As The Romans Do
Helga Von Nutwimple

25. Under The Bamboo Tree

And for those of you playing at home, kids, that final score would be Stalagtite: five and Xander Harris' fist: zero!

Xander sunk down against the stone wall, cradling his bloodied knuckles in his lap, frantically trying to make his thoughts assemble themselves in logical order.

Anya Willow baby going to be a father going to be a father Anya holy crap Willow Anya Anya baby my baby my baby with Willow going to be a father going to be a father going to be a sack of shit just like my dad oh God Anya...

Coherence didn't seem to be arriving any time soon.

Xander reached for his neck with his good hand, scrabbling for the chain that disappeared under his shirt, yanking it over his head, staring at the jewelry he held in his hand.

It was a ring.

An engagement ring.

Quite a bit bigger than the first one he'd bought her; he'd thought she would like that.

He'd known better than to propose right before yet another apocalypse; that was the sort of thing that got your nose broken by by dainty little ex-vengeance-demon fists.

He'd thought he'd propose to her after.

Of course... there hadn't been an after.

 

---

There were many curse words Ripper knew that Giles did not normally use.

At the moment, he was utilizing all of them.

Pacing back and forth, the unrolled scroll of the Shanshu Cycle lying across his bed, seeming to stare at him balefully.

It wasn't the only one.

In his mind's eye, he could see them. Buffy, still brunette, sixteen and wide-eyed and plump-cheeked in those ridiculously short dresses, before the burdens of the Slayer had chiseled away all her innocence, whittled her body down to a gaunt, wiry fighting machine, with green eyes that glittered in anger and confusion and loss.

Willow, pale and eager, shy and small, framed in red, so easily overcome with joy, so quick to cry, emotions flitting naked over the ready canvas of her face, eyes full of curiousity, a hunger for knowledge... a hunger that would make her an addict, a murderer, would use her up and twist her from the inside, hollowing her out to fill her with darkness.

Xander, ungainly and awkward and bumbling and utterly brave, unaware of the power he held within, certain in his own inferiority and rushing into the breach regardless, embracing doom again and again from sheer dumb loyalty, pure unadulterated heart... sins of omission, sins of good intent, piling up around him until the blood on his hands ran as thickly as the others.

Every one of them manipulated, used, childhoods stolen, forged into weapons. They worried about apocalypses when they should have worried about prom dates, attended funerals instead of pep rallies, and now they were, almost certainly, going to die fighting this battle... but not before they were once again twisted to suit the purposes of the nameless, faceless puppetmasters on whose strings they dangled.

And there was not one damned thing he could do to protect them.

There never had been.

All he could do was... Watch.

 

---

Buffy turned the Polaroid over and over in her fingers.

He'd won his soul for her. Lost it for her.

So once again... Spike was an evil, soulless thing.

Who had gotten crucified to rescue Angel's son.

Who had apparently spent months in L.A. saving innocent people.

Who'd saved Angel's life, repeatedly.

No chip. No soul. No hope that she'd ever love him or ever find out what he was doing.

Gunn?

Hey, Buffy. Meeting got kinda heavy, huh? Cordy's somethin' else.

Tell me about him? Please?

Gunn's words had triggered Spike's own memories in Buffy's mind, the few of them from that time that Willow had passed on; Buffy had felt his impotent rage, wandering the halls where the demon that had tortured and broken him was worshipped as a savior and rewarded... once again reduced, so much worse than the chip, not only unable to hurt, unable to do anything...

Had delighted with him at needling Angel, flirting with Fred, cracking up Lorne, anything to provoke a reaction, anything to be able to have an effect, anything to prove he still existed in the world.

Had stared at the phone with him, thinking of calling Rome, thinking of how pathetic that would be, with Fred holding the receiver up to his ghostly ear and her sweet little face overcome with pity.

Had shagged Harmony on a desk with him, his eyes screwed closed, begging Harmony not to talk, not to ruin the illusion, the only part of her he would look at her long blonde hair.

Had walked to the docks and almost gotten on a boat. Had stared into the night, the water, remembering, imagining. And had turned around and left.

Had mourned Fred, trying desperately to get drunk on tiny airplane bottles, memories mixing in Spike's mind... Fred and Dawn and Buffy herself, her broken body lying at the foot of the tower, the side of the bathtub.

Remembering his guilt. His remorse. His agony. His hope, his despair, his love. God, no wonder he could make her feel, he had enough feelings for ten people, churning through him constantly, a never-ending onslaught of emotion.

Her evil, soulless thing, who couldn't feel anything real.

If that's what he's like without a soul at all... what the hell is wrong with me?

 

---

There was a little black spot on the wall, and it had Willow's full attention.

Kennedy was yelling. Kennedy had been yelling for a long time. It was loud. It hurt her ears. And the fact that Willow hadn't said one word since Kennedy had started yelling seemed to be making Kennedy yell louder.

Willow was thinking about many things. Yellow crayons and a time she'd gotten ice cream on her nose. Hippo dignity and little Pez witches. Extra-flamey candles and Miss Kitty Fantastico. The way Warren Mears' flayed flesh had sparkled purple and red in the moonlight. How she used to babysit and the babies wouldn't stop crying no matter what she did and how helpless she'd felt and how part of her had wanted to throw them against a wall and scream for them to shut up. How easily she could imagine Xander as a father, and the bewildering little warm Betty-Crockery feeling that gave her.

She wasn't really thinking about Kennedy; she didn't need to think about Kennedy, that situation had been perfectly distilled over a year ago, when she had sat on a cot in the basement.

Your new bint's got a helluva mouth on her, yeah?

Ghost-pale muscles moving in the dimness, the flame of a Zippo.

Don't make the face, Red. You don't have to make the face. I get it. Believe me, I get it. Harmony, right? Couldn'ta been less like Dru if I'd special-ordered her. No danger there. Knew I was safe from m'self.

The clink as the lighter shut.

There's a quality, yeah? Dog Boy and Glinda and even the whelp, they all got it, don't they? Your little Slayer doesn't. And you'll need it, when you're ready to be happy again.

I'm...

No, you're not, pet. But you will be.

Willow's mind was stretching for some way to make this good, to make this work, trying to force herself to stay in the light parts of her brain, where the ideas involved self-sacrifice and compromise and sturdy good sense.

The dark side of her brain, the voice she tried so hard to ignore, spoke of easy fixes in seductive tones. For the good. Always for the good. Spoke of how very easy it would be to fix this, simply fix this, draw big thick black lines around it so it looked like a coloring book page, all simple and straightforward.

And if you like-a me like
I like-a you
And we like-ee both the same...

Tara had adored that movie, had adored most Steve Martin movies, actually; she could quote "The Jerk" nearly verbatim, periodically bursting out in exclamations about thermoses, special purposes, or phone books before giggling helplessly to herself.

But Willow had loved "The Man With Two Brains" best, because the brain in the jar had reminded her of Tara, with her soft little voice and her aching sweetness. She could feel for Steve Martin, wanting to keep that woman in his life by any means possible.

Any means possible.

I like-a say
This very day
I like-a change your name...

They'd watched it once naked, Willow's head pillowed in the soft swell of Tara's breasts, Tara's arms wrapped around her, blankets twined around them, and Tara had sung along... her lilting, pure voice joining with the brain's onscreen, love rushing up inside Willow until it seemed like it would make her explode.

'Cause I love-a you
And lov-a you true
And if you love-a me...

Steve Martin had installed the brain into his horribly bitchy wife, giving the sweet, good brain a corporeal form of her very own, and they'd all lived happily ever after.

Happily ever after.

Happily ever after was of the good.

Willow's eyes were beginning to darken.

One live as two...

Tara was in Dawnie, and Dawnie needed her own body back.

Two live as one...

And there really wasn't any reason for Dawnie not to have her own body back, was there? Willow was very, very, very good at that spell.

And Kennedy was still yelling. She was very, very loud. Shrill. Like Kathleen Turner in that movie, when they'd all lived happily ever after.

Willow turned slowly to face Kennedy, her eyes shining like onyx.

Under the bamboo tree.

 

As The Romans Do
Helga Von Nutwimple

 

26. Tacos

"Man, okay... wow... you really like tacos," Tara laughed, watching as Illyria crunched down on her fifth one, a smear of taco sauce across her cheek.

"Yeah," she grinned back. "These are just okay, but oh, there's this place in L.A. near the Hyperion where they're to die for. And their queso dip is just... ohh. It's the only place in California I've found that makes queso dip like they do at home. Isn't that weird? Y'know, Mexican food, you'd think you take it out of Mexico and it'd all be the same, but nope. Queso dip's different everywhere. I took Spike there once, when he first got his corporeal form back. It's so funny that he eats, y'know? Angel never does. I meant to research that... but, y'know, stuff's always happening..."

Illyria looked at Tara's pale, stricken face, her smile fading as one thin hand rose to pat her new haircut. "What? Is it the hair? Does it look stupid? You think Wesley's gonna hate it?"

"No, no, it's p-pretty. You look nice as a redhead. I'm just not very used to you in this... uh... mode yet."

"Oh!" Illyria grinned. "Yeah, it is kinda weird, huh? Didn't think I oughta walk around the mall in the leather bodysuit and, y'know, the whole blue thing. Well, unless we go into Hot Topic..."

She crunched back into her taco.

"So, um... should I call you Illyria when you're... like this? Or would you rather be called Fred?"

Illyria swallowed, her tongue darting out to snag a piece of wayward lettuce from her lip. "Oh, you can just call me Fred. Kinda goes with the package. I mean, do I look like a God-King right now?"

Tara cast her eyes over the woman across the food court table from her, hair newly permed and dyed red, all little giggles and snorty laughter and manic movements. "You are a bit too... adorable."

"You don't think it makes me look like Little Orphan Annie?"

"Wha... oh! The hair! No, your hair looks good. Looks great."

"How come you didn't do anything? You didn't even get a trim."

"Well," Tara smiled. "My body's a loaner. Don't want to lose my deposit."

Fred's taco drooped to the paper plate, her eyes meeting Tara's pleadingly. "Do you think Wesley will be able to look at me now?"

Tara bit her lip. "I don't know, Fred, I..."

"Tara?" Fred queried, reaching across the table. "Tara... you're kinda goin' spacey on me..."

Blood dripped from Tara's lip; she bitten through it, her eyes rolling up until only whites remained, her hands clawing into the tabletop.

"Tara? Tara? Tara, say something..."

Tara thrashed in the plastic chair, the music from the carousel seeming to slow and bend around them as Fred leapt to her side. "Tara, can you hear me? Are you epileptic? Was Dawn? Is this a seizure?"

Fred sprung back, her eyes roaming the food court, falling on a set of chopsticks on an abandoned tray. She grabbed them, reaching for Tara. "Honey, open up, I need to give you something to bite down on, okay?"

Tara lurched forward, her neck snapping back, her arms shooting out, knocking tacos and sodas and trays to the floor, napkins sailing slowly down to earth, her purse flying after...

And the sound of breaking glass as something inside of it shattered on impact.

 

---

The Polaroid fluttered out of Buffy's fingers as she slumped onto the floor.

 

---

"No."

Xander's voice was quiet, controlled, a corset on rage; he opened his bloodied fist, making a circling gesture... and Willow gaped as the lavender fire that had begun to surround her was pulled towards him, stretched out like spinning wool, flowing into his palm, the blackness draining from Willow's eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Kennedy rasped.

"Saving your ass," Xander replied in that same cold, calm tone, magic crackling in a haze around him.

Willow could only blink. "Xander?"

"Real bad idea, Will. Top Ten of all time."

"Xander, I..."

"Kennedy," Xander said, "Get out of here."

"Who the hell do you..."

Xander's eyes remained fixed on Willow's. "Kennedy. I could make you. Or you could go. Your choice."

"You? You? You can't make me do..."

Xander met her eyes then, and Kennedy gasped. "This is for your own good, Kennedy. You don't want to be in this room right now."

"I'm not going anywhere..."

"Kennedy, I just sucked up an assload of really black magic. I am so not feeling the niceness right now, especially towards you. So I really suggest you make with the gone before I remember that you called me fat."

Kennedy inflated. "You want to fight? Bring it, mister."

"He's busy," Faith drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "How 'bout I bring it instead?"

 

As The Romans Do
Helga Von Nutwimple

 

27. War Rations

My name is

(Dawn Porter)

(Buffy Anne)

Summers, and I am

(eighteen)

(twenty-three)

years old. I am the

(Key)

(Vampire Slayer)

My mother's name was Joyce. My father's name is Hank. And this

(hurts)
(hurts)
(HURTS)
(HURTS)
(oh God it burns)
(It burns)

Buffy rolled upright unsteadily, grabbing out for purchase on the wall, her screams fading to hysterical laughter as helpless tears streamed down her cheeks.

Her mom

(our mom)

had read her a story as a child. This guy had put iron bands around his heart for some reason, and he'd gotten so happy because of something that his heart had swelled and they'd all snapped.

Buffy

(Dawn)

had always wondered how that felt.

And now they knew.

Pain. Joy. Loss. Rage. Love.

It burned.

Oh, God, it burned.

Memories, both real and manufactured, smashing together and fusing

(so you were the one who borrowed my shirt)
(I knew you told on me)
(That's what happened to Mr. Gordo?)
(You let Mom think I did that?)

Events bulging outwards in lurid 3-D, two separate viewpoints combining

(oh Dawnie, I never knew you were so sad)
(Buffy if I'd only known)
(Oh my God, you never told me)
Thoughts rolling and tumbling and competing for dominance

(Dawn why didn't you ever)
(Buffy I couldn't have known)

Each beat of her heart seeming to resonate, her body stretched taut,

(I don't understand)
(What's happening to us?)
(Dawnie, what did you do?)
(Buffy, what did you do?)

Images colliding behind her eyes with violent force

(Oh my God, that light coming through the floor)
(Oh my God, he's by the stairs, he's burning alive)
(That light, it's that necklace thing, that's Spike, but...)
(He's dying, I can feel him dying)
(I can feel him die)
(He can't die, I never told him)
(He can't die, I never told him)
(I love you)
(I love you)

And the force of it hits her, this place where she and Dawn intersect, and it seems to shatter her from within, and God, she'd wanted to feel... but not like this, not this much, this is insane, this is overwhelming and how does anyone deal with this and oh my God is this what Willow felt, is this how much it hurt? No wonder...

She can't think, there are too many people in here, all of her thoughts melting into each other

I got my board in the water and the chalk all ran...

It has to stop she has to make it stop oh God it has to stop it's too much it hurts no one can hold this much no one can feel this much oh God...

She is unaware that she is keening, rocking back and forth. She is unaware that she has drawn bloody scratches down her arms, into her chest. She does not hear Gunn's shocked questions when he finds her, or feel it when he lifts her into his arms.

---------------------------------------------------

Tara opened her eyes, feeling the sticky grit of the food court floor beneath her, feeling thin arms around her. She was propped on someone's lap, a hand stroking her hair.

Fred. Only... her eyes were that Illyria-blue, and Tara wasn't really sure which one of them it was at all.

"I do not believe you are in possession of 'a loaner' any longer, Witch."

"W-what?"

"The Orb in your bag has shattered. The essence within has returned to its original host."

Tears stung Tara's eyes. "Oh... Dawnie..."

"I do not understand your grief in this situation. Nothing has truly been lost. According to your earlier narration, this was what the essence desired, and now you have your own corporeal form. It would appear that this is the type of scenario known as 'win-win'."

"B-but... Dawn... she was..."

"We are attracting undesired attention in this complex. Are you capable of standing?"

Tara stood shakily with Illyria's help, brushing off the back of her legs.

"I am curious on one point. Now that you are the only owner of the shell, do you plan to continue your current struggle?"

"M-my struggle? I... don't understand."

"I am aware of the effort you are exerting to remain a separate entity from your shell. I once exerted this effort. I have found it significantly less draining, if periodically disconcerting, to cease to expend the effort."

"But... this is Dawn's body. I h-have to give it back."

"If your discussions with us on the nature of the shell's creation were accurate, you cannot 'give it back'. The essence has rejoined itself. Even if you were to split it again, I doubt you would receive identical entities."

"Dawn's... gone? Forever?"

"The essence is not 'gone'. The essence has returned to where it belonged."

"But... I still remember her."

"No spell was done to alter reality. While I felt the presence of magic, that was not its purpose."

"I think I need to sit down."

"Very well. You sit. I will continue to eat these tacos. They are pleasing to me."

---------------------------------------------------

"All right," Spike said, his eyebrow quirking slightly at the echo of his own voice in the hall. "I bloody well hate givin' speeches. So listen up."

"Some of you know me. Some of you've heard of me. Cautionary tale for vampires, right? William the Bloody got chipped. William the Bloody got a soul. William the Bloody's the Slayer's lapdog. I hear the stories."

"But I'm standin' here because I'm alive. Because I survived. Right now, I'm the oldest Aurelian vampire... probably somethin' you'd all like to be someday. You can't do that unless you're willin' to change. Adapt. Do things you don't like, that go contrary to your nature."

"Big battle goin' on right now, underneath our noses. Good vs. Evil. Classic thing."

"Now, we're vampires, so normally, pickin' a side's not that difficult. Go Big Evil, right? But here's the thing, mates. I know this Big Evil, and I know what it wants. Annihilation of the whole buggerin' planet. And guess what? All of you are on that planet. It goes down, you go with it. We're top of the food pyramid, kiddies... and that means that if the pyramid collapses, we fall on our collective asses. Big dusty deaths all around. No more me, and what I think you might find a bit more motivational, no more you."

"Bein' a vampire's great, innit? Want. Take. Have. Thing is, if Evil wins, there's not gonna be bugger-all to want, take, or have. Quick painful death... if you're lucky. Slow, excruciating starvation, if you're not."

"But if Good wins... status quo stays in place, you follow? Lots of lovely deluded people to eat... runnin' around makin' more people for you to eat later. Things to smash, things to steal. Everything you bloody like about your lives, you take from the humans. They're our food, our lives, the source of everythin'. If we want to live, we've got to protect the source of life."

"I'm proposin' a temporary alliance with the forces of Good. Save 'em now, eat 'em later. Make 'em think we're on their sides, get what we want, then kill 'em. And if that ain't evil, I don't know what is."

"Thing is... we wanna do this, we've got to get 'em to trust us. Temporarily. And if there's a vamp knows somethin' about getting humans to trust you despite all the shit you've pulled, it's me."

"Why don't humans trust us? Main thing. We kill 'em. Can't blame 'em, yeah?"

"So we quit." Spike waited as cries of indignation echoed around the cavern. "How many times I gotta use the word 'temporarily'? You were all human once. You know what it is to go on a diet. You give up somethin' tasty, you get somethin' even better in return, am I right? You lot seriously tellin' me that you're such gluttons you can't bag it for a few months to save your own lives?"

He stood his ground, waiting for the grumbling to pass. "Right. So first order of business, we get on the good side of the people who are gonna keep this world in existance. An' we gotta do that fast. Not enough to quit eatin' em. We've gotta help 'em."

Loud cries of disbelief, and at least one audible You've gotta be shittin' me!

"Humans wanna like us, mate. The poor sods really do. Look at the bloody films! Prettyboy Brad Pitt and that poof Tom Cruise glidin' around in eveningwear? Keifer Bloody Sutherland? Gary Oldman? For cryin' out loud, Winona Bleedin' Ryder? We laugh, but we can use it. Humans think we're all dark n' mysterious n' sexy. In my case, they're right. They wanna think we're misunderstood n' pretty n' secretly good. Let's let 'em think it."

"Most of you are pretty old. Gettin' a bit bored, aren't you? Wake up, bite people, lather rinse repeat. I'm offerin' you somethin' new. Somethin' different. A game. A damned fun game, for the biggest prize of all -- not bein' dead."

"So we lay off the humans for a while. Think of it as bein' on war rations. We're still fightin' and scrappin' and bein' ourselves, only now we're gonna concentrate on fightin' the real enemy. The people tryin' to destroy this world we like so much. Evil demons, hell-creatures, other bloodlines o' vamps... whatever the Big Bad's got workin' for it. And here's the thing, mates -- when we're done savin' the world? Not only have we left all the little Happy Meals runnin' around pumpin' their sweet, sweet plasma... we've taken out the competition."

"I think I've laid it out pretty plain, but let me sum up. If you're with me, we get a fuckin' glorious bloody fight and we save our world. If you're against me, you just committed slow suicide."

Spike stopped his pacing, crossing his arms. "So. Who's with me?"

 

As The Romans Do
Helga Von Nutwimple

30. Triplicate

Please, Wesley... why can't I stay?

Why can't I stay?

Wesley jerked upright in the hotel bed, sheets tangled around him, and put his head in his hands... trying to calm his frantic gasps to a volume that wouldn't wake up his companions.

"I'm m-making tea," a voice said quietly. "Do you want some?"

He turned bleary eyes on Tara, still unused to seeing those wise, quiet eyes peeking out of a face he remembered best at twelve, shrieking through Buffy's house in a flurry of long brown hair and preteen energy.

Those memories aren't real. Dawn was never there, never hero-worshipped Faith just to irritate Buffy, never interrupted Scooby meetings, never called you Watcher Prissy-Pants. It didn't happen, no more than Connor...

Wesley let out another soft groan then; more guilt, excellent.

"You had another nightmare about Fred," Tara said, a statement not a question.

"They are... somewhat incessant." He reached for his glasses on the bedside table.

"Well... there's tea. Kind of, um, coffee-flavored...? I tried to clean the machine, but... y'know. But hey, more caffiene, less sleep, less nightmares...?"

"In that case, tea sounds excellent."

He watched her pad barefoot back into the bathroom... the shy, mothering white witch whose death had inspired a psychotic killing spree.

Wesley had always felt a bizarre kinship with Willow Rosenburg, a similarity he'd been unable to pinpoint back in their days of near-constant contact; an annoyance, a word on the tip of his tongue.

The parallels had snapped into place slowly afterwards; The Dark Dweeb, magically-inclined right hand of the Champion.

If he'd had the power to flay Knox with a wave of his hand, would he have done it?

Oh, yes. Yes, he would have.

Only... he would have done it much slower.

His gaze shifted then, across the beige-carpeted valley between the double beds, where the God-King Illyria slept peacefully beneath a pastel painting of a golf course.

She slept on whim, seemingly compelled from boredom rather than exhaustion, like sleep was a sort of screen-saver.

He wondered if she dreamt, and of what.

Soft footsteps; Tara had returned, handing him a hotel mug before settling herself cross-legged at the foot of his bed and blowing softly across the surface of her own.

"You like her," Tara whispered, looking at Illyria.

"Fred? 'Like' hardly encompasses it..."

"I meant Illyria. You like her, too. And not just because she looks like Fred."

Wesley paused. "I hated her. She killed Fred. I tried to kill her. I... failed."

"But you don't feel that way anymore."

"I..." Wesley sipped his tea. "I have no idea. It is... complex. Illyria is... she is certainly very interesting."

"She cares about you."

"I'm not sure if that is accurate. Humans are so beneath her. She is, after all, a god."

"Would you get rid of her? If you could?"

"To bring Fred back? Oh God, yes. But... I have a certain... affection for Illyria. I suppose if I were wishing, I should like to have them both around."

"But you can't," Tara whispered, her hands wrapping around her mug.

Wesley's eyes darkened. "Tara, there was nothing further you could have done. What you had already done was remarkable. You saved Spike, and you did the best you could for Dawn..."

"She's stuck out there, Wesley. It's horrible. I... I know."

One eyebrow lifted. "Tara... how do you know?"

"I like the way you say my name. Tah-rah, all soft. Reminds me of Giles..."

"How do you know?"

Tara sighed. "When I died... W-Willow was so angry. She... she couldn't bring me back, but her anger, the... the force of her will... it w-wouldn't let me go. I got... trapped here. I watched Willow go insane, I watched Dawn cry for hours over my body... and once I figured out how to move myself, I watched Willow flay Warren, hurt everyone, nearly end the world... and there was nothing I could do to stop it, nothing."

"Oh, Tara..." Wesley said in horror.

"I hoped she'd figure it out, set me free. Especially when the First came back as everyone but me... I t-tried to talk to them, tried to do anything... but all I could do was watch."

Tara fisted her sweater in both hands, staring at her knees. "When they left the country? After Sunnydale was destroyed? They left me behind. I couldn't travel fast enough to follow them... and then I didn't know where they were. Sunnydale was gone. The only place I knew I could eventually get to... where I might hear something... was where Angel was."

Wesley blinked in surprise. "You were at Wolfram & Hart."

"When I saw Spike was a ghost, I was so hopeful." Tears shone in Tara's eyes. "I mean, he and I weren't ever really close, but the thought... the thought of having someone to talk to, someone who could see me..."

"But he couldn't see you, could he?" Wesley said gently.

Tara shook her head. "Even Pavayne couldn't. Which was good, I guess...? I mean, getting fed to Hell, not so great... but sort of the final straw? I wasn't... I wasn't even a ghost. I was... less than a ghost."

"And now you're afraid you didn't do everything in your power to help Dawn."

"I was so... so miserable, Wesley. And now I'm really alive again. At Dawn's expense. How can I live with that? I m-mean, I t-tried to do the right thing, to protect her, b-but I... I failed. I failed. And I can't stop thinking about everything I could have done differently... what the heck was I doing, carrying the Orb in my purse? I should have had it somewhere safer, I should have..."

Wesley shut his eyes, breathing deeply. "Tara, if you're going to quote my autobiography, I do hope I get royalties."

"Huh?"

"'I Failed', by Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. And I just keep adding chapters. One might have thought my death would be the epilogue... and oh, did I mention that I was the only one on the team not to complete my objective? Illyria had to kill my target for me." Wesley sighed, running his thumb over the rim of his mug. "I'm thinking of having my father write the preface, only I suspect his litany of my shortcomings would stretch it into several volumes."

"Illyria hates your father."

Wesley did a double-take. "What?"

"She mentioned him... earlier, at the mall? I was talking about my dad. She said your father was an emasculating, pompous insect who should crawl before you, um, said something about ripping out his spine? She also said he was a 'wanker'... I guess Spike is kind of rubbing off on her."

"Illyria... called my father... a wanker?"

Tara nodded.

"I take back my earlier 'suppose'," Wesley said, something dangerously close to real laughter coloring his voice. "I would definitely like to keep them both."
 

---

"All right," Angel growled, channeling what seemed to be a world-class freak-out into championship pacing. "I'm sick of this diaspora crap. I want Connor here. I want Wes and Illyria here. And God help me, I even want Spike here. Are you done with that locator spell yet, Xander?"

"Oh, I'm done," Xander said. "This is me gaping in confusion."

Gunn leaned over Xander's shoulder. "So, what's the purple dot?"

"Well, technically there shouldn't be a purple dot. There should be one red Buffy-dot and one blue Dawn-dot. Instead, we have confusing purple crapness."

"As I feared," Giles sighed, removing his glasses.

Xander whipped around to face him. "Why's everything gotta be 'as I feared' or 'as I suspected'? Once, just once, can you jump in the air squealing 'Holy moley, I had no idea!' and then maybe run around screaming like a girl?"

"I don't like to infringe on your territory," Giles glared.

Angel ignored them. "So, 'as you feared'... what did you fear?"

"Buffy has been... integrated," Giles sighed. "Whatever part of her the monks removed to make Dawn... it's been put back."

Gunn raised an eyebrow. "That's why she was singin' 'bout Indian food?"

"I would imagine the process is rather traumatic. Possibly not as dramatic as that undergone by Angel and Spike, as Buffy only had half a soul return, but..."

"Y'know, I thought I knew what a soul was," Gunn protested. "Never involved any damn fractions."

"I don't think any of us can properly say what a soul is, Charles. Look at the different effects getting one had on Angel and Spike. Angel is completely different; Spike is so similar that he lost his and no one even noticed. Dawn's soul seems to have arrived with Dawn's memories... I can only surmise, Angel, that your soul did not do the same because none were formed... wherever it was."

"Let's save the theology discussion for another day, shall we?" Xander interrupted. "Just tell me what spell I gotta do to put Dawn back in Dawn's body."

"Xander, if we'd known the exact details of how the monks made Dawn..."

"So we'll figure it out, right? Those guys gotta have records somewhere!"

"And where would that be, Xander?" Giles challenged. "The scenic crater that is Sunnydale?"

"What exactly do you want me to do here?" Xander snapped. "Leave Buffy cookoo for cocoa puffs and singing about cheese when we're frozen in the headlights of an oncoming apocalypse?"

Giles hung his head. "Xander, Dawn is part of Buffy and moreover, always was. Perhaps we shouldn't try to remove her again."

"Am I the only one bothered that Dawn is dead?"

"She isn't technically dead, Xander. She never really existed. She was always a part of Buffy... and I suspect she will be again, once the initial shock is over. I think our efforts might be better spent in helping Buffy adjust rather than trying to split her soul in half again."

Xander closed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them. "Reveale."

A sheet of parchment flamed to life on the table in front of them, and Giles' eyes narrowed. "Xander... are you... communicating with Willow in some way we're unaware?"

"Yeah... that creepy way she used to talk in our heads? Goes both ways now. Pretty cool, huh? Don't even need to touch her to drain her anymore, which helps with the freako lust." Xander picked up the parchment, squinting at it. "Crap, what is this -- some kind of demon language?"

Gunn stuck out his hand. "Pass it over."

"Xander," Giles said carefully, "You haven't... you haven't had much training, and you saw firsthand what magic did to..."

"Don't worry, Giles," Xander laughed. "I'm not gonna be putting dancing guys in cages or gettin' freaky with the black magic crack."

Giles coughed. "Xander... I certainly don't mean to insult you, but you are somewhat... impetuous... particularly when, ah, emotions are involved..."

"Hey! I'm not..."

"No, you're just the guy who tried to decapitate Spike for sleeping with your ex-girlfriend," Gunn chuckled, eyes still on the parchment.

"Really?" Angel grinned. "Why didn't anyone tell me this funny, funny story?"

"It was part of my and Spike's Wes/Fred discussion," Gunn traced his finger down the page. "There was tequila involved."

"Hey!" Xander protested, "Riley staked Spike with that plastic stake just for..."

"Again, these are very pleasant stories that nobody's bothered to share..."

"It's K'Hortian," Gunn said, lifting the scroll to indicate it. "Species of demons with a real take-charge attitude towards reincarnation and a hell of a recycling program."

"I've heard of them." Excitement seeped into Giles' voice. "When one dies, they transfer its essence into another body..."

"An unborn K'Hortian, if one's available," Gunn continued. "But if not... they double up. Hence this handy-dandy little integration spell. Can't believe I didn't think of it myself, after those K'Hortian negotiations in February..."

Angel stared at the parchment in Gunn's hands, then at Xander. "You can summon up any spell you need? That's a hell of a talent you're just sharing now..."

"Willow says it has limits. She just hasn't figured out what they are yet. She thinks it might be sorta like those template books of Wesley's you guys mentioned... calling up knowledge? Gunn knew about the K'Hortians, he just didn't remember... Amy knew the de-ratting spell, she was just too ratty to cast it."

"Do you think this will work on Buffy?"

Gunn studied the parchment. "Worth a shot. Better than leaving her raving about N'Sync."

"Having suffered hours of exposure? I'm inclined to agree," Giles sighed.
 

---

"Here ya go," Cordelia said, handing Willow a re-wetted cloth.

Willow did not meet her eyes, Resolve Face in full effect as she tried to still Buffy's thrashing head long enough to apply the compress. "Thanks."

Cordelia regarded the figure on the bed. "Wonder what's going on in there?"

"Dunno. Doesn't look like fun, though..."
 

---

The stake slides into Katrina Silber's chest, her eyes popping open... and they're blue, Spike-blue, staring blankly at the sky.

And Warren Mears goes flying across a bordello-red bedroom, propelled by the weight of Katrina in a French Maid's outfit, kissing him frantically.

"Tell me you love me," Warren demands.

"I love you, Master."

"I love you too, baby," Warren purrs. "Get on your knees."

The crypt door flies open with a bang; Buffy does not do knocking.

"Tell me you love me."

Spike's face lights up. "I love you. You know I do."

"Tell me you want me."

"I always want you," Spike whispers, then gives her the naughty eyebrow. "In point of fact..."

Buffy's lips twitch in disgust. "Shut up."

Katrina rolls bonelessly down the hill, Buffy gasping in horror as her corpse bumps against rocks, gathers fallen leaves...

KilledahumanFaithohgodI'mFaithI'mjustlikeFaith...

And Spike's head slams into the concrete of the alley, the fine angles of his face swollen and blurred, bruises blooming over the pale finery of his skin, frantic fists sinking deeper into muscle, hearing bones crack, something wild and dark and angry blooming in the empty place inside...

And the light goes rainbow, stained-glass turning sunlight to crimson and green and gold, painting dark wood pews and red velvet as Faith, inside Buffy's body, punches her own in the face.

"You're nothing! Disgusting! Murderous bitch! You're nothing! You're disgusting!"

Spike tries to roll over, tries to catch an ankle, one last attempt to keep her from martyring herself, one last night to try and save her from her wish for annihilation...

Too much is broken; his ribs, his arm, his heart. He collapses back onto his back, stares up at the brightening sky, lets out as much of a groan as the punctured lung will let him.

This is the way the world ends, Spike thinks. Not with a bang, but with a whimper...

And then he hears the sound of size eight pink sneakers, pounding beneath the flapping legs of pyjamas; Dawn is screaming Buffy's name... and then his.

"Spike! What happened to you?"

Dawn's hands flutter over Spike's ruined face, wanting to soothe but not finding a safe spot to touch; she settles for wiping the worst of the blood from his mouth with her sleeve.

"What the bleedin' hell you doin' out here, Nibblet? All manner of beasties could have gotten a bite of you..." Spike tries to rise and falls back onto the concrete, Dawn's hand sliding beneath his head a second before it cracks against the pavement.

"Like the ones that got a bite of you? Geez, Spike, what the..."

"Go home, pidge. S'not safe..." Spike peers into Dawn's face. "You been cryin'? Who's made you cry? Bloody well kill 'em..." He coughs up more blood. "In just a minute..."

"Spike, you don't know, I have to stop Buffy, I..."

Dawn's face freezes in horror. Suddenly, she knows.

"You tried to stop Buffy," she whispers.

"Don't know what you're on about, Bit... ran into a bunch of muggers... human, y'know, chip... run on home, I just need a mo'..."

"You don't have a mo, you stubborn... stupid... do you know what time it is?"

Dawn tries to haul Spike to his feet, dropping him with a squeal when she realizes she's grabbed his broken arm. His lips are swelling larger by the moment, his words becoming more slurred, and the alley is getting brighter and brighter and no and no and NO he is not leaving her too, not when she's lost Mom and Giles and Tara have gone away and Buffy might as well be gone and...

She looks around frantically, her eyes falling on the dumpster in the corner. She grabs Spike by the collar and hauls him down the alley, her back shrieking in protest, and how fair is it that stupid Buffy got the Slayer strength if this is what she's going to do with it...?

And then she's opening the dumpster lid, pulling out garbage bags, and oh gross her hands are getting all slimy and it smells like maggots, dropping the bags over Spike, burying him like they're at the beach only with stinky old coffee filters and pizza boxes. She runs her hands over the pile, checking for light leaks, tugging oily rags and crusty hamburger wrappers over the holes. She is gonna shower, like, a million times after this...

"Sorry about the smell and stuff... I'll see if I can get Tara or Clem or something... don't breathe for a while, okay?"

Dawn studies the pile of trash, tears running down her cheeks. "I hate her."

Barely audible: "No, you don't."

"I do so! She's... it's like she's dead inside, like she can't feel anything, she..."

But Spike does not hear her, passed out now, weighted down by garbage and guilt he should not be able to feel,

(you can't feel anything real)

remembering Katrina's pale face as she sank beneath the surface of the water, slowly disappearing, swallowed by shadows,

(you belong in the shadows, with me)

sucked downward by the weights he has placed on her, and he can't be crying, he's the soddin' Big Bad, he doesn't cry, and certainly not for some anonymous bint that was a bloody accident... and why is it he can only see Buffy's face, tinged blue in the moonlit river, growing darker and more alien with each inch she sinks?

The beater, the beaten, the rescuer; Buffy screams as she sinks under the weight of despair in triplicate.