As the Romans Do

It's black and white. Of course it's black and white -- that's what people dream in, isn't it? Spike just can't remember it ever being this black and white, everything falling in such harsh contrast, pooling shadows and blinding highlights...

Not that he really has time to critique the cinematography, what with the mob of villagers chasing him with torches and all.

They're all there, the flickering flames turning them into visions of nightmare, and that's right, too... this is a nightmare, isn't it? Prague wasn't like this, Prague was living color, too many colors, sulfur-yellow and bruise purple and god, so much blood red...

"Right about you all along," Xander smirks, and Giles gives him an of-course-you-were-son pat on the shoulder.

And Fred, sweet little calico-and-steel Fred, Fred who he's so desperately missed, Fred who he even now wants to turn around and give a big soddin' hug to... Fred is staring at him with disgust.

"Never would have helped you if I'd known," Fred says in horror. "If I'd known you were just a monster."

And Angel is chuckling, that maddeningly superior poofy nancy boy chuckle, shaking his head. "Nice try, Willy. You'll never be one of us."

He knows Buffy's not gonna let that one go by without hopping on the insult train, but when he turns to her... and why he can do this and still run like... well, like a really flammable guy being chased by a mob with torches... is tangled up in dream-logic...

And this is the worst. The pain, the betrayal in her eyes, the revulsion; she shakes with it.

He wants her to scream at him, beat him up, call him names... anything but just stand there looking miserable, those wide green eyes full of unshed tears.

Through the haze of blood that filled his vision, Spike could see her, dancing towards him, spinning gleefully, holding something wreathlike in her hands... something she raised up and placed on his head, patting it down like a mother with her child's toboggan.

A hundred stings took him at once, like the worst headache in the history of the world, relentless and sharp and everywhere and...

Drusilla clapped her hands, stepping back from him in delight. "Oh, Spoike -- you're a gorgeous blasphemy. It matches your eyes."

"Pretty as a picture," Drusilla smiled serenely, turning expectantly to the minion beside her.

Flashbulbs in his face. Well, wasn't that lovely. Suppose these would be arriving for Angel in the morning post, then.

"Not sure Peaches is into the religious re-enactments, Pet," Spike croaked. "Though I'm sure he'll appreciate your eye for detail."

Dru accepted the Polaroid the minion handed her, watching greedily as the film swam into focus.

"Might want to be careful with that, Dru. Seein' me all Jesused up might give Angelus one of those inconvenient happys, an' then he might not make it to your party."

"Daddy doesn't do that anymore," Drusilla peered at the photo. "Daddy will only come back once more, and I won't get to see him. But you will, Spoike. Soul-sick. He's all Angel-beast at present, thump-thump, thump-thump."

"The Angel-Beast will come once he learns of the special present I've given the little one. A lovely, glistening present, like I gave you on your birthday. He'll come with tears in his eyes and Africa on his mind..."

Spike's spine turned to ice; he struggled to keep his voice casual. "Plannin' to turn the boy, then?"

"Oh, no, Spoike," Drusilla giggled. "Grandmother's told me again and again, I'm no good at it. Don't you remember? First you and then Grandmother... all full of cracks where the light can get in... and light's no good for us, it sizzles and burns..."

And Spike screamed as the minion thrust a spear deep into his side, blood gushing from the wound.

The bathroom door closed behind Wesley, and Tara turned to an anxious examination of her -- well, Dawn's -- fingernails.

"I am glad that we are alone," Illyria said. "I wished to speak with you. You have not yet informed us of your transformation. Have you informed the half-breed?"

"In your former existence, you were a witch of great control and understanding."

"Now you have all three. You inhabit a vessel drenched in power. You are as a superbly trained marksman, suddenly given a much larger weapon."

Tara paled. "N-no, I couldn't use Dawn's energy, you don't know... you don't know what happened to Willow..."

"But I do know. The shell knows. The shell was acquainted, and had many additional discussions with the half-breed. It was a topic in which the shell was most interested. I find that I am also interested."

Illyria suddenly lounged against the bureau, crossing her arms, her movements more coltlike than catlike, and Tara blinked... but the bizarre moment was over as soon as it had begun.

"I know that your lover wished to take the energy from the shell you now possess. But she would use it for other ends. You have a strength and will, a focus, a clarity, she lacks."

"I know power, witch. I have had it in measure you cannot begin to fathom. I have surrendered it, and tasted the bitterness of that sacrifice. We are at war. To ignore the presence of a mighty weapon is to ensure defeat."

Tara wrung her hands in her lap, letting Dawn's hair fall in a curtain around her face.

"All your pretty insides all over your pretty outsides," Drusilla said pleasantly, worming her finger into the hole in Spike's side, tugging at it. "You must be getting terribly hungry, darling, and I've brought you something so much nicer than a puppy."

Blood coursed down Spike's side, Drusilla watching it, measuring it, measuring him. Her eyes flicked over to Connor, still shackled in an unconscious heap.

Drusilla laughed, her fingers painting his cheeks with blood. "Your pain flies from your mouth, lashing out, your tongue like a blade; I've missed it. How you made me laugh and laugh."

"S'like that Manilow-lovin' poof tellin' me he fancied my poetry, Dru, dirt could make you laugh. Did, on several occasions that spring to mind."

"That's because it's so funny. Funny and wet and full of little squirmy eyes." She dragged her finger up his cheek, making a loopy red swirl. "Did you miss me, Spoike?"

"Sure I did, pet. Love to give you a big ol' hug, too, only seems I've gotten myself nailed to a cross somehow. Don't suppose you know how that happened?"

She lifted her bloody hand, sucking a little of his blood from her middle finger. "You used to break easier."

"Ought to have kept in touch, love. Right sad how people grow apart, innit? Gettin' chained up n' tortured by the big bad whatever's gettin' to be a little hobby of mine. Hell on the skin, though. Lucky I moisturize."

"Why do you fight it, Spoike? Your spark is all gone. She'll never love you now. Not like I do..."

"Didn't love me then, my sweet. Either one of you. Not as I wanted, anyway. You know better than anyone how this tune goes. Only person in this world's ever liked me better than ol' Angelus is the Nibblet, which really ought to have tipped me off to the whole slaverin' insanity thing she had goin' on the sly. What can I say, Dru? Broodin's all the rage these days. I blame Cobain, really I do."

Drusilla shook her head, tugging at his blood-matted curls. "You're mine. The wisest and bravest knight in all the land. Mine forever with a kiss. Daddy promised."

"Sorry, Pet. But if it's any comfort, this whole thing's your fault. Never would have gotten addicted to the do-goodin' if you hadn't gone all Jenna Jameson on that Chaos Demon."

Spike smiled. "Y'know, I remember the first time you said that to me, Princess."

"Thought it had a certain poetry. Recycled it once. Proverbial lead balloon. Y'know, I don't mean to hurt your feelin's, love, but you really didn't teach me a lot about healthy relationship management. Dr. Phil'd have a field day."

"How you hurt, my darling. I feel it... in your head, in your heart, a million stings with each little breath. You burn and reach out, but you're falling, you're falling... and no one wants to catch you... they kick you aside, they play you in minor notes, use you and spit you out. Do you still think she believes in you, Spoike?"

"No chip. No soul. You're free, my love. Free to hunt, free to take, free to feed... with me. Your glory lies at your feet, waiting for you to be who you really are."

"Look, ducks, I'm not your Daddy, all right? Believe me, nobody lets me forget that. And besides a lifetime supply of second-place ribbons, it also means I don't have his bloody on/off evil switch. I've seen better evil recruitment drives on the Home Shopping Network, love, and I never knew crucifixion could be so bloody dull. So get on with your master plan or bloody well bugger off."

"You've changed," Drusilla keened, curling her arms over her head. "You went back to the beginning. But Willy's gone, how can it be? Willy's all burnt and you're still back at the beginning..."

"Pet, do you really want to know what changed me? More than the chip, more than even the soul, which apparently I only had on a bloody short-term rental?"

"A hundred and forty-seven days," Spike smiled, taking a deep breath and ripping...

It was a damn good thing Dru was more concerned with artistry than historical accuracy; Spike gasped as the meat of his palms tore away, and oh god, the wrongness of feeling the nails slide within his flesh, the little bursting at the head of the nail... but oh, it was worth it when his elbow connected with her cheekbone, sending her staggering back long enough for him to repeat the process with his feet, feeling the small bones crunch and crack, dropping to his knees.

He hooked her knees with his arm and sent her crashing to the floor, crying out, scrambling to right herself. He pinned her long dress with a knee, Drusilla kicking out at him for purchase.

Spike swiveled back to the cross, crashing his elbow through the footrest at the bottom, feeling his elbow break as the wood flew free, and oh God the pain as he forces his other hand to grasp it, ruined bones and torn tendons refusing to cooperate, dizzy with blood loss and sorrow for what he knows he is about to do.

"They're bringing us back, one by one," Willow said softly, watching Angel charge down the hallway, cellphone pressed to his ear and Gunn dogging his heels.

"Huh?" Buffy raised an eyebrow. "What's the big deal about a phone call from Cordelia? I haven't seen Angel this excited since... well, I've never seen Angel this excited."

"I listen! It's just, well, there's so much talking and Andrew always has to relate everything to the Kobayashi Maru and -- hey! You messed with my brain! I'm allowed to phase out a little."

"Dead. Makes it a little more exciting when she reaches out and touches someone, y'know?"

"Well, uh -- theoretically? I mean, the whole phone call thing would kind of indicate otherwise."

Willow sat down next to her. "God, Buffy, I don't know. Between Spike and Wesley and the prophecy... I'm getting tummy-rumblins. I mean, apocalypse, hi, that's Tuesday night, right? But this... y'know, what Spike said, about the 'final curtain call'... it sounds kinda, um, final. And when the Powers or whatever are on this... resurrection spree... I dunno, it's all very Aragorn going to get the dead for the big battle, y'know?"

Willow touched Buffy's knee. "So, um... how are you doing? With the whole, uh, Dawn revelation, and the unscheduled Spike injection which I am still very, very sorry about?"

Buffy sighed, putting her elbows on her knees. "I don't... I don't know, Will, I... I had this major freaky nightmare, almost like a Slayer dream, only it was... I think it was Spike's memories, but they were... all mixy with mine, and sometimes I was Spike, and sometimes Spike was Xander, and then Spike was actually there... oh, I don't know. Angel was there, too... or Angelus, I guess, and Darla and Drusilla..."

"I had freaky nightmares the night it happened, too. I think it was brain overload, y'know? Neurons weighted down with a century of memories all of a sudden, and your brain's trying to sort through it."

"I guess it would be. I mean, it's not sticking. The download or whatever, I mean. I've lost pretty much everything except the memories with a lot of emotional whoomph. So those are probably the ones you got. And hi, vampire, big on the whoomph."

"Yeah, they were definitely... whoomph-y." Buffy broke off. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Willow's lips twitched. "Figured out what William the Bloody's real last name was yet?"

"It's not hitting me over the head with a big stick or anything." Buffy bit her lip, deep in thought. "Every time I try to remember it, it's getting all mixy with that time you did that spell."

"C'mon, kid," Spike begged, shaking Connor's shoulders, wincing at the pain. "Really bad time for a nap, okay? The cavalry's comin' and they aren't wearin' white hats..."

Bloody hell. Bloody hell. Spike could feel them all around him, approaching quickly. Dozens, maybe a hundred vampires, converging on them. Not the best odds even with functional limbs and without a comatose Prophecy Kid.

"Bet your bippy. What does a girl have to do to get into this nasty cave-thing, huh? I can't even find the entrance. You think they'd be useful and send me a vision of that, but oh no... could have teleported me inside... y'know, I swear, it's like they're the Powers That Be Massive Pains In The Butt."

"Remember that off-ramp? Now's the point where I merge with traffic. Assuming, of course, you get your big ol' human butt up here and let me in."

"Aww, Angel... you're running? I can hear your little feet pattering. That's so sweet! It's like that butter commercial."

Angel burst into the sunlight, slinging the cellphone away. Cordelia turned, beaming, running towards him, their bodies colliding in the middle, hands rising to wrap around each other as Angel's lips crushed down on hers, their hearts beating wildly, rising for air, gasping.

Cordelia ran her fingers down his jaw. "Yeah, well, occupational hazard of humanity..."

She shrugged, sending her perfect curls bouncing. "Because I'm cooler than Buffy?"

They wanted leadership from him? Now? Broken and bleeding, barely conscious, with the dust of the woman he'd loved for a century on his hands, with rage and agony and loss roaring in his brain?

"Fix the kid," Spike croaked, gesturing with his ravaged hand at a segment of the crowd gathered around him. "Anythin' he needs. Whatever's wrong with him. Fix it. Hair on his bloody head gets bent the wrong way, every one of you wankers is dust, am I understood?"

Vampires swarmed around Connor, lifting him gently, carrying him out of the room.

"Somebody get me a phone. Gotta call his dad. Car, too... where the bloody hell are we? Need to get him back to his dad..."

"Sorry, Pet. Never have been one for plans. If you'll excuse, gonna pass out now..."

"You stake Drusilla, I eviscerate Xander. But did you wait for me? No. So rude. And if you think I'm gonna let you off just because you got all crucified, you're talkin' to the wrong vengeance demon, mister."

Anya stood at the front of the vampiric crowd, arms crossed, smiling at him. Another man stepped forward, taking his place at her side.

"Ah, yes," Giles said, removing his glasses. "I was, actually, aware of that. We're not closely related; I believe he'd be some sort of very distant cousin."

"Largely because I didn't know, Buffy. Keep in mind, I learned of Spike's resurrection mere hours before you did; I remain utterly amazed at Andrew's ability to hold his confidence that long. I didn't learn of Spike's origins until after his closure of the Hellmouth, and I didn't..." Giles sighed, polishing his glasses. "I didn't think you'd appreciate a phone call to rub salt in your wounds."

"I don't suppose you remember Marianne Kear? She's one of the few Watchers that survived. She wrote her dissertation on Spike. When I went to London to rebuild the Council, she asked me to help her update it. We ended up doing quite a bit of research on the topic."

Giles suppressed a wicked smirk. "I must say, it's the first time knowing Spike has helped my romantic life rather than hindered it."

"I was previously aware that a William Giles had existed. I had no idea he had become Spike, of course."

"His father was tossed out of the Council when William was very young and abandoned the family soon after. William is actually mentioned in the Watcher's diaries; they had considered attempting to recruit him."

"William had been raised by his mother to be rather the opposite of his father. The Council believed he lacked the fortitude." Giles chuckled. "I must say, knowing Spike, it would appear they judged the book by its cover. And then, of course, he disappeared."

"It was a bit of a family mystery. Over the course of a month, the entire branch of the family vanished. His father was rather infamous; it was assumed he had something to do with it."

"Ah, no. I've spoken to Angel about this. Angelus was the one who killed Spike's family... save Spike's mother, who Spike turned."

"She was quite ill. Wood has suggested to me that Spike was trying to save her."

"The memory of turning his mother was what the First was using to trigger him, Buffy. Apparently, it was quite traumatic. Spike was very new, and apparently under the impression that his mother would be like him. He was mistaken."

"You're aware, of course, that Spike has never been terribly typical for a vampire?"

"Spike has retained far more humanity in both body and mind than is normal for a vampire, even one of the Aurelian bloodline. You've no doubt noticed the differences between him and Angel. Spike eats, enjoys, and craves food; most vampires are disgusted by it. His hair and fingernails grow at nearly standard human rates. He has a much higher tolerance for sunlight, crosses, and holy water; his body temperature is warmer than standard, and his pain threshold and healing powers lower. Spike still breathes as a reflex, even after a century, and only goes into 'game face' under duress. You recall the spell Willow cast a few years ago, the one that erased our memories?"

"A normal vampire under the effect of that spell -- and yes, Marianne and I tested this empirically -- would 'come to' in game face, their true face. It would appear that Spike's human visage is his true face, or at least his dominant one. And if Marianne's sources are correct, Spike was something of a... botched job."

"Darla and Angelus. In my dream... they said Drusilla had screwed up, and Angelus could fix him... they tortured him..."

"Angelus was repulsed and fascinated by him. He became a project, much as Drusilla had been before him... however, unlike Drusilla, Angelus never considered Spike to be a success. I daresay that if Spike had not made himself useful as Drusilla's caretaker, he would have been dust a century ago."

"Marianne hypothesized that it had something to do with Drusilla, that perhaps the creation of a vampire is more complex than we are currently aware. Perhaps Drusilla lacked the mental coherence for it; we know of only two vampires sired by her, and both had rather bizarre properties. Darla's ability to not only become pregnant but to be affected by the soul of her unborn child... Spike's human qualities, his ability to love, certainly his independent decision to go acquire a soul... which, I must say, I'm rather relieved that he did."

"Ah," Giles smiled. "You recall that when you confessed you were sleeping with Spike, I began to... well... laugh, rather hysterically?"

"There's a prophecy. Well, a fragment of a prophecy, part of the Shanshu Cycle. Concerning the union of a Slayer and a vampire champion. When you originally began your relationship with Angel, I researched it a bit, but it very definitely specifies that the vampire does not have a soul. When you, ah, removed Angel's soul, I thought perhaps it was coming to pass, but Angelus is no champion. The notion that Spike could be the vampire in the prophecy... well, knowing the annoying bastard, I found it rather hilarious. Fortunately, his soul was restored, which means the prophecy can't possibly apply to him."

"Well, there's no need for you to worry about this one. There's all manner of things that invalidate it. Spike hardly commands a vampire army, and I daresay we'd remember if you'd cut off both his hands. The whole thing's probably folderol at any rate, there's a whole section that reads like a twisted version of Genesis with begatting." Giles chewed on the earpiece of his glasses for a moment. "Buffy... you don't suppose... you don't suppose this might refer to the Immortal, do you? He is quite powerful..."

"Well, the language is archaic. I don't believe they'd have a word for 'international staff of minions' other than 'army'... Buffy, do you love him?"

Giles nodded. "Well, you'd know, I think, if you were in the sort of true love that the prophecy refers to."

"Besides," Giles chuckled, "It'd be a bit difficult to ignore the whole bursting-into-flame aspect."

"It may not be literal. It probably isn't. The prophecy is a bit... well, to be frank, parts of it are rather horridly cheesy. Perhaps the translator is at fault. Supposedly the first time the soulless Champion and the Slayer touch with 'true love', they burst into 'a flame that burns not, yet casts light on all', la-la-la. It's all rather revoltingly melodramatic."

Giles paused, his eyes on Buffy's face. "Buffy? Buffy, are you quite all right?"

A/N: Wow. Got lots n' lots of e-mail after that last chapter. To clear some things up:

1. I am not on crack, but thanks for asking; Drusilla did sire Darla, in Angel episode 31, "The Trial". Darla had previously been resurrected by Wolfram & Hart as a human.

2. Yes, Spike had a soul when he put the amulet on. However, as Drusilla explains in Chapter Eighteen ("Midnight Descends"), Spike's soul was the fuel powering the amulet. For my evil purposes, when Spike says "My soul. It's really there. Kinda stings," in "Chosen", he is feeling his soul burn up. Later, when she touches him right before he dusts, his soul has already been burnt up.

3. The part of the Shanshu Scriptures that Angel read did only refer to a vampire with a soul. However, as Angel is told in episode 96, "Destiny"...

"You read a translation of the prophecy. It's like comparing the King James Bible with the original Aramaic, the Hebrew. Much of the flavor, the subtlety of usage, the historical context has been stripped away. Read the prophecy? You may as well have read a 12-year-old's book report on the subject."

Angel references this speech in Chapter Sixteen ("Prophecies On Prophecies"):

"Hell if I know," Angel muttered. "I read a version, but apparently that's like reading a twelve-year-old's book report on the subject."

He is also told that the entire Shanshu Scriptures have yet to be translated. So, through the magic of fanwanking, I'm saying that there's more to the Shanshu Scriptures than just the part about the vampire with the soul that's got Angel all hot n' bothered.

4. And while I'm being an explain-a-thon: during Spike and Angel's phone conversation in Chapter Seven ("Gilligan's Isle"), Spike thought they were talking about Angel being back together with Buffy; Angel thought they were talking about the Shanshu prophecy. So Spike had no idea Angel had become human until he was informed by Drusilla's minions (Chapter Sixteen), and Angel and Buffy still have no idea that Spike thinks they're together.

And now, on with the show.

22. Love Hurts, Baby

Consciousness came slowly, bringing with it the realization that the immediate situation, at least, had definitely improved; he was lying on his stomach across something soft, his wounds were bandaged, and a cold washcloth was being gently mopped across his shoulderblades.

It took a few tries, but he managed to get his eyelids open.

"Welcome back," Anya smiled. "It's encouraging that you've regained consciousness, although you do unpleasantly reek of bacon."

Spike groaned. "Kinda feel like bacon, pet."

"Well, let this be a lesson to you not to let your insane ex-girlfriends nail you to crosses."

"I'll keep it in mind." Spike hissed as the cloth hit a particularly tender spot. "Where's the Million Vampire March?"

"Off minioning somewhere. I made sure they all went away. And I've even located a spot on your body where you aren't burned or wounded that I can pat reassuringly, see?"

"Swell," Spike mumbled, his eyes fluttering closed again. "Anya?"

"Yes, Spike?" She peered at his face. "Oh. Well, I suppose passing out again is good, too."

She smiled and patted the spot.

He dances with Drusilla through the century.

She could dance, really dance, his Dru; sometimes it seemed she never stopped dancing, her hips twirling to a rhythm only she could hear, her thin arms swaying like charmed snakes above her head, the gorgeous darkness of her, wide-eyed and hungry, waves of deepest black rippling down her waist, sliding like silk through his fingers, his ripe, wicked plum, his bloodsoaked princess, his black goddess.

He thinks of her in purples and reds and blacks, bruise and blood and midnight, the pale satin of her skin as she writhed around him, against him, her fingernails digging into his flesh, marking him as her own. No one knew him like she did, every inch of his skin, every thought in his mind; he could never hide from Dru, never wanted to, wanted to be consumed by her utterly, wanted to die inside her, lived to please her.

She reminded him of a music box his mother had owned, a beautiful thing, inlaid with carvings that teased his fingers. It had fascinated him; he had spent hours winding it up. Not so much for the music... that was pretty, but he loved those molasses moments when the music ran down, the notes stretching and breaking, turning to dissonance, so indescribably chilling, and he'd loved the icy drops of fear that would creep up his spine, the delicious creepiness of that sound, the way something so innocent, so delicate, so pretty could turn malevolent with a mere slowing of gears.

No, it was no surprise that he'd grown up to belong to Dru.

Soft and yielding, icy and clawing like a cat, raving and shivering, moonlight-pale and gasping beneath him, she'd been the ultimate antidote to tedium for a man with a severe boredom allergy. Dru breathed violence, passion, mystery; he'd needed her more than blood, she was the blood, the reason he could live in the darkness, what gave it poetry. He belonged in the shadows, with her.

Raven waves spread out on the pillow beneath her head, hands and little bony fingers skipping across his skin, feather-light, murmuring nonsense words into his shoulderblades; the alabaster of her skin against the blackness of his duster, fucking her savagely in the gardens of Versailles, night always above them, Dru's beloved stars, all with the same name, so much confusion, and Spike fucks her harder because he knows they are all named "Angelus"...

Never having all of her. Never able to touch her deepest place, the shackled knot of chains within her, the place that screams for Daddy to hurt her, and he knows, he knows, that if he could just love her enough, if he could just work that knot free, she would be sane and his and his and his...

Crumbling to dust beneath him, the splintered wood clutched in the ragged wound of his hand...

And for a second, he'd seen it.

Sanity in her eyes.

Love in her eyes.

He thinks what she was whispering was "Thank You".

There aren't tears enough in the world.

Dawn... no, Tara, he should call her Tara now, fed a dollar into the jukebox... and any lingering doubts Wesley might have had about her transformation dissolved when something mournful, acoustic, and not sung by five matching boys began to pour out of the brightly pulsing machine.

He watched Tara because he couldn't bear to look across the booth, and not looking across the booth was like trying not to think about pink elephants. Illyria, true to her word, was in full-on Fred mode, somehow managing to make demolishing a Grand Slam Breakfast the most adorable, endearing, heartbreaking thing in the world, and he would... not... look.

Wesley was amused to discover that he actually missed Spike. Irritating, obnoxious, ascerbic, yes; but beyond those things, there was something about Spike that calmed Wesley.

Spike... adapted. It was one of his more intriguing qualities. Scream, cry, get drunk, lash out, yes, all these things... but at some point, Spike would quirk that scarred eyebrow and adapt. Sitting here in the Denny's at three a.m., faced with the shells of Dawn and Fred, faced with the realities of Tara and Illyria, Spike would have bitched and quipped and mocked and dealt, as he'd dealt with everything his vampiric existence had thrown at him, from madwomen to behavior modification chips to a soul to ghostdom.

And somewhere deep inside Wesley, there was a pleasurable twinge of thrill at just how much it would piss Angel off to know that Wes considered Spike any kind of a role model.

Tara slid back into the booth, picking up her slice of toast and casting a smile in Fred's... Illyria, dammit, Illyria's... direction.

"Can I have her metabolism for Christmas?"

"I would suspect that you already do."

Tara considered this. "So... where are we now?"

"Just outside of Oxnard." He stuck his fork into his eggs... then froze.

Yeah. You always know where you are.

It's my particular skill.

This is only the first layer. Don't you wanna see how deep I go?

"Wesley?" Tara said, and he looked up to find both her and F... Illyria staring at him curiously.

"I'm sorry. What?"

"Are we going to try and find the others... or wait for Spike to come back with Connor?"

"Perhaps we ought to give Spike a few more days, although it's possible he'll want to take Connor straight to Angel."

"He really shouldn't have smashed his cell phone," Illyria said in Fred's little mournful voice. "He's so touchy about Buffy. It's kinda sad."

He will not flinch. He will not flinch. He will not flinch.

"Yes, well." He flattened his palm on the formica, willed his voice to stillness. "We men can be rather illogical when it comes to love."

"Is that right?"

Oh, dear God. She was batting her eyelashes at him, her tongue twirling around her spoon, playful and teasing and Fred and this, this was the most evil thing the Hellbitch had done in millennia.

This is only the first layer.

Don't you wanna see how deep I go?

Wesley smiled painfully. "So I've found in my research."

"Research, huh? Sounds intriguing." And, oh God, the smutty little giggle, the one that pierced him in his heart... and areas of lower latitude.

Don't you wanna see how deep I go?

Tara looked between the two of them, and Wesley was struck again by how she was Dawn yet not Dawn, the subtle wrongness of her. This was something he really ought to research, a once-in-lifetime chance to explore the boundary between nature and nurture.

Unfortunately, he didn't much give a damn.

Don't you wanna see how deep I go?

Tara cleared her throat. "Well, if we're staying put for a few days... Illyria, maybe you and I could have some girl time, y'know? Go out. Get you some new clothes, a haircut... you ever thought about dyeing your hair? It's kinda fun."

Wesley was overcome with a gratitude so deep he almost leaned over and kissed her. "I think that's a marvelous idea."

Or rather, he did until he saw something that looked like genuine pain flash over Fred's... Illyria, dammit, Illyria's face. When she spoke, all the Fred had vanished from her voice.

"You wish me to modify the shell so that my human visage bears less resemblance to Winifred Burkle."

"I, ah... I think that would be a good compromise, yes. You would still look human enough for our purposes, yet... it would be..."

"Less painful for you."

Wesley smiled creakily. "Yes."

"Very well. The witch and I will modify the shell. I have a curious lack of interest in causing you pain, Wesley."

Don't you wanna see how deep I go?

"We'll adapt," Wesley replied.

"Hey, B."

"Hey, Faith," Buffy sighed. She hadn't realized she'd been instinctively following the smell of cigarette smoke until she reached the source.

Faith raised it for inspection. "Want me to put it out?"

"No. Please don't. I mean, you were here first, and..." Buffy sighed. "It's... kind of nice, actually."

"You miss Spike," Faith smiled knowingly. "That's cool. Been there."

Buffy's lips twitched. "Missing Spike?"

"Nah. Not that he ain't hot or nothin'. Just... missin' someone, wantin' little stuff that reminds you of 'em. Angel drew me a picture once. Picture of me, y'know? Dude can draw. Mailed it to me in jail. Every time I looked at it, was like I could feel him there. Somebody who gave a shit. Inspirational or whatever."

"Faith: A Tiny Little Division Of Hallmark."

"Roses are red, Violets are blue, somewhere this dead guy, gives a shit about you. Yeah, I could start a card line." Faith stretched like a cat, muscles working, joints popping. "Don't know about you, B., but I'm seriously hatin' this cave thing. All cooped up. When do we fight, already?"

"We're regrouping."

"Yeah, whatever. Gettin' restless. 'Bout to wear Wood's ass out."

Buffy smiled thinly. "Mmm, unnecessary information..."

"You don't wear prude as good as you used to, B. Don't know why you try. Relax a little." Faith passed over a silver flask. "Here. This might help."

Buffy turned the flask over in her fingers, examining the engravings that swirled around it. "This is... this is Spike's, isn't it?"

"Yeah. He gave it to me, night before it all went down. Think he knew he wasn't comin' out of the hellmouth." Faith smiled. "He's kinda alright. Not that I can say that in front of Wood."

"Still hates him?" Buffy took a little swig, made a horrible face.

"Killed his mom, y'know." Faith waved her hand dismissively. "Theirs is a hate for all time and all that shit."

"How are things going with you two?"

"They're pretty good," Faith grinned. "I like him. Doesn't take my crap, good in the sack, nice to me."

Buffy shot her a dubious look, and Faith laughed, her hand rising to toy with her neck. "What? Don't look at me like that, I ain't you, B. Everything doesn't have to be epic."

"Then why are you playing with that bite mark?" Buffy asked quietly.

Faith froze, then laughed nervously. "Habit, man. Forgot we matched, yeah? 'Course, you got yours from the nicer, souled-up version. Probably why it's prettier."

"Do you love him?"

"Aw, c'mon, B., I'd have to be wicked stupid to..."

"That wasn't an answer."

Faith lit another cigarette. "You know, you were right. I do miss Spike."

"Changing the subject?"

"Not really. Got stuff in common, Spike n' me. Wish I'd gotten to talk to him more. Y'know, before he broke my face to defend your virtue." Faith paused, a strange smile spreading. "Thought about that a lot, this year in Cleveland. You n' me. Angel n' Spike."

"What do you mean?"

"Good Slayer. Bad Slayer. Good Vampire. Bad Vampire. And then, me n' Spike both tryin' to get out of the evil thing, be better than we'd decided to be, havin' to work our asses off to get out from underneath the weight of the shit we did."

Faith sighed, tapping ashes. "Ain't our natures, know what I'm sayin'? Leather n' combat boots n' cigarettes. Want. Take. Have. Fuckin' n' fightin', grabbin' life by the horns and shovin' your knee in its balls, y'know? Laughin' out loud when you hear the bones break. Spike n' me, we're like that dirty old bar where you go to have fun but won't take your Mom. Got our own kinda charm, but don't fit too good into the white knight society."

Buffy chewed her lip, and Faith pressed her point.

"C'mon, B. It's right there. Angel believin' in me, pissin' you off. You believin' in Spike, pissin' Angel off. Spike and I both tryin' to be worthy of that belief, y'know? Usin' you guys like those carrots on a stick, leadin' us to the light side of the Force. Tryin' to live up to you guys, tryin' to measure up to the fairytale that is Angel and Buffy."

"You're in love with Angel."

Faith shot her a glance. "Duh, B. Not that it matters. For me or for Spike. That's somethin' else we have in common. Not bein' worthy. And that's cool."

"Faith, you shouldn't..."

"What, be realistic? C'mon. There's a list, right? Angel and you and Cordelia and that Immortal guy and Riley and Nina and way, way down at the bottom, like fallin' off the page kinda bottom, there's me and Spike. We know what we are, okay?"

"And... what are you, exactly?"

Faith shrugged. "The Mary Magdalenes to your Jesuses?"

"That's..." Buffy sputtered. "That's..."

"We keep tryin' to die instead of you guys," Faith chuckled. "Never does work out for us. Spike's got crap taste in jewelry and I've got a real high tolerance for drugs. So we'll just keep annoyin' the hell out of everyone, kickin' em in the head so they don't know how bad we want 'em to like us."

"Faith... does Angel know? How you feel?"

"Hell, no. At least I hope he doesn't." Faith stood, knees popping. "Cordelia's back, anyway."

"Faith, wait. It's not... with the not worthiness. You shouldn't think like that, it isn't like that, Angel and I aren't some... I mean, I love Spike..."

"No, you don't, B.," Faith smiled, squeezing her shoulder before turning to leave. "But hey -- thanks for sayin' it."

Buffy leaned her head back against the cave wall, turning the flask to and fro in her hands.

Tired. She was so insanely tired, the kind of tired that sleep never cured, the kind that crashed back down on you in the morning. Those first blissful five seconds when all you knew was pillow is yay, and then it hit you: who you were. Who you'd lose next. Who you'd already lost.

She'd hit her expiration date and stayed in the fridge, getting paler and losing flavor, conviction and fire seeping out of her, leaving the world a fuzzy grey place without boundaries, everything blurring together, days and weeks and people and apocalypses. Time for her to be thrown out and replaced with some nice fresh fifteen-year-old, plump-cheeked and eager for the thrill of the hunt.

She'd been replaced but not thrown out, and the feeling of being used up remained.

She'd filled her time, filled her days, sinking deeper and deeper into her own head, grown comfortable there; people buzzed around her making annoying noises, wanting things from her she no longer knew how to provide. Enthusiasm. Empathy. Passion. To help her, to try to give her what she wanted.

She wanted to be lying facedown, naked, on the bed in Spike's crypt in Sunnydale, with the fluffier of his two pillows wedged underneath her head and the flatter elevating one leg. She wanted him sitting next to her, propped up against the headboard, barefoot, wearing only his jeans, his hair all rumpled. She wanted a book in his right hand and a beer bottle in his left, curling the beer to his chest the way he did, the ring on his index finger clinking against the glass, his lips worrying absently with the tip as he read. Orally fixated. So with the orally fixated.

And she wanted to watch him read, periodically stretching against the softness of his sheets, wanted to perv over the gorgeousness of his fingers curled around his beer, wanted to contemplate fixing his chipping nail polish, wanted to decide she felt just too damned lazy and comfortable for that right now. Wanted to let out a little sigh of contentment, wanted him to shoot her an amused look over the top of the book.

Wanted him to occasionally let out a derisive snort at his reading, let out a snarky comment she could snark right back to, meeting his eyes for just a moment, a shared smile.

It had never happened. Oh, every part of it had; bed-nakedness, watching him read, watching him chew on a bottle-tip, mutual snark, mutual silence... Lego pieces she'd constructed this fantasy from. It was where she imagined herself at night when she tried to sleep; her happy place, a world that she wove around whatever bed she was actually in.

Spike was a terrible, horrible, catastrophic match for the person she wanted to be: the brave, stalwart Slayer, certain in her righteousness, chooser of the right path and the high road, perfect and noble and together and on top of it and normal and pure. That girl should never be with Spike, should have dusted Spike on sight and rejoiced in ridding the world of evil.

The thing was... Spike was a pretty fantastic match for the person she actually was, confused and prickly and sarcastic and hopelessly undomestic with a secret abhorrance for small children and most people, violent and kinky and possessive and stubborn and vain.

She looked at Spike and she saw herself, and it terrified her that the Scoobies hated him, like he was a canary she'd sent down into their mine shaft that had croaked in five seconds. There but for the fakeness of me go I.

So she'd kicked him away and distanced herself and oh, he's evil evil evil evil and I am not not not. He'd said she belonged in the shadows with him, and it had terrified her because so much of her wanted to go; he'd tried to force himself on her and all she'd been able to see was her own face, her own heart, her own pain shining through his eyes, the feelings, the potential within her that had caused a ghost to choose her four years before...

The gun in her hand, the desperation that had been the ghost's and her own, the words that weren't hers but spoke for her, the way something inside her had rejoiced as the bullet tore through Angelus even as James was keening in sorrow.

She didn't want to be the person who needed Spike, didn't want to be the one who silently laughed at his jokes, who secretly thought he had a point a lot of the time, didn't want to be the kind of girl who loved the way alcohol tasted on his lips and coursed with feminine power when she made his eyes roll back in his head and his back arch and reduced that wiseass, delicious mouth to babbling curse words and her name in a mindless stream.

Didn't want to be the girl who got turned on by killing things, who got turned on watching Spike kill things, the girl who'd really, really wanted to dance, the girl with a secret appetite for mayhem that had been unleashed with an invisibility ray, the girl who felt soul-sick and horrible for the things Righteous Slayer Girl had done, like beat him to a pulp in an alley and blow up his crypt.

She couldn't even blame her half-a-soul for it; the other half of her soul, code-named Dawn, loved Spike too... maybe even more, certainly loved him differently, loved him without reservation, loved him felonious and snarky and creeping into coal-bins, loved him because he told blunt painful truths and didn't see any problem with helping a fourteen-year-old commit breaking and entering.

You're not from Bullock's, are you? 'Cause I-I meant to pay for that lipstick...

For years, she'd had a perverse desire to run to Angel and tell him everything. As much as Righteous Slayer Girl had wanted to hide it, had wanted to be the girl in the white dress, another part of her had wanted to throw it all in his face, every last little dirty bit of it.

Hey, Angel? Guess what? I made Dawn's social worker lose her job so no one would find out how bad Dawn's home life was. Do you love me now? Part of me didn't want to stop Willow from ending the world! Do you love me now? When Xander tries to sneak peeks down my shirt, sometimes I bend over and give him a better look! Do you love me now?

When I dropped burgers on the floor, I'd put them right back on the buns if the customers were assholes! Do you love me now? I'm happy that Willow is cheating on Kennedy, because Kennedy annoys the shit out of me and I want them to break up! Do you love me now? I think about shipping Dawn off to Dad at least once a day! Do you love me now?

I made Spike screw me next to a dumpster at the DoubleMeat Palace and I got off on how sleazy it was! Do you love me now? I used to beg him to bite me and he wouldn't do it! Do you love me now? I used to pretend Riley was Spike in bed! Do you love me now?

Did you ever love me, or did you just love the idea that the Champion of Good could love you?

Did Spike even still love her? He'd asked Andrew not to tell her he was alive, he'd come to Rome without seeing her, he'd run off with Goth Stormtrooper Slut instead of even saying hello, he'd made no attempt to join them here, he'd hung up when Angel passed the phone to her, he hadn't contacted anyone since.

"I have not even the tiniest clue what I'm doing," Buffy said out loud, experimentally. It bounced around the cavern a bit, and no one screamed in horror.

Angel was human. That should -- that ought to mean something, right? First love, soulmate, getting the ultimate thing that would let them be together, the dream come true?

So why had Angel run off like someone had cattle-prodded him when Cordelia called?

And why was it that looking at Angel now filled her with a rush of love... the same way looking at Xander did?

Angel was heroic. Hot. Smart. Funny. God, she'd forgotten how funny he was, those little dry comments, the head-shake, the lip-twitches. It was so good to see him, so great to work with him again, so nice to have him around, so comforting to have laid next to him...

Kissing him? That had been... weird, even weirder than their "hello" from before. Not bad, not at all... it had been comforting, familiar, and he was a good kisser... but it had lacked the desperate sweetness they'd had before, lacked the rush and the desire and the need, and she had really thought she'd heard relief in his voice when she'd pretended to fall asleep.

So... what? Where did that leave her? I mean, technically she was still dating the

What the hell had Gunn meant when he'd said Spike loved Fred? Loved like puppies? Loved like buddies? Or loved in the kind of way that sent chandeliers crashing to the ground?

What was she supposed to do now? Hang around outside his window chain-smoking? Build a little shrine in her basement? Tie Angel to a pole and threaten to stake him?

And what was up with this prophecy thing? She'd never told anyone about the extra-flameys when she'd said goodbye to Spike, and hello -- he definitely had a soul, she'd seen it eat him alive and torture him and round off his edges and make him quiet and give him stupid ideas like have you hugged a cross today? and huh, I think I'll move right on top of the hellmouth and eat me some rats.

Why the hell wasn't he here? Even when she'd hated him, he'd always come back, there wasn't any getting rid of him... until she needed him, until she desperately wanted to talk to him and... other things, until she could barely keep herself in the cave for the wanting to steal the freakin' schoolbus and drive through California until she found him and could give him the swift kick to the groin he so richly deserved for not being here.

I've given you everything that I have, I've given you my heart, my body and soul!

Had he... had he realized that she didn't have enough soul for him? The way Spike loved...

Maybe the soul had cured him of his whole in-love-with-pain thing. Maybe he'd realized that Buffy didn't, couldn't, love him the way he'd loved her.

Maybe he'd found someone who could, someone with a whole soul. She'd told him he couldn't love without one; did that mean that she could only half-love?

Why did she have to think? Why couldn't things just be simple? Something nasty shows up, Scoobies make with the library books, tell her what to kill, she kills it. Easy. Straightforward. Buffy good, beasties bad, Xander gets the donuts, yay.

Easy, straightforward, and didn't work with anything else, no matter how many times she tried to apply the principle.

She just wanted to be... a force. A weapon. Point her at something, let her slay and quip until the bad thing was dead. Not so much with the decision-making and the philosophy of evil and the hard choices and the sacrifices.

"I can't believe that these words are actually coming from my lips, but Cordelia's called a war meeting. One of her freaky vision-things."

Buffy stood, wiping dust off her thighs. "Another meeting. Led by Cordelia. Wow. My enthusiasm knows all bounds."

"Buffy, I..." Xander took a deep breath. "I thought maybe you'd... want a minute before the meeting. 'Cause something kinda... appeared, and it looks like we've got word on Spike. Well, not so much word as, uh... well... here."

"It's a picture. Special magical delivery, woo-hoo. Part of a greater, um, ransom-demanding package. They weren't gonna show it to you, but... I thought... well. Anyway, I swiped it. Buffy... it's from Drusilla."

24. The War Room

"We've got trouble," Cordelia said flatly, when they had all sat and turned their gazes towards her. "With a capital T, and that comes after S, and that stands for Shanshu. Prophecy, that is, and namely, the lack of anyone to fulfill it. Angel, it looks like it wasn't the good blue fairy who made you a real boy."

"Cordelia, if you could possibly speak English, we'd all be most appreciative," Giles murmured.

Cordelia paced. "The Shanshu prophecy isn't just the reward a good boy gets. It's something that needs to be fulfilled if we're going to win this war. And there are no vampires with souls left in the world to fulfill it."

Buffy's strangled gasp drowned out softer ones around the room, and Xander's eyes flew wide. "That picture... Spike's dead?"

"Spike's not dead, Xander," Cordy sighed. "Well, okay, he's not more dead. But he doesn't have a soul. That leaves us with a grand total of zero vampires who can fulfill that part of the Shanshu Prophecy, and way screwed."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, Cordelia. Spike does indeed have a soul. I realize you weren't around then, but..."

"No, I'm afraid you're mistaken, Giles. That little sparkly necklace that Angel brought to Sunnydale? Because it's such a fabulous idea to trust Wolfram & Hart? It was a trap. Wolfram & Hart didn't give a crap about the First and its ugly little army, okay? They wanted Angelus running the L.A. branch of our favorite evil law firm and Angel permanently out of the picture."

"Cordy," Angel frowned, "What are you saying here?"

"That amulet runs on soul-power, Angel. It converts the soul to pure light, and destroys it... permanently... in the process. If you'd been the one to wear it, the part of you that makes you Angel and not Angelus would have gone perma-poof. Angelus would have been trapped in the amulet just like Spike was, come back as a ghost just like Spike did, have been bound to Wolfram & Hart just like Spike was. Their very own pet evil mastermind, incorporeal so he couldn't hurt them, on a leash. You can see the evil appeal."

"You're saying Spike hasn't had a soul since he showed up at Wolfram & Hart?" Gunn asked incredulously. "But he fought with us. Was willing to die for us. Was going out and helping the helpless for no reward. Sacrificed himself for Fred. You gotta be wrong about this, Cordy."

"Sorry, Gunn. This is straight from the you-know-who. Spike's soul go bye-bye."

"But..." Gunn protested. "He was... I mean, I've met Angelus..."

"Spike's not Angelus," Cordelia shrugged.

"He did change," Andrew said quietly.

"What's that, Nerd-Boy?"

"Spike," Andrew said in a louder tone. "I'm the only one who spent any time with him before, during, and after the soul-having. He did change. I mean, not like Kirk and Spock in 'Mirror, Mirror', a universe which was revisited both on Deep Space Nine and in the novel..."

"Andrew!"

"Anyway," Andrew continued plaintively. "It was subtle, but it was there. He seemed... edgier. And also, kinda less insane."

"Wait a damn minute," Gunn held up a hand. "Angel wants to save the world. Angelus wants to destroy the world. And the difference between Spike with a soul and Spike without is... edge? What the hell was Spike like with a soul?"

Xander grinned. "You mean before or after the First Evil used him as a big bleachy hand puppet?"

"Can we please leave puppets out of this?" Angel muttered.

"After, I guess. I mean, I got to know Spike pretty well. Pain in the ass, but a damn good guy, kinda guy you'd be glad had your back. Had heart. Wouldn't call him evil."

"He was quieter," Willow offered. "With the soul. More depressy. Like he was under a weight all the time. He kinda... lost the glee. Not so much with the I-kill-things-yay."

"He was kind of a pussy," Kennedy finished.

Xander rolled his eyes. "So glad you decided to add insightful commentary."

"Well! He was! All 'doing what I do best' and then getting thrown through the ceiling." Kennedy smirked. "It was insanely lame."

"Oh, yeah?" Faith challenged. "I didn't see you steppin' up. He got the job done."

"Hey, I'm not... I'm just saying...!"

Buffy's palms slapped down on the table. "Why don't you not say anything? You don't know Spike, you never did, and you don't know what he went through, so why don't you keep your bloody mouth shut?"

Stunned silence ringed the table, stretching out for seconds.

"Bloody?" Angel mouthed silently.

"Look, people," Cordelia finally said, "This isn't about Spike. At least, this part isn't. We'll get to the part about Spike later, okay? Maybe you guys can have a little after-meeting party and discuss the relative merits of Spike through the ages, but right now, we're still talking about Angel."

She unrolled a scroll laying in front of her on the table, and Giles pushed his glasses higher. "Cordelia, is that..."

"The Shanshu Cycle. The whole Shanshu Cycle. Little cavewarming present from the guys upstairs."

"Good lord," Giles breathed.

"Now, okay," Cordelia pointed towards the scroll. "Three major dealies in the Shanshu Cycle that we need to be concerned with right now. One, the destiny of the vampire with a soul."

"That's what I don't understand," Angel protested. "There was this big... thing about there being two vampires with souls in the world, and the wheel of whatever being off balance..."

"And who told you that, Angel? Your good groin-buddy Eve, who's never led you astray?"

"But... the building shook," Angel said plaintively. "And the... phones were weird."

"Oh, the phones were weird? Well, it must be true then! Angel -- Eve and Lindsey unleashed some serious magic to cut Wolfram & Hart's leash off Spike. They wanted to use him to take you down, and it nearly worked! You guys nearly battled to the death over a cup of Mountain Dew, for God's sake!"

"She's not really... I wouldn't call her a... groin-buddy," Angel continued sheepishly.

Xander raised his hand. "Vote for new topic not involving Angel's groin?"

"Seconded," Cordelia said firmly. "Angel, you weren't meant to become human. Not now. Not before you'd fulfilled your destiny."

"Couldn't someone else do it?" Willow suggested. "I mean, Angel's wanted to be human for so long. Seems kinda sucky to give it to him and then take it away again."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Angel muttered. "Didn't even get ice cream..."

"Couldn't we just re-soul Spike? I'm good with that spell..."

"Willow," Cordelia groaned, "What part of 'permanently destroyed' didn't register with you?"

"Hey! It wouldn't have to be Spike's original soul! It's just a vampire with a soul, right? Couldn't we just put someone else's soul into him?"

"Y'know, it's really funny you should bring that up, but I am not letting you people get me off topic again. It just can't be Spike. He's got something else to do."

"He's the soulless champion," Giles sighed wearily. "Fabulous. A bloody nightmare come true."

"Right in one. But again with the off-topic..."

"I'm gonna have to become a vampire again," Angel groaned.

"Why's it gotta be you, Angel?" Gunn asked. "I mean, there's no shortage of vampires..."

"Vampires we can trust? No, Gunn. If it can't be Spike, it's gotta be me."

"Don't you have any more... kindly relatives hanging around?"

"I wouldn't call the rest of my 'relatives' kindly, no," Angel chuckled. "Besides, the only one that's really left besides Spike is..."

"Drusilla's dead, Angel," Cordelia said flatly.

Angel blinked, shaking his head slowly. "No. Cordy, no. I would have... I would have known, I would have felt it..."

"Hello? You're human now, Angel! You don't get your weird vampy family-flashes anymore. Besides, I don't think Drusilla will be high on your hit parade when you know what her last act as an unperson was. She kidnapped Connor, Angel... and before you go all yo-ho-ho and raise the cavalry, he's already been rescued."

"By whom?" Giles asked.

"Spike."

Angel processed this. "Spike had to fight Dru?"

"Spike dusted her. Ripped himself off a crucifix, broke part of the cross off and staked her with it. It was kind of cool. Other than the terrible hair, the guy's got some style."

"Drusilla... crucified Spike..." Giles began to polish in a frenzy.

"Yeah. But this isn't the part where we talk about Spike! What do I have to do to keep you people on topic?"

"Is Spike okay?"

"He's fine, Buffy," Cordelia waved her hand dismissively. "Anya and Oz are taking care of him. And if we can get back on topic..."

Willow's eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

"Back up," Xander hissed. "I want that last sentence one... more... time."

"I said, 'And if we can get back on topic...'"

Giles' fingers were frozen on the polishing cloth. "I rather think Xander is referring to the bit where you mentioned Anya, Cordelia."

"Oh, yeah. Anya's back from the dead, too. Did I not mention that before? Xander, weren't you, like, dating her or something? What is your deal with demons? Anyway, she'll be here soon, she and Oz are going to bring Connor back to Angel."

Everyone opened their mouths at once.

"You said... Oz?"

"Anya and Oz but not Spike? Why not Spike?"

"Anya's back and with Spike?"

"Cordelia," Giles said with icy patience, "Would you like to share with us exactly how many of our colleagues have returned from the grave without our knowledge?"

"Um..." Cordelia looked at the ceiling, counting on her fingers. "Well, for starters, Wesley, yay! And uh... Anya, like I said, and oh, yeah, that Tara girl Willow used to date. I think that's it, for now."

"Tara?" Willow's voice had suddenly become very, very small.

"Yeah, but that's a totally messed-up situation, with her in Dawn's body and all."

"Beg pardon?" Giles choked.

"Oh, yeah. Buffy, your little sister, she's a wacky one. She put a compulsion spell on Spike to force him to vamp her."

"My little sister's a vampire?"

"Tara?" Willow repeated blankly.

"Can we get back to the part where Ahn's not dead anymore?"

"Can we stay on the part where my little sister drinks blood?"

"Dawn's not a vampire, Buffy. Tara stopped the process. But, Tara got stuck in Dawn, and Dawn's stuck in an Orb of Thesulah. None of which is what we are supposed to be talking about right now!"

The room filled with noise again:

"Tara's... inside Dawnie?"

"Good lord."

"My sister's stuck in an orb?"

"Where is Anya now, exactly?"

"OKAY!" Cordelia yelled. "Nobody talks now but me! I don't care if I say that Bozo the Clown came back from the dead and tap-danced on the Shroud of Turin singing 'Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer', everybody shuts up until we get through with this prophecy thing!"

"But..."

"Nuh-uh!"

"Geez," Angel muttered.

"The vampire with a soul! Which we don't have! Angel, I think you're right, I think we're going to have to get Spike to revamp you."

"The begattings," Giles murmured. "All those convoluted begattings, the father of his grandfather, the grandfather of his mother..."

"Giles? I think you're talking. I think that's not allowed."

"Carry on, Cordelia," Giles sighed.

"Part Two: The mystic child. We're okay on that one, it's already been conceived. But Willow, no more magic for the rest of your pregnancy. Let Xander do it."

Kennedy leapt up in her seat. "What the hell?"

"Look, loud girl, you're not allowed to talk either. So sit down."

"Willow can't be pregnant."

"Ohhh," Cordelia said knowingly. "So you're the girlfriend. You know, people always say this, but honey, I know exactly how you feel."

"It's... not possible," Willow gasped. "That's... just not possible..."

Cordelia's eyes flashed. "Yeah, huh, sure, right, Willow. 'Cause you never cheat on significant others with Xander. Hey, when Oz gets here, maybe we can have a chat with him about that."

"You slept with Xander?" Kennedy bellowed. "It was Xander?"

"It was a spell! Kennedy... baby... I didn't mean to, it was a spell..."

"Oh, that's convenient! That works a lot better than oh-I-was-drunk!"

"Kennedy, you don't understand..."

"You cheated on me," Kennedy repeated incredulously. "With a man?"

"I didn't... cheat, it wasn't like that, we both blacked out... we don't even remember it..."

"You cheated on me with... with him?" Kennedy pointed in Xander's direction, a look of disgust on her face. "He's... he's all fat and he can't even fight!"

"HEY!" Buffy and Xander yelled simultaneously.

"Xander can so too fight!" Buffy screeched. "Xander is brave and good and saved the world and you can just shut your face about Xander!"

"What she said, only I would also add that I am big boned!"

"Kennedy, dear, I can vouch for the fact that it wasn't their fault..." Giles tried.

"You all knew," Kennedy whispered, her hands curling into fists. "You all knew about this. And no one told me."

"Kennedy..." Buffy sighed. "Look, it's not like we meant to keep it from you..."

"Who's we? God, you are so full of yourself! Do you think I don't know how much you hate me?"

"I don't... I don't... hate you, I..."

"Where do you get off? News flash, Barbie, you're not 'The Slayer' anymore. You're one of thousands of Slayers, and the only thing separating you from them is that you're old and washed-up."

Giles' eyes flashed. "That was a terribly stupid thing to say, Kennedy."

"Oh? Old and washed up hit a little too close to home, Rupert?"

"All right," Faith drawled, standing up and cracking her neck. "That's it. I'm sayin' we recess so I can kick some uppity bitch ass. Form a line."

"Faith..."

"What?" Faith demanded. "Look, I know you're wicked pissed, Ken, don't blame ya. But your girlfriend just found out she got knocked up against her will by the Powers-That-Meddle, and it ain't pretty when I think you're bein' a brat, yo."

Silence fell, and Faith whirled to Cordelia. "And you. You havin' fun, huh? Some particular reason you wanted to drop this bomb in front of everyone? They kissed. In high school. Get over it. Christ!"

Her words echoed and hung in the air, silence except for Willow's soft sobs, everyone else staring blankly.

"Perhaps we ought to move onto the third part of the prophecy," Giles said quietly.

"Er... yeah," Cordelia replied. "I, um... that's the, uh, part about Spike."

"The soulless Champion."

"Cordy," Angel said quietly. "I think we've kinda passed the listening stage. Why don't we adjourn for now. I think people have... stuff to say to each other."