?”

The look he shot Dolly was venomous.  “When Willow’s attempt to cease the spell she’d cast for Spike was interrupted,” he explained.  “I’m fine.”

The tiny squeak that escaped Dawn’s mouth interrupted them, and Buffy turned her head just in time to see the scratches appear out of nowhere on Spike’s chest, invisible claws digging into his flesh to leave scarlet trails in their wake.  Her breath hitched in her chest, fear of losing him gripping her in its thrall before resolve kicked itself back in.

“OK,” she said, and her voice was firm, no evidence of her anxiety showing.  “This is what we’re going to do.”  She looked at Willow.  “You need to put me under again---.”

“No, not Willow,” Giles interjected.

“Yeah, not Willow,” the redheaded witch concurred.  “I’ve made a big enough mess of things as it is.  I’m not feeling one hundred percent okie-dokie about not screwing this up even worse.”

“No, it has to be you,” the Slayer explained.  “I need you to arm me this time, though.  When I left, it was just me, Spike, the Soul Eater, and one lonely honking mountain.  I’m not going back there without a weapon of some sort.”

“I can do that,” Giles argued.

“You have to get fixed up ASAP,” Buffy said.  “Because you, Tara, and Dawn have to do the spell to get Mom back.”

“Me?”  For the first time since returning to the caves, the teenager brightened.  “I get to help?”

“It requires three, right?”  She waited for Giles to nod.  “Then, yeah.  You get to help, Dawn.”  Her eyes drifted to Cortina, who still stood at the foot of the bed.  “You’re going to have to go away again.”

The Vrolek nodded.  “I know.  I’m so sorry---.”

“Don’t be.”  Buffy’s face softened.  “If Willow’s spell hadn’t gotten stopped when it did, things were about to get pretty uncomfortable for me there.  And I think Spike would be more than a little upset if they’d gone much further, too.”  She didn’t want to think about how badly the vampire was going to feel as it was, knowing that he’d been responsible for what harm had befallen her.  Right now, she just had to concentrate on getting him back, safe and sound.

Taking a deep breath, the Slayer stretched back onto the mattress.  “Let’s do it.”

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

It was the same as she’d left---the knolls dotted with flowers bending slightly in the wind, the dark clouds beginning to roll in across the midnight sky---with a single exception.

Spike and the Soul Eater were gone.

“No,” she breathed, the lone word floating away from her on the air, echoing into the breeze in infinite cries, and she began turning in place, her gaze searching the horizon for any sign of where they might be.  She couldn’t be too late.  Though the wounds to his chest had worsened before she’d left, Spike had still been very much there, not a pile of dust.  Except, hadn’t the creature said that devouring the vampire’s soul wouldn’t kill him?  Merely madden him, turn him into a crazed demon who probably would thrive on the pain the chip would provide when he tried to feed.  Not good. 

But she wasn’t going to consider that possibility.  The Soul Eaters hadn’t entered the caves yet; Dolly was adamant about that.  And there’d been no telltale odor like there had been when she’d encountered them in her home upon finding her mother’s body.  No.  She was going to go on the belief that Spike was still all right.  Well, relatively all right, considering the pain he was probably in.  For his sake, Buffy hoped that he was still unconscious.  At least then, he could be oblivious to what was happening to him.

Finishing the circle, Buffy found herself staring back in the direction she’d arrived in, and her face immediately grew angry when she saw the portly figure of the guide who’d led her through Spike’s memories standing before her.  A sword dangled from his hand.  “You!” she spat, and before she could even think, her foot lashed out, connecting solidly with his chest, sending him reeling to the ground with the weapon flying from his grasp.

She stopped, frowning.  She hadn’t been able to attack him before.  Something was different.

He didn’t seem fazed as he lumbered back to his feet, but there was no smile on his bland face.  “You are a very willful young woman,” he said.  “Do you always hit first, ask questions later?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I believe you requested to be armed.”  He leaned over, picking up the sword that he’d dropped before holding it out to her.  “I am delivering your weapon.”

“Oh.”  Buffy frowned as she took it.  “But…you were the one who was all messenger guy during Spike’s dream.  I’m not back in it somehow, am I?”

“No.  I’m merely the manifestation of the magic that has been used on you by Miss Rosenberg.”

With a roll of her eyes, the Slayer shook her head.  “She couldn’t have manifested you as Brad Pitt?  Remind me to have a talk with her when I get out of here.”

Around them, the wind began to quicken, lifting the ends of Buffy’s hair to swirl gently across her cheek.  “You must hurry,” the messenger said.  “They near.”

“Hurrying’s great and all, but in case you haven’t noticed, Willow messed up again.  Spike’s not around here---.”  She never got to finish the sentence.  A clap of thunder almost completely coincided with the brilliant lightning that cleaved the air, startling the Slayer into looking up into the sky.  The clouds now completely covered the heavens, and she could feel the first faint drops of rain begin to fall, peppering her bare arms in hundreds of tiny pinpricks.  By the time she lowered her head again, the messenger was gone.

But she wasn’t alone.

It had abandoned the form of Spike’s mother, and now hung in the air before her, solid and yet not, neither male nor female, its palsied features accentuated by the ebony pools that glittered back at her.  At its feet, the vampire was crumpled into a heap, blood running in crimson stripes across his now-naked form, beginning to wash away with the onslaught of the rain.

“You are persistent,” the Soul Eater said.  “But your efforts are futile.”

“I don’t think so,” Buffy said tightly.  She raised the sword.  “Something tells me you might be partial to a little slice and dice.”

“Though I think you’re foolish, I must to admit to admiring your bravery.  It will sustain us for quite some time, I believe.”

She was tired of its little word games, and launched herself forward, soaring over Spike’s body to thrust the blade through the shoulder of the Soul Eater.  It was more solid than it appeared.  The sword cut clean through, sending both of them tumbling away from the vamp, and Buffy felt a shower of whatever the creature’s blood spray against her face, mingling with the rain there.

Clutching its shoulder, the demon rose to its feet, black eyes staring at her in pained surprise.  “How?” it hissed.  “What is this?”

Buffy stood.  “It’s called pain,” she said.  “And it’s something you’re about to become very well acquainted with.”

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

Willow watched as the trio huddled around Joyce’s body.  She regretted not being able to be a direct part of it, but Buffy had needed to get back into the dreams as quickly as possible, and with Giles needing medical attention, there was no other option.  Still, her part was hefty, and she knew it.  It was just pointless wishing she could be everything for everybody.

Their voices were a murmur in the closeness of the cave, rising in volume as the winds that whipped around outside began to beat against the roof.  It had found a way inside, and the first hints of a breeze were beginning to lift the ends of their hair, fear creeping into their thoughts as they fought to rescue Joyce’s soul before it was too late.  Just because the children of the wind were after Buffy and Spike, didn’t mean that they might not decide to help themselves to the others while they were at it.  They just might be in the mood for an hor doeuvre before the main superhero course.

A blue glow began to form around Joyce’s corpse, vibrating in rhythm with the chanting, growing to a swell that encircled the quartet.  Their words never stopped, never slowed, but even from where she was sitting next to the bed, Willow could see the excitement in the youngest Summers’ body, her eyes glowing brightly in anticipation, her breathing quickening.

On the bed, Buffy twitched in her sleep, capturing the witch’s attention for a moment.  Her gaze flickered to the wounds that now marred Spike’s flesh.  The scratches had been joined by a series of burns along his arms, and though she was worried about his welfare, part of her was also relieved because nothing showed yet on the Slayer.  She figured that had to be good.  Unless it meant that Buffy hadn’t reached wherever Spike was.  Then…

Even as she thought it, though, the tiny line of crimson appeared along the young blonde’s brow, dripping down her temple to stain the pillowcase beneath her head.

Crap.  Spoke too soon.  OK, thought too soon.  Still…crap.

Behind her, the chanting stopped, and Willow tore her gaze to look back and see the blue darken to black, surging in a dangerous swell that knocked the three spellcasters to their backs.  Unconsciously, she jumped to her feet, but even before she was completely vertical, the glow was gone.

Dawn was the first to react, scrambling to her feet to gaze down at her mother.  She waited, wide blue eyes scanning the body, looking for a sign—anything---that would tell them that it worked.  Color…same, still ashen.  Eyes…same, still closed.  Chest…same, still still. 

Wait. 

Not still. 

She found herself holding her breath, riveted to staring at her mother’s upper body, waiting for it to recur.

Seconds passed.

And there it was again.

The movement up.  And down.

Joyce Summers was breathing on her own.

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

She had managed to get it distanced from Spike’s still immobile body, and the pair fought in the rain, the Slayer armed, the Soul Eater not.  Only once had the demon made contact with the coldly focused Buffy, and the blood that now ran from the gash in her forehead colored her gray world in scarlet, clinging tenuously to her eyelashes before either a blink or the rain drove it away.

The Soul Eater was not as fortunate.  It had been unaware of its ability to be hurt within the dream, and even the first attack by the Slayer had not put it completely on the defensive.  Buffy had taken advantage of that, the sword slicing through the air in savage strokes that left screams of the creature’s pain in its wake, driving her foe back, farther from Spike, weakening it with every blow.  She had yet to strike the fatal one, though, the weather doing its best to even the playing field, even if it didn’t realize it.

“Be thankful you’re not playing dress-up in Spike’s mom anymore,” Buffy said as she rolled out of the way of one of the Soul Eater’s kicks.  “Because after everything that’s happened tonight, I’m having some serious aggression issues when it comes to her.  You’re getting off pretty lucky.”  Her hair had fallen over her cheek, but she was oblivious to the annoyance.  She had only one goal at the moment, and personal grooming just didn’t factor into it.

“Wouldn’t that be apropos,” the Soul Eater snarled.  “Although perhaps you would like this one better?”

It shimmered in the air, and Buffy hesitated as the familiar shape of Joyce appeared before her, the wounds she’d inflicted now marring the flesh of the woman who bore her, the anguish of torture screwing up her classical features.  “No,” she whispered.  “You’re not her.  I’m not going to let you do this.”

“Buffy…please…”  It was Joyce’s voice, and the first time the demon had invoked the Slayer’s true name, turning it into an entreaty that made her attack falter.  “You kill me and we can never be together again.”

“Not…true…” she replied through gritted teeth.  Except with it looking like her mother, she was no longer sure she could fight it.  Not after everything that had happened.  Could she be the one to strike her down dead?

Except it’s not her, luv, she could hear Spike saying in her head.

It wasn’t really him, she knew that.  His unconscious form was still sprawled in the grass, soaked through from the storm, and they’d never been able to communicate that way inside their dreams.  But she knew him well enough to know that’s what he would say if he was up.  He would be there, standing at her right arm, helping her when she needed help, guiding her when she needed guidance, stepping back when she needed to step forward.  And he would not want her to give up now.

“Not her,” she repeated and sent out a silent plea to her friends back at Cortina’s that they had had enough time to attempt the resurrection spell.

One last look.  Lock the bitch’s position in her head.  Memorize it.

Focus.

She closed her eyes, and letting her Slayer senses take over, lunged forward, feeling the sword sink into the soft flesh of the creature before her, shattering bone, slicing sinew, sucking at her arm as the weight impaled on the blade sagged to the ground.

Eyes open.

Focus.

Blink to clear the rain…the blood from her vision.

And see the palsied face of the Soul Eater staring up into the clouded heavens, the black eyes now dull, its blood flowing freely from the extensive wound in its chest.

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

Chapter 35: From the Dim Verge of the Horizon

The dust of the desert swirled in miniature cyclones from the forces of the wind, lifting and falling with its silent screams in a tango that seemed to never end. All life had scattered, driven to shelter by the storm, cowering in fear from the monsters it housed. Even the stars had hidden behind the gray cumulus coating the sky.

They were hungry. The children of the wind had been denied satisfaction for longer than they had anticipated, and they were tired of waiting. In angry swoops, they perforated the earth, sometimes ignoring the passageways into the caverns that sheltered the two they sought, using whatever ingress necessary to reach their repast, heedless of the damage they caused along the way.

This would be no delicate supper. This would be a ravenous feast, and they would devour those who attempted to fight back until only husks were left.

This was the goal.

This was their right.

This was…

When it came, the wind seemed almost to hesitate, unsure all of a sudden as to which direction it should take. Pain, the dark one called it. New. Not pleasant, and…how was this possible?

The eddies began again, manic from an unaccustomed fear that succor would be denied, but its strength was lessened, as if something, someone, somewhere, somewhen, were draining the forces it needed to continue. Another break, and the storm seemed to falter, the rain slowing to a gentle patter that coaxed the desert earth into submission, the thunder rolling away into the distance.

And then…

Silence.

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

Feeling the air moving across their skin inside the cave was eerie, and each of the grotto’s inhabitants---those that were awake, at least---felt their hearts begin pumping harder in response to the encroaching threat. There was no more magic to be done. Joyce was alive, if not conscious. Buffy and Spike were asleep, presumably still battling with the dream form of the Soul Eaters. And the rest of them waited, hoping against hope that they would not be forced to run should the children of the wind get too near.

Dolly was the first to notice. Her head whipped to the side, eyes staring into the bowels of the cave, sniffing at the air like a dog on the hunt before the muscles in her shoulders relaxed. “It’s done,” she murmured, a hint of surprised respect creeping into her words. “Son of a bitch, the little Slayer actually did it.”

Giles picked up on her speech, and turned from his vantage point next to Buffy, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “What did you…” he started to ask, only to cut himself off as the air in the cavern went calm.

“They’re gone,” Willow breathed. She slumped in her perch at the bed, breasts heaving slightly from the nervous panting she couldn’t seem to stop, the tension suddenly expelled from her lungs as recognition that everything was all right sank into her consciousness. “It’s over, isn’t it?”

He wanted to believe, but Giles’ gaze swept back to his charge lying asleep on the mattress. A new bruise had formed on her cheek, joining the gash that had bled into her hair, yet she seemed to be sleeping peacefully, her body motionless where it curled protectively against the inert vampire at her side. “Are you certain they’re gone, Dolly?” he asked. When the demon nodded her head, his own bowed, his eyes fluttering closed, and the deepest of sighs escaped his lips. “Fetch Cortina, please,” he quietly requested.

With the Soul Eaters gone, there remained two courses of action before them. He had promised Cortina to do whatever she wished in rescuing her children from the Council’s control, but first, he had to wait.

He needed to see Buffy waken with his own eyes.

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

She’d killed enough demons over the past few years to know when one was dead or not, but just to be sure, Buffy knelt down, searching the Soul Eater’s body for any sign of life, wondering if she dared to trust her own eyes enough to walk away from it.

A minute passed, and then another, and the wind that had been whipping around her disappeared, to be replaced by a satisfying calm that stroked the Slayer’s skin like a mother’s caress. Firmly, she grasped the hilt of the sword that still protruded from the Soul Eater’s chest, pulling it away with a sucking sound that was lost in the easing rain.

Still nothing. She was calling this one dead.

The wet grass tickled her ankles as she ran to Spike’s side, dropping to her knees so that she could run worried hands over his tortured flesh, hovering, afraid to touch lest the contact would make things worse. Burns adorned his arms, marks from some brand of torment the hellbitch had inflicted while Buffy had been awake for that brief period of time, but those didn’t worry her as much as the fact that the vampire was still out cold.

“Spike,” she whispered, thin fingers tracing the bones of his unmarked face. “You are going to be so pissed you slept through the grand finale. OK, technically, we both did, but…you know what I mean.” There was no response. “C’mon. Wake up now. You can’t watch my back with your eyes shut.”

There was not even a flicker that he’d heard her. Rain pelted his brow, dripping onto his dark lashes, and she had to resist the urge to bend down and kiss the beads away.

“Spike,” she repeated, a little louder, a little more frightened. “Stop fucking around. I didn’t do all this to lose you, too.” Please, she added silently, as the tears began to swell in her eyes. I need you. Wake up…

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

“…wake up.” Her lids lifted, stone sliding up on of its own accord, and she was staring into the shadows of Spike’s neck, her body pressed against his side, that earthy smell that clung to his skin saturating her senses like a rich red wine. From behind her, Giles’ voice was a reassuring whisper, familiar and comfortable like a well-worn security blanket coveted from her youth. She felt suddenly old, and closed her eyes again, tightening her arms around the sleeping vampire.

“You don’t have to do this,” Cortina was saying. “With the information we got from Travers, Dolly and I can handle it on our own. You need to stay here with Buffy. I know you want to.”

“The Soul Eaters are gone. You’ve confirmed that. The threat to Buffy is---.”

“Gone, Giles.” Her voice was small, almost muffled against Spike’s neck, but it cut through the Watcher’s conversation as cleanly as if she’d yelled. She felt his hand not quite touch her, the heat from his palm radiating into her skin, and sighed. “And I’m fine. You should help Cortina. There’s no telling what the Council might pulling.”

“What happened? I assume---.”

“Can we do the show and tell on this later?” she asked, turning her head just enough to gaze up at him with weary eyes. “Unless there’s something I’m missing.” She waited for him to say something but was met with an uncomfortable silence. “Is there something I’m missing?”

Cortina’s hand squeezed reassuringly around Giles’ forearm, coaxing him to speak. “No,” he finally managed. “Nothing.” The smile he gave her was tight, but the relief that shone behind his spectacles was unmistakable. “I’m just glad…you’re all right.”

“So go. Time’s a-wasting. I’ll be here when you get back.” Buffy didn’t wait for a response, instead curling back into Spike’s body, raining the lightest of feather kisses across the harsh line of his clavicle as her eyes lit on the scratches ravaged across his chest. She barely heard them leave behind her, or see Dolly sweep by the end of the bed. It was only when Dawn came to sit in the spot Willow had vacated that she tore her gaze away.

“The spell worked,” the teenager said softly. “We think. Mom’s…not actually awake. But she’s breathing, and that’s important, right? I mean, a breathing Mom is most definitely better than a non-breathing Mom.” Her blue eyes settled on Spike. “I wish I could’ve seen you guys kick that Soul Eater’s ass. I bet Spike---.”

“He wasn’t there, Dawnie,” Buffy said. “He was completely out of it while I fought the thing.”

All of a sudden, Willow appeared behind Dawn, her brow creased into a frown. “Still?” she asked. “Did he get knocked out, or was he---?”

“I haven’t seen him awake since we were doing our little trip down memory nightmare lane.” Her eyes were moist as she rested her head, sweeping over the strong profile before lingering on the dark lashes, so long, so still, against the pale marble of his cheeks. “Where are you, Spike?” she murmured. “I miss you. Come home.”

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

It felt like he’d been set on fire as he stumbled up the stairs, his hand gripping the post, fingers digging into the wood so tightly that splinters drove their way into the soft flesh under his nails. He just wanted comfort, something to ease away the pain. Why Spike thought he could find that on the front porch of the Summers’ house was beyond comprehension.

Must still be part of the dream, he thought as he slumped against the jamb. But that didn’t make sense. The dream had been about…

And his flesh crawled as he remembered the feel of Buffy’s neck within his grasp, his powerlessness as he’d watched his newly-turned self taunt and torture the young woman. It was exactly what he’d feared when he’d first heard his father address her at the house, and though nothing had happened, though something had stopped the power of the dream before he could do any real physical damage, the shame that she had been hurt at his hands burned worse than the torture that hellbitch had inflicted afterward. He had no doubts that Buffy would hate him when he walked out of this. Or waked out of this, rather. How could she not? She knew the truth now. She knew that nothing in him was good, never had been.

His hand was on the knob, ready to open it and let himself inside, when it turned within his grasp, revealing the smiling face of Joyce just on the other side of the threshold. “Are you just planning on standing out on the porch all night?” she asked. “The hot chocolate I made is going to be lukewarm chocolate if you don’t get in here.”

He followed when she turned away, shrugging out of his duster along the path to the kitchen---when the hell had he gotten that back?---and inhaled the comforting aroma of cocoa and sugar that coated the familiar space. Without even thinking, he dropped his coat over the back of a chair before hopping onto the counter, exposing to her view the multiple burns that lacerated his arms.

Joyce grimaced in sympathetic pain as she handed over the steaming mug. “Those look like they sting,” she commented.

Spike shot them a glance before nodding. “Got a touch for the torture, she does. I’d almost be impressed if it didn’t hurt so soddin’ much.”

“Try dying and having your soul get gnawed on for a couple days,” she replied. “It kind of puts my getting annoyed at Buffy and Dawn for bickering all the time into perspective.”

They shared a quiet chuckle before sipping at their drinks, Spike’s gaze downcast as he mulled over this change in his dream’s venue. “Buffy misses you,” he finally said softly. All right, so this Joyce was just a figment of his imagination, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t use the opportunity to try and convey some of what had been going on with his Slayer since finding her mother dead. Or what had been going on with him because he sure as hell had missed the elder Summers lady as well.

“She misses you, too.”

Not the response he was expecting. Spike’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Not makin’ much sense here, Joyce. Me and Buffy split paths just a few minutes ago. Don’t know why, but it’s probably for the best seein’ as…” He shook his head. No. He wasn’t going to think about that right now. “Never mind. Point is, I’m not the one who’s dead.”

“Yes, you are.” The serious look on her face couldn’t hold, however, and she almost immediately burst out into laughter. “Spike, I’m kidding. You’re a vampire, remember? Being dead is part of the package.”

Relief flooded his system. For a split second, he’d flashed that he actually was dead, and this was some kind of afterworld, not heaven, not hell, but somewhere in between and Joyce was his own personal Charon. “You almost had me there,” he said with a smile. “Nice to know you still have your sense of humor, even if this is only a dream---.”

“Oh, this isn’t a dream, Spike,” she replied. “I meant what I said. She really is missing you. I heard her say so.”

“You couldn’t bloody well hear her. You’re dead.”

“I was dead.” She smiled. “I’m not anymore.”

“Wait…” The resurrection spell…his torture by the Soul Eater…his separation from Buffy now…she’d done it. He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. His Slayer had actually done it. No more Soul Eaters and Joyce back to boot. Certainly called for a celebration.

“What happened?” He was suddenly too excited to drink the coca, letting his cold fingers curl around the warm mug as his eyes searched Joyce’s face. “You said you heard her?”

“I can hear all of them,” Joyce explained. “Willow’s there, and Dawn, and I heard Rupert for awhile, but he stopped talking not long after Buffy woke up.”

“So, what’s with the séance here? Did something happen to me? S’that why you’re sayin’ this nonsense about Buffy missing me?”

“It’s not nonsense.” She stepped forward, leaning against the counter next to the vampire. “And it’s not a séance. That would require one of us being awake, and as far as I can tell, it’s not yet time for that for us.”

“But you said you could hear them. Or is that just some line you’re feedin’ me to keep me out of the loop.” He stiffened. “Maybe you’re just that Soul Eater and you’re tryin’ a new tactic. Wouldn’t be the first time it tried looking like you.” Except even as he said it, Spike didn’t believe it was actually a possibility. This Joyce was nothing like the Joyce from the playground. He could see it in her eyes. This was his Joyce. Funny, how he considered all the Summers women his.

“Look, Spike…” And it was the tone of her voice, that gentle roll of her words that felt like a warm arm around his shoulders, that caused his eyes to flutter shut, his head to bow. “I’m not sure what exactly Willow did to you. They’re not…talking details. Just…I guess something went wrong.”

The vampire snorted. “One of these days, I’m goin’ to remember that askin’ for Red’s help in a magic spell never leads to anything good. Little witch got me and the Slayer stuck in…” Flashes from the past---Buffy’s face stained with smoke as they stood outside his burning house, her eyes wide as she gulped for air when he’d pinned her to the wall---choked the words in his throat. Wasn’t Red’s fault, as much as he would like to lay the blame for it at the feet of her hocus-pocus. It was his, for asking in the first place. For not having the nerve to just tell Buffy. For fearing that she’d go back to seeing him as a monster.

“She loves you, you know. You should hear her now.” Joyce smiled. “This probably sounds awful, but I’m feeling rather proud of myself at the moment. I’ve raised a pretty darn special girl there.”

“That she is,” he murmured, but he still couldn’t lift his head to look at her.

“I know you think it’s going to be rough when you wake up,” she continued, “but it’s only going to be bad if you let it. Buffy trusts you, and more importantly, she believes in you.” She nudged him slightly with her shoulder. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt you so much to believe in her just a little bit.”

His head jerked up, eyes blazing. “I do---.”

“Then stop trying to turn this into a one-man pity party. I know that sounds harsh, and I know things were…rough for you…for both of you in those dreams---.”

“How could you…you know about those?”

“I was there. Kind of. It’s…confusing.” Slowly, Joyce sipped at her hot chocolate, eyes soft as they gazed into nothing. “While they had me, it was like I could experience what they were experiencing. So, I saw what happened to you. What your mother...what she said. What she did.” She shook her head. “You can’t blame yourself for the things she said, Spike. Women in abusive relationships can’t always see it for what it is.” In an attempt to lighten the mood, the smile she gave him was wide. “I’ve watched enough Lifetime television to know that. Heck, I’d bet you’ve watched enough Lifetime to know that.”

“Just Passions. That’s the only thing that goes on my telly,” he said defensively, but her slight gibe was already easing his worry, his shoulders relaxing as the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Uh huh, yeah, right.”

“So…if that’s for real then, and Red managed to snatch you back for Buffy and the Bit…what the hell are you doing standing here gabbing to my sorry ass?” He was too tired to continue trying to delude himself that this wasn’t the real Joyce. Everything about her screamed authentic at him and even if he didn’t understand just what was going on, it didn’t mean he had to be a bear about it to her face. He was in her house, after all, and she’d only ever been nice to him there. No axe-wielding of any kind had ever happened inside Casa de Summers. Well, none from the matriarch aimed at his head at least.

“I’m not ready to wake up yet,” she said simply. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to recover from dying?” Joyce chuckled. “I just realized I get to join the club. Do you and Buffy have cards or something for it?” Her amusement grew at the baffled expression on his face. “The coming back from the dead club,” she elaborated. “You came back as a vampire. Buffy came back after the Master tried drowning her. But I’m going to put my foot down about Dawn joining. I think that’s enough death in the family, don’t you?”

Spike smiled. He’d known he missed Joyce, but…god, he really had missed her. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Buffy’s face when she realized her mom was back, that she was going to get a chance to go on with her life as before, before soul eating demons had decided to chow down on what was nearest and dearest to her. For a brief moment, he forgot about his own worry that she was going to turn on him, imagining the four of them as a unit---hadn’t Joyce included him in her little family description?---and then reality came crashing back, his eyes dropping to his cooling chocolate.

“So why’m I here?” he asked. “If you’re workin’ on patching up your soul before you have to face the lion den, what in soddin’ heaven am I doin’ taking up your precious time?”

“Because you’re healing, too.” Her answer stunned him. “And the way I figure it, home is the best place for that to happen.” Taking his cup from his hands, she turned in her place and dumped its contents out into the sink, rinsing it out under the running tap. “I’m going to get you a fresh cup. We’ve got so much to talk about and really not that much time.”

“I thought…you said…”

“You’re going to be waking up soon,” Joyce explained. “Believe it or not, you’ve done a lot of the work on your own. I just thought you might like a little company while you finished up the job.” All of a sudden, the mug in her hand steamed, filled to the brim with velvety chocolate, a sprinkling of tiny marshmallows scattered across the top. His hands shook slightly as he took it from her, and the vampire lifted his eyes, his head tilting quizzically as he searched her kind face.

“I like you, Spike,” she said quietly. “Buffy loves you. And Dawn, well, Dawn worships the ground you walk on, so don’t be taking advantage of that or I’m going to be investing in another axe. But---and you have no idea how weird this is for me to say this---you’re family. And family looks after each other. And so I plan on hanging out here for as long as you need.”

Spike shook his head. “You Summers women will never cease to amaze me,” he commented. “You do realize you’ve got bloody awful taste in men, don’t you? Buffy, especially. First Angel, then that prat from the college…then Finn…hell, textbook tosser there if I ever saw one…and now me. I’m not worth it, you know. Wasn’t worth it when I was alive, and sure as hell not worth it now.”

“I thought we weren’t having the pity party.”

“It’s not pity. It’s truth.”

Joyce sighed. “OK, so maybe you’re not quite as ready to go back as I thought. Just…know this, Spike. You have such capacity in you for good, whether you want to admit to it or not. I know, evil, I get that…but Buffy sees it, and Dawn sees it, and I saw it first, if you care to think back,” she added with a wry smile. “Truth is what you make it. If you spend all your time chasing after ghosts instead of focusing on the here and now, the only thing you’re going to be left with is air. You can’t change what happened, but you can learn from it. And you’re a smart man. Think about what actually happened. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong before?”

Each word was like a satin bandage laid gently over his bleeding wounds. “I still stand by Buffy’s track record,” he said, trying to joke, trying to see this through eyes that weren’t blinded by tears. “Bloody awful taste.”

“That, I’m afraid, is my fault,” she replied with a smile. “It’s in the genes. Did I ever tell you about the time I dated a robot…?”

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

He was almost more nervous now than he had been waiting to see if Buffy would wake up.  Seeing the two demons---two children, he had to remind himself---trapped within the stasis of the crystal, Giles couldn’t help but feel the familiar sense of helplessness wash over him as he heard Cortina’s sharp intake of breath from near the door.

“You mustn’t approach until I have dissolved the field,” he reminded her, a quick glance at her thrown over his shoulder renewing his wish that he could take her into his arms just one more time before doing this.  “Until the crystals are in proximity of each other, you’re still in danger from its properties.”

“I know.”  Her voice was hushed, her pale eyes locked on the pair at the center of the room.  It didn’t seem real, to be standing there, about to take the children she’d thought she’d never see again back into her life.  Well, hopefully, back into her life.  Part of her was terrified that once the protective field that had been sustaining them this past century was gone, they would disintegrate before her eyes, and she’d be left alone again, unable to even give them one last good-bye because they would be gone, scattered as dust to the air like a memory incapable of being grasped.

She wasn’t the only one frightened.  As he approached the children with the crystal hanging loosely at his side, Giles’ anxiety was betrayed by the faintest of tremors in his hand.  This was so far from any reality he’d imagined for himself.  Yes, he loved Cortina, and yes, he wanted her happy no matter what the cost, but what could he possibly contribute to her future, if she was fortunate enough to be able to share it with her progeny?  She’d been so insistent on his power to do good for them, but he was not so convinced.  He could barely guide Buffy at the best of times, and she was human; how would he fare with two children who weren’t?

They seemed so peaceful as he stopped at the edge of the beds, youth captured forever in innocence lost, and Giles felt the knot within his stomach loosen.  Just children.  Nothing to fear.  The hand with the crystal rose, hovered over the crackle of the stasis field, and slowly lowered again to rest it upon its companion on the dais between the Vroleks.

The dissolution of the magic came with a small spray of silvery sparks, scattering to the floor in a delicate shower that vanished at the first contact.  From behind him, a gurgled cry came from Cortina’s throat, and he heard her rush forward, joining him at the bedsides, leaning over to automatically scoop the form of the young boy into her arms.  He couldn’t see her face, but he knew if he could, it would be streaked with tears, her small frame rocking gently against the mattress.

He turned his attention to the other child, the young girl, and watched as the fragile rise and fall of her chest hitched for a moment, causing his own heart to constrict momentarily, before beginning its up and down motion again.  Alive.  She was alive.  Quentin had been wrong.  She seemed to be breathing satisfactorily on her own, and gently, Giles leaned forward, a long hand reaching to smooth back the hair from her forehead.

The contact of skin meeting skin was compounded by the careful lifting of the young girl’s eyelids, excruciatingly slow as if weighed down by her years of slumber.  There was a moment of blankness, but almost immediately, cognizance lit her from within, locking on the face of the man above her.

The Watcher froze, captured by her aspect.

She had Cortina’s eyes.  That could’ve been Cortina staring back at him.

And in the space of that single second, all his doubt fled on gossamer wings.

“We must get them out of here,” Giles murmured, unable to tear his gaze away from the child before him.  “I don’t trust Quentin’s claim that we won’t be in danger.”

From her vantage by the door, Dolly straightened.  “Where to?” she asked.

Cortina turned her head to see the Englishman carefully scoop the frail form of her daughter into his arms.  Their eyes locked, hers shimmering, his finally understanding, and the corner of her mouth lifted.  “I’d like to go home now,” she said softly.

“Home,” Giles repeated.  Both of them knew it wasn’t the location of it that mattered; it could’ve just as easily been Sunnydale as Cortina’s caves.  What mattered was that they would be going there together.  “Yes.  That sounds like an excellent idea.”

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

She had moved him into their old room at Cortina’s, waiting for him to awaken.  Willow had explained what exactly had happened while they’d been asleep, complete with Giles’ theory about their souls going into a sort of limbo, but Buffy had to admit that none of it really made any sense to her.  All she knew was that Spike was asleep, and she was awake, and she was less certain than ever that she was ever going to have him back again.

He wasn’t the only one still out of it.  Though Joyce was breathing, she remained in what resembled a coma, and Dawn was standing vigil at her side, waiting just as Buffy was, ready to alert anyone should the eldest Summers woman show signs of regaining consciousness.  They had known this would be a danger in trying the resurrection spell, and surprisingly enough, Dawn was handling it quite well, taking the burden of worry about their mother away from her older sister so that the Slayer could concentrate on Spike.  Not that that really worked for Buffy.  She was still deathly afraid for Joyce.  But, having someone else do the hovering for a change allowed her to be there for the vampire without fear of missing something should it happen.

It had been almost two days since Buffy had killed the Soul Eaters.  When Giles had returned with Cortina, the first thing he had done was go to his Slayer’s side, confirming she was all right, helping her in transporting Spike and Joyce to more comfortable quarters.  Though the urge to talk with him about what she had learned about Spike was great, Buffy stifled it, partly because she was reluctant to divulge the vampire’s secrets without his permission, partly because she saw his growing distance from her once he realized she was well.  Cortina’s children were awake, but frail, not speaking, and Giles very obviously wished to be at his lover’s side in tending to them.  So she let him, watched him hurry away, and felt an odd pang of sorrow as he did so, as if a door had been closed between them.

The first thing Buffy had done when it looked like Spike wouldn’t be waking soon was go to sleep herself, hoping that she could reach him within their dreams as she had done before.  It hadn’t worked.  Only everyday, normal dreams greeted the Slayer once she drifted away, and no amount of searching on her part revealed any sign of the vampire, conscious or not.

This is what frightened her more than anything.  Though she had latched on to the explanation that maybe the battle with the Soul Eaters had severed the connection they had shared, that that was why she couldn’t find him now, part of her dwelled on a different possibility, one much bleaker, one that shadowed her world in gray and forced her to consider what returning to the Hellmouth alone might be like. 

Perhaps there was nothing left there for her to find, she thought.  Perhaps the interruption of Willow’s spell destroyed the essence of Spike’s mind so that all I’m left with is this shell.  What would I do then?

So she waited, tending to his wounds until they were gone, talking to him as if he could hear every word she said, curling against him when she grew tired of just sitting there.  The touching almost made it worse, an aching reminder that what she missed was the spirit of the vampire, not his body, and wished that he would just open his eyes and say something horribly inappropriate to her, maybe chide her for being foolish, or drop a sexual innuendo about their current positions…anything.  She just needed to hear his voice.

When it came, it came as a whisper, the slightest of currents floating through the strands of her hair as she rested her head on his chest.  “You smell like rain,” Spike murmured, and moved for the first time in two days, lifting just enough to nuzzle the top of her head.

“Spike?” Buffy whispered, stiffening in disbelief against him.  Slowly, her neck twisted, turning to gaze back at the blond vampire, seeing his dark lashes seem even starker against his sunken cheeks, reminding her yet again that he hadn’t eaten in as long either.  She almost thought that she was hallucinating; it certainly wouldn’t have surprised her after everything that happened over the past few weeks.  But there he was, head moving almost imperceptibly as he drowned himself in her scent, and she felt her world begin to glow again with hope.

Almost afraid to try, Buffy opened her mind, allowing a tenuous filament to stretch into the darkness between them, and immediately was met by a glorious light, a vibrant dance of reds and oranges and yellows that burned into her retinas, making her blink even though it wasn’t tangible.  The link was still there, and somehow, stronger than before, and before she could even think, she had flipped herself around, smothering him with her body, burying her face in the hollow of his neck as she clung to him.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again!” she demanded, her voice muffled against his skin.

Spike chuckled.  “Good to see you, too, pet.”

Though his arms came up around her, Buffy could feel the weakness in his muscles, the tendons tremoring from the mild exertion, and carefully lifted herself away to look down at him.  “You need to eat something,” she said.  “You’ve been out of it for two days.”

“That it?”  His brow furrowed.  “Huh.  Would’ve sworn it felt like longer.”

“That would be whacked out dream-time for you,” she explained.  “Know all the memory stuff?  Only took about ten or fifteen minutes, according to Willow.”  As she started to push herself off, his arms tightened, stopping her motion.  Her hazel gaze was curious when she looked back at him.  “What?”

“Don’t go yet,” he said softly, eyes fathomless.  She could feel the gentle need rolling off him and softened as he added, “Food’s not nearly as important as us…talking.”

The question in her mind reached out and she saw him physically wince at the contact, lids fluttering closed as he rested his head back against the pillow.  “Know it’s easier that way, luv,” he said, “but can we not play at the head games for now?  Just a bit knackered, is all, and after everything…”  He let the thought trail off, knowing instinctively she would understand what he was referring to.

“Sure, whatever you say, Spike.”  Small teeth worried at her bottom lip as Buffy just watched him, perching her chin up on her hand as she felt his presence along the outskirts of her consciousness.  With his eyes closed, it would’ve been simple to mistake him for sleeping again, but the reassuring caress of his thoughts drifting around hers told her otherwise, lulling her into a fresh comfort that had escaped her for what seemed forever.  “What did you want to talk about?” she asked.

He took a long time to answer her, and she wondered if he was selecting his words, fearful that the wrong ones would provoke an unwanted response.  When he finally spoke, his eyes opened, blue boring into her with a gravity that could’ve been William’s, and she found herself musing on how much of the young Victorian remained within the vampire’s mind.

“I feel like a right prat for havin’ to ask,” Spike said, his tone solemn, “but…Red’s spell…I know it didn’t run its course like I expected and I’m sorry for that.  If I could go back and change it, I would.  But…what you saw…what I…what I did.”  His voice broke slightly as he stumbled over his words.  “Does it change anything?”

“You mean…do I still love you?”  The downcast of his lashes was the only affirmation she needed.  Gently, she lifted her free hand and began drawing imaginary letters along his bare chest.  “My feelings aren’t on tap like hot and cold water, you know.  I can’t just turn them on and off whenever I want.”

“But…what happened…it might color them.”  He paused.  “And I just need to know if---.”

“If anything, it makes me love you all the more,” she said.  And it was true.  She’d never have thought it possible before, but being alone with him over the past two days had given Buffy time to assimilate what had happened, and more than ever before, she found herself respecting the vampire for what he’d had to endure.  Some people took pain and used it as an excuse to turn themselves into monsters; others, like William, did what they could to make themselves stronger.  Though she doubted pre-vamp Spike would’ve agreed with her, she saw his attempts at creating beauty in the world admirable, his desires to assure the safety and happiness of those he cared about---even to his own detriment---worthy of deference. 

“What you had to go through,” she continued.  “I can’t even imagine how you were as strong as you were.  If my mom…”  She stopped, shook her head.  She didn’t want to have to think about Joyce at the moment.  It was Spike time.  He deserved her full attention.  “Not the point.  The point is, I didn’t see anything in your memories that shocked me any more than some of the other things you did, Spike.  I mean, knowing what you were feeling when you killed those other Slayers?”  She grimaced, her tiny nose wrinkling in distaste, her mouth a tiny moue as she tried to show him she was teasing.  “Just a tad higher on the ick factor, if you ask me.”

“That was different,” he argued.  “That was me, all evil and bein’ Mr. Vampire.  What you saw…that was William.  The man.  There’s no excuse for that.”

“William made a choice.  A pretty hard one.  And as far as I’m concerned, the right one.”

“How can you say that?  I killed my father, Buffy.”

“So did Angel.”

“But as a vampire.  I did it as a man.”  He was starting to get agitated.  “There’s a world of difference between the two, and don’t you go blinkering yourself into sayin’ there’s not.”

“I’m not.  But...innocent baby or violent sadist?  I don’t really see how you could’ve done it any other way.  I was there, remember?  There was no way you could’ve saved both of them.”  Buffy grabbed his chin, forcing his head to turn so that he had to look at her.  “I would’ve made the exact same choice.”

She expected the silence that followed her statement to have been uncomfortable, but for some reason, Spike accepted her words at face value, taking them in with the absorbency of a dry sponge and allowing them to calm his nerves.  “I killed Melly, you know,” he finally said softly.

“I know,” Buffy said. 

“How?”

“The Soul Eater told me when I was trying to kill her.  Not that that thrills me, but…I get it.  The why, I mean.”

“I didn’t touch…my sister.”

“I know that, too.  And it changes nothing, Spike.  I love you now, I’m going to love you tonight when we finally get to curl up and have a decent night’s sleep, and I’m going to love you tomorrow when the sun comes up.  Does that finally answer your question?”

His reply was a gentle kiss feathered across her brow, his hands sliding to her armpits to pull her up his body, stretching her out on top of him so that their eyes were level.  “I’m so sorry,” he murmured.

Buffy sighed, leaning her forehead against his.  “Stop apologizing.  You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”  Her lips brushed against his as her arms came up to curl around his shoulders.  Before she could deepen it, though, Spike had pulled himself away, forcing her to look at him as he spoke.

“Yeah, I do,” he said, and though he had protested earlier about exhaustion preventing him from allowing her full entry into his head, Spike lowered the barriers around his emotions for a moment so that she could understand why.  “I should’ve trusted in you from the get go.  You gave me that courtesy, even before you said you loved me, and here I go, thinkin’ you can’t do the same.”

“It’s all behind us,” Buffy murmured, grateful for the few seconds in the maelstrom of his feelings that he allowed her.  “Nobody said this was going to be easy.  Heck, I’m the queen of difficult relationships, so I should know what I’m talking about here.  What’s important is that we try and not keep making the same mistake.  Not that that’s the voice of experience, but hey, it always sounds good when Mom says it, so I figure…what the hell.”

“Sounds good to me,” Spike agreed.  “Always thought your mum had her head on straight.  Nice to know some of it got passed on.”

The mention of Joyce brought a sad gleam to the Slayer’s eyes.  “She’s still not conscious,” she said quietly.  “The resurrection spell worked in that she’s at least alive, but we don’t know if she’s going to wake up.”

His hand brushed back the hair that fell over her cheek, his touch tender.  “She will,” he assured.  “Don’t you fuss.  She’s goin’ to come out of this, and the lot of you are goin’ to go back to bein’ the same bunch of infuriating Summers women that I love so damn much.”

She believed him.  She wasn’t sure why, maybe it was the warmth that radiated from his thoughts, the belief that he knew something more than he was sharing at the moment suddenly overwhelming.  Regardless, Buffy nestled down against him, closing her eyes as she let the fears and worries wash away.

Things weren’t going to be easy.  They still had to deal with the issue of Glory when they returned to Sunnydale, and there was still the inherent problem in dating a vampire in the first place---although she was sure Giles was going to have a field day delving into the issue of Spike’s newly re-acquired soul---as well as the usual issues in just having a relationship, period.  But, in spite of all that, Buffy didn’t fear that she and Spike were going to fail in overcoming them.

Because they had faced their ghosts.  Battled them together.

And won.

Their love didn’t mean life wasn’t going to be trouble-free.

It meant she didn’t have to face those troubles alone, that he would share his strength with her, while she did the same for him, and together, they would beat the problems away, saving their friends, saving their family, saving the world.

She couldn’t have asked for anything more.

The End