Day 33

11:15 a.m.

Angel sat at the high end of the long wide expanse of highly polished wood. He did a little finger drum thumping.

Pllldddaadaadadadum bump.

Just a nice little rhythm to keep him company in the big sunlit office. He may never get used to that. Not bloody likely.

See now, that’s funny, every since the end, his catch phrases had been popping up in Angels mind. Just don’t go saying them out loud. Now what would Freud have to say about a symptom like that. Not guilt. What had he to feel guilty about in regard to Spike?

Maybe it was nostalgia. Angel couldn’t quite believe that he was grieving over the roasted vamp but he couldn’t shake the feeling of something gone forever and he had to admit to himself, Spike was synonymous with Sunnydale, more so than himself-Spike gone, Sunnydale--gone too. It made sense, and was maybe even right-but he still felt, well, a loss.

An era lost. The slayer had become them slayers. Sunnydale gone and if Spike had been synonymous with Sunnydale and Sunnydale was Buffy--did that made her synonymous with Spike? Inductive reasoning? Whatever will I attempt next.

Angel sighed.

Nostalgia, that’s all it was.

He looked at the sunlight playing on the table while he waited for the call. Hmm what kind of wood is that? An odd purple brown with gold and red highlights. He studied the table suddenly captivated. Hey wait a minute. This table appeared to be seamless. He stood up to study it better, walking around it, ducking his head and checking under. It was seamless. That meant it had to have come as a plank from one single tree. What kind of tree these days could grow so wide? And the answer; Sequoia, or the rainforest or…he shook his head. They were unholy evil bastards after all and it would be a piece of undead poetry to have a testament like this in the office of the big cheese.

That’s me.

Should I get rid of it? Huh. What the hell. Damage was done, and it was damn fine looking table and….wait another minute. How did they get this table in here? The door was only say six feet wide, the center of the table was at least 8 feet. Plus take in the length and having to swing it around and….

There must be another entrance into this room. Perhaps there is a wall that slides in on itself, something like that. Well, well, well, what else hadn’t Lilah told him. Plenty. He was sure. But he wasn’t surprised.

First on the questionnaire had to be: ‘Why had she given him that Amulet?’

Of course the new credo was to serve, serve, serve-so humble, so verrry humble, in her best Uriah Heep. So he could possibly buy that she had served him in order to save Sunnydale which would have been in his interests. Because, after all, what’s an apocalypse or two, another one could be brewing around the corner. But had she intended for Angel to wear the Amulet? She must have known that he would have-if Buffy hadn’t stopped him-if another candidate had not been available. But how could she have counted on those factors? So the real question was, why bring him in here, go through all this song and dance just to kill him? Seems so convoluted.

His cell phone rang.

As he picked it up off the table and swung it open, he wondered idly, does Dru know?

Probably.

“Hello…Buffy?”

*

Day 47

6:03 a.m.

Ronnie Jablonski would be turning 45 next month in August. But mile markers in life meant nothing to her now, ever since her family ceased to exist. So did the importance attached to the odd ends of the picks and pains of day to day life. Being 45 meant nothing to her now. Absolutely nothing. It held the same empty space that her dead nieces lay in. Her two precious girls killed by some monsters that never should have existed outside of a Ridley Scott romp. Vampires.

She had taken the girls in after her sister had died. Gave up her life on the road as a Stage Manager, a life she had dearly loved, for a steady job, a steady home for her two dear girls and never looked back. Remember Lot’s wife.

Nancy and Svetlana were 16 and 20, respectively. She had taken a midnight shift job so she could be there for the girls during the day. But it was all about the night, wasn’t it? She knew that now. And didn’t kick herself for not knowing it then. No point in that nonsense. The girls had stepped out for a moment, just a moment, 15 minutes tops to get some ice cream on a hot summer night. Ronnie had come from work early, come home feeling strange and sick, something she just never did, ever, and saw the girls walking on the street, side by side, bumping into each other in a friendly way when the two vampires struck them down.

Almost without thinking, she used the weapon she was driving and drove up onto the sidewalk, startling one of the things, making it run off and pinning the other beneath the driver side front tire.

She hadn’t handled roadies for 15 years and not learned a few ‘people’ skills along the way.

All that, but it was too late. The girls throats had been ripped out, jugulars gone. And she sat with them on the curb, waiting for the ambulance, sitting there, to be close to her girls, while staring at the snapping, snarling thing under her car. When she thought back on it, that’s what bothered her the most. The last moments on Earth with her beloved nieces and it was upstaged by that thing she felt compelled to stare at. Had too. When the cops came, one of them knew what to do and quickly, without comment, staked the thing to dust. She remembered that. Always. Because she had to believe that such evil could not exist, could not walk the face of the earth without recourse. It just wouldn’t be fair.

She didn’t mind a tough life. Hell, she loved a fight. But there had to be rules. There had to be recourse. God could never be that cruel…or lazy.

She had a choice. Insanity or obsession. And, granted, obsession might be just another version of tamed insanity. But she could deal. She could peel away all the roadblocks that said ‘don’t’.

She became obsessed, sold everything, bought a Chevy blazer, and camped out in the back. And because she lived in her car and called it ‘home’, she was protected at night by the “invite” clause in the vampire’s handbook. Still, she took other precautions and wore the biggest, baddest, most blessed crucifix a charitable donation could buy. Sprayed her car down in holy water and in the back was her stake out equipment for the road. There were boxes of supplies, survival kits, and of course her video equipment. She would stake out a hot spot and tape the creatures of the night and their machinations.

This is what she could do. This was a thing she was good at. Tape it all, edit and download it on to her web site. Shatter ignorance. Break the blissed out oblivion. Information helped to break the ground for free will choice. How can somebody use their free will choice if they don’t even know what the hell is going on? Fight back. Do it on the internet, cable access, whatever. She would post eyewitness accounts and have the footage to back it up, if she had it. Oh yeah, baby, she was in the game and a major player--1,500 hits a day and climbing.

And now she didn’t give a dam, a hoot in holler or a holy moly about anything, except:

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

“Mud slide my ass…”

She realized with a smile that without the proper punctuation, that could be a rather unsavory invocation. Be careful what you ask for Ronnie. She always had a concern for the shape and condition of her body. And all this laying about on a stakeout-well, softy, soft baby tissue to the touch .that’s what you’ve become. She did, thank god, have the gift of amusing herself--which did not necessarily make her a ‘laughingstock’ (hee, hee). With herself, being her own and best company and comfort, it was good she never bored herself, and kept the monologues a rockin’.

“Mudslide…this was no mudslide…”

It had been a little over a month and ‘They’ that is, ‘the man’ hadn’t filled the deep and almost mile wide crater that was Sunnydale. ‘They’ hadn’t done that yet, the way ‘they’ did the site of the Oklahoma City bombing. All guessing and clues related to the inconsistent presentation of available facts and been buried alive and forever under tar--the new millenniums version of the prehistoric tar pit.

Yahoo irony.

But not here, not yet. And so she camped out day and night, because you would be stunned silly and the kind and quality of material that just a little patience could reap.

She saw him first in the pop aside view finder of her video camera that she had left running on a tripod. Hmmm. At first she thought it was an old tape running. Some old tape of…

“What’s this?”

She looked up to see, (mouth agape) at what had to be the most beautifully proportioned man she had ever seen. And she had seen her share of actors, musicians and muscled roadies. Her first thought was, well…how he fit together. Here she was slack jawed astonished at the nonsequitur of a naked man crawling up and over the lip of the mysterious crater of ex Sunnydale.

Timing was everything. Oh boy indeed.

It was his beauty that kept her still. And of course she had to look at his danglies. I mean there they were, all dangling. Venus out from the half shell, straight from the mind of Zeus, no wait that was Athena, and double wait, both of those were girls-was there a male version?

What is the masculine derivative for Venus - - Ve-nut? Oh man.

Not that he was huge or anything, but a lot of men, that is, their danglies, just look, well, awkward. Like they don’t were to go or be, ‘should I stand up when a lady comes in the room?’ ‘Should I sit down?’ Just awkward. But on him, his danglies looked like a gift.

The mid morning sun was in his eyes, so he didn’t see Ronnie right away and gave her a chance to make sure he was in focus and in frame, (and get some more ripe footage.)

The morning sun hit him like a spotlight and she should know she could pin point a spot light from the back of any theatre. In the old days, that is.

His light brown hair was lit up to almost gold. The light stroked the harsh straight plains of this face that were in contrast to a soft mouth in a very firm chin. And those eyes. Well, ‘gasp,’ was enough said.

And power. Even in her dazed, discombobulated condition, she could feel power rolling away from him, in, well…waves. Power. Charisma.

Who was he?

Could he possibly be a survivor? Buried alive all this time? But as soon as she got that thought she dismissed it-look at the condition of his body-there were scrapes and cuts but they looked new-probably from the climb. No signs of dehydration, or starvation.

A distraught family member returning to the scene of the crime-lost in grief? Man. She knew what grief could do to you. (Insanity or obsession….hmmm, which one of these?)

“Hey Buddy....Hey...”

She kept her voice low and soft, the one she used to woo stray kitty cats and she was good at it. Being all alone on the road, her only companions were the wild things, the leftovers of this world.

“Hey Buddy….whatcha’ got going on over there?”

He turned toward her voice and regarded her. Not distraught, no he didn’t look in distress. More like - asleep. Yeah. Svetlana used to walk in her sleep. He was like that. Absolutely.

Don’t wake him up. That was the rule. Lead him gently to safety and let a sleepwalker wake up, gradual like. O.K. Now that she knew what to do. She did it.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

They were standing at the back of her Blazer, tale gate open, rear glass up to help conceal him from, you know, from curious eyes and (the eyes in the sky). Satellites. Government big time spooking. They gotta have this place staked out for surveillance. Gotta. She would have. If I was them that is. Thank god I’m not.

She thought briefly about a hospital as she dressed him in one of her blue plaid lumberjack shirts. She wasn’t a dyke, she really wasn’t she just liked guy type jobs and wearing guy clothes a little on the large side. Too large even for Buddy here. She pushed him off the tailgate, and slipped the jeans the rest of the way up over his hips.

To hospital or not to hospital. His pulse was steady, even after that climb. ‘Sides the hospitals might still be staked out by ‘them’. They might be looking for post trauma stress victims who might start talking.

Hey. Don’t take anything for granted in this world.

And. Be honest. He came crawling up out of there so maybe he was here when it happened or maybe he knew somebody and came back looking for them. Got stressed out, took all his clothes off and ran amuck. She looked at him closely. He didn’t look dangerous, well yeah, actually he did kinda, but she knew how to take of herself. Reflex check of the mace in right hand cargo pants, pepper spray in left. Better than hand to hand combat any day of the week. Dust and run. Anyway, either way, this story was gonna get totally busted by her and he was the key.

“Dawn is the key”

That was him. Was she talking out loud again?

“What’s that Buddy? Dawn is the key?”

She looked around at the morning. Well it was past dawn, maybe he had come out here for some kinda dawn something. She looked at him. He was gone. Talking in his sleep. But at least he was in there.

“You just need to rest a bit. Let’s book the hell out here huh? You game with that? I can always drive you back if you left your car somewhere, cuz my insides are screaming go, go, go…”

She tucked him unresisting into the back of the Blazer where he could stretch out and pull himself together.

“I know what it’s like Buddy, I swear to god, I really do. And you don’t wanna go to a nut hutch believe me you don’t, so we’ll book and you just take the time you need to pull it together, ok Bud? And then, then, you can tell me all about it. Alrighty?”

Ronnie closed the rear gate as gently as she could to avoid making loud bangs and bops to make him blow his top. In her best Bogart she recited (unoriginal but appropriate)

“Buddy, I think this going to be the beginning of a beauuutiful friendship.”

And then she remembered another quote, a John Lennon classic from the era when Dick Nixon had him tagged and trailed.

“You’re not paranoid, if it’s true…”

Or something to that effect. Man, her skin was screaming, go, cat, go...

She did. Or rather, now, with her new booty in tow, they did. Hmm, road trip.

Ronnie Jablonski had no idea how right she was-well…um…maybe she did.

*

Day 47

8:16 a.m.

“Dawn?” “Dawn?”

No answer. Buffy looked in the study to see if she had buried herself in there, no, dining room, no-she went to the foot of the stairs and called up-

“Dawn…Dawnie?”

No answer. What was going on? Buffy could feel her around somewhere, she just wasn’t answering. Buffy climbed the stairs and walked down the upstairs hall to the room Dawn shared with Vi and Rona. They loved being roomies. Good on them. Buffy knocked softly on the door before entering.

“Dawn? We gotta get ready to leave this afternoon, you want something to eat…?”

She was there standing by the window. Poised and collected, with one hand on the curtain looking out onto the front yard. She seemed, calm, but Buffy could feel the tension coiled within her getting ready to spring. She had been cool toward Buffy for the past week or so, ever since the memorial and Buffy had been waiting for her to pop the zit that was bugging her-maybe this would be it.

“Dawn, what’s up-I’m going into town, before we get going--do you wanna-“

--“Why Buffy?”

The intensity in Dawn’s voice stopped Buffy short. It had the cool collected ring of wisdom and maturity. As if Dawn had grown up over night. Dawn continued talking to Buffy while she looked out the window, as if unable to face her, to look at her.

“Just tell me why, and make it simple so I can understand it fast cause after last week, I really need to know. Because…because I loved him too, you know, and I lost that. I don’t mean what just happened; I mean this whole last year. I cut him out of my heart, for you….and I lost my friend--maybe my only friend. I know you’ll say all your friends love me, and maybe they do but he really liked me, he liked who I was, he would have liked me even if I wasn’t your sister. I could feel that coming from him, I could feel it, so I lost a friend and maybe bad things happen, and people fall apart and I can accept that maybe he was evil sometimes and I didn’t want to believe it…but…but when you knew who he really was, Is. When you figured it out, and maybe he changed too, but when you knew who he was, what we felt last week-you could have given me my friend back. You could have explained…something. And even if…you didn’t love him…I could have. I did love him, maybe way before you, and I could have been his friend again when he needed help. So twenty words or less, and maybe I totally broke that, by rambling on-just tell me why.”

Buffy sat down; she smoothed out the wrinkles on her shorts.

“It’s so complicated.”

“No I don’t think it is. You hated him so much for daring to love you that you had to punish him, what? In everyway, all the time? Even this past year, when you were helping him you told none of us about how he got his soul back. I still don’t know. But from what I felt last night, what he did, how got his soul back sent, like…shock waves through the…like universe. And maybe that’s what made him a target for ‘the First.” Maybe the First thought what he did set a bad example to other vamps-but how were any of us supposed to really help when we knew diddley? Bottom line was you didn’t want anybody thinking anything good about him.”

Dawn drew in a ragged breath, pushed the tears away from eyes and sat on the twin bed across from Buffy. She was going to get through this without raising her voice, she had been putting this together in her mind for the past week she would, she will do this without loosing it-Buffy would have to take her seriously. She began again, as if Buffy wasn’t getting it.

“Buffy, he helped me so much, that time…that…summer after you died. You don’t know.

And if you had told me what was going on really going on, I could been there for him. But what if the bottom line was, you didn’t want him to get any love or friendship from anybody. How sick is that?”

“I told you all he had changed…” Buffy began.

“You said he’d changed. So what? You didn’t give us, ME anything real. Some real information ‘sides he changed, again, so what? I liked him before he changed. Why should that be a selling point? Because to tell the truth, to give me something real, like how he got his soul back or tell me what really happened between you two-I mean if he was so evil you would have wanted Xander to stake him after what he tried to do you, even if you couldn’t do it yourself.

No. To give me my friend back you would have had to admit that you were WRONG.

And that is something your stupid pride will never let you do.”

Dawn softened her voice to try, really try to get through that thick slayer skull.

“And I suffer for it Buffy. Spike too. He left me without saying good bye because he didn’t feel like he had the right to talk to me anymore-because I made him feel that way at every opportunity. I gave him the cold shoulder. And now maybe he wasn’t the creature feature I was building up in my mind and I never got to be his friend again…”

Here Dawn had to stop. Her throat hurt too bad, just too, too, hard to talk around anymore.

Buffy thought, what did Dawn say? Twenty words or less? She owed it to her, to Spike, to try. They sat quietly for a moment, while Buffy went inside herself to see what she had been hiding back then, back there in the fall of 2002. Some deep breaths here, there and then she found it…

“What if…what if I was in love with some serial killer, that’s what I thought back then--what if I’m in love with John Wayne Gacey, and I’m one of the worst kinda of delusional broads there is writing letters and falling in love with an evil charismatic murderer?”

Buffy stopped for a moment, but she could tell Dawn was listening. She went on as best she could.

“I’ve heard of cops, police, detectives falling for a criminal they might be tracking, something about the thin blue line or something. Mirror image, or over identify much and no one ever understood me like Spike, not even Angel, although he takes a second place and what does it mean that they are both vampires? What does that mean about me? After that terrible thing that happened with Angel, I had to watch myself all the time.”

(O.K. Way past twenty words but she was finally rockin’ it out)

“But, I am a warrior. And there are no male slayers. The next best match, my equal is Spike. I know that now, back then…”

Buffy slowed down, felt her way through, she wanted to as honest as she could for Dawns sake and her own.

“Back then…he went and got his soul back by himself, not a curse or a mistake or anything he got it…for me, and it knocked me out. It scared me. I honestly didn’t know what to think. Everything he was supposed to be, everything I had been taught, was getting tossed out the window. And I loved him, in different ways at different times, but I did, and I needed him. I really needed him to love me. It helped me feel…like a person, important, you know how that feels, he made you feel the same way-but…I couldn’t tell…I really didn’t know…if I was right to love him. Again, what if he turns out to be a ‘Gacey’ and everybody I know is now in danger. It killed me when Jenny was killed.

I could put myself, in danger, being there for him…but nobody else. Not in the same way. I couldn’t let anyone else risk their heart. I think a lot of what you said is true, it is. And of course by the spring I trusted him completely. And maybe, maybe then…I was selfish, maybe…maybe I wanted him to myself for a while. I didn’t…I’m sorry Dawn.”

Buffy broke here. She had no more words and that was as close as she could get right now. They sat quietly for a moment. Buffy stood and went for the door, giving Dawn some space. They were going to be o.k. Dawn was really something else. It took her a week to get to it but somebody else might have kept that bottled up inside until it ate them out of heart and home, but not Dawn. Never Dawn, you always knew where you stood. Her voice stopped Buffy at the door.

“He loved me, I could feel it in the thing last week…he still loved me…”

“Yeah. It would have been o.k., everything would have been alright between you--we all just needed more time.”

That nobody is going to get now.

As Buffy descend the steps the teeny tiny iddy biddy voice deep inside soul said: come back.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Day 47

10:02 a.m.

Come Back

His eyes popped open almost immediately after stretching out in the back of some kind of truck.

Had to wake up. The deep thick luxurious pull of slumber, to sleep, to sleep NO MORE. Must. Wake. Up. He was waking up in small degrees as one might in a strange place in a strange bed. There was that complete annihilation of self in the sombulent state. Everything directed toward that terrible cliché uttered in a sputter upon awakening:

Where am I? What’s going on?

It was very important to get to the other side of these questions to the answers. Need to be on the other side. He was waking up and light--that is, illumination was possible, but just ever so slowly, like getting the bad news in degrees. As if the complete and totality of some truths would flatten your tookus. What is worse? Tearing off the tape binding an old wound…slowly…so slowly, is it better to do it oh so slow?…or in one great…LET ER RIP!

He voted for the cataclysm, the tidal wave, tsunami summer surprise. But someone, somewhere had pulled some rank, outvoted him and he was waking-but, oh, so slowly…

Sorry, only one activity--her skin, her skin, her sweet, sweet cuny, love, love, love you--should ever be done that slowly…and he had the feeling that it was one of the very good reasons why he was supposed to: WAKE UP!

*

Day 47

2:50 p.m.

Budduddd bump bump

Budduddd bump bump

Baddup Baddup Bump Bump

Angel continued his finger rap banging not really noticing the progressive aggression locked into the rhythm and style with which he was expressing himself.

Wesley waited. Patiently, so patiently at the end of the table close to the door, ready for a quick exit, ready to leap into action. Patient but poised. He liked that image.

He sat watching Angel think, absorb, and sort it all out. He could wait until he came, eventually, come to the only real course of action that Wesley himself considered a prosperous one for all concerned. Not to mention having a shot at making a noticeable contribution to mankind’s intellectual library. He waited.

Angel sat at the head of the table, 8 x 10 black and white photographs spread on the table in front of him. They were surveillance pictures taken in time lapse via satellite of the Hellmouth. Of Sunnydale done gone. When Buffy had requested a second front, one of the first things Angel did was utilize Wolfram & Hart’s connections to international agencies and booked the eye in the sky to keep a watch over the Hellmouth.

After the crisis, he had maintained surveillance to monitor, to be sure the Hellmouth remained closed for good. But it seems, at least one little devil had wriggled back into the world.

He stopped his drum solo long enough to pull a blow up close to him. They were enhanced aerial views of the crater, magnified to view anything, any disturbing activity at the Hellmouth. Close enough. Close enough. At no time during the surveillance did either of the two figures on the ground, in the photo, look up. So the satellite had scans of only the tops of their heads and body type. But the figure of the man-this pic here, of him climbing out of the crater clearly showed the contours of his back and body structure. To anyone else, a positive ID would have been impossible. But.

It was him. Angel knew it was him.

He was angry. He was pissed. He was just about as coldly angry that a vampire with a soul could be without vamping out. And who should know better than he? He was the sole soul survivor after all and the only existing world expert and it looked as if IT WOULD REMAIN THAT WAY FOR ALL ETERNITY.

Spike had experienced Shanshu.

If Wesley was right, and the external evidence certainly indicated that he was-the weasely bastard had stolen Angel’s Shanshu.

It didn’t matter if it was, as Wesley had explained, not the Amulet itself that Angel had given him via Buffy that was responsible. That metaphysical law may have recognized ripe conditions for transformation regardless of the catalyst. It WAS THE PRINCIPAL of the thing.

But strange, strangely--that’s not what really made him angry right now, though he was sure to get to that as he worked down THE LIST of his grandchilde’s offences. And it wasn’t about Buffy either-(although-hmm sub-text) he had just spoken with her again that morning and she had been cool and dismissive of any help he offered. More Spike interference he was sure. (Was Buffy weak enough to be under a thrall?-surely that would have been broken when he died) But, at present, that’s not what was really cooking his noodles.

It was this. Here, Spike regenerates, crawls out of a crater--at a site the public was given to believe was radio active--where he would gave been prey and easy pickens for any marauder to do a public service, BUT NO. Some strange woman escorts, escorts him to safety.

He wasn’t that good looking. He was in good shape, but not tall, not a classic warrior. Why was there always some daft lass holding his hand?

I must really be upset, I’m thinking in Irish idiom.

It just burned his boat.

Wesley was waiting. Angel cleared his throat.

“So what kind of power do you think he might have? You mentioned something but I was only half listening--was a little more than distracted by Spike stealing my SHANSHU.”

Angel cricked his neck-oh if only it was his. (he wondered idly if he was becoming irrational--was there something in this building ‘getting’ to him? Wolfram and Harpies pinging away at his poor soul?---nnnaaaahhh)

He deliberately kept his voice low, even--even if he was feeling crazy, he didn’t have to sound like peanut butter and caviar on pancakes.

“Best guess, Wes.”

Wesley shook his head hating to theorize on so little solid information.

“The scripture is almost deliberately vague…but. Best guess. The subject of the Shanshu can never incarnate or regenerate to be more or less that it was-that is physics, natural law, but it most likely will be recombined, reorganized as you like to emphasize the traits that had entitled him to Shansu.”

“You are talking to me Wes--shorthand.”

“Ah yes, quite. The power will be directed to support certain qualities or traits. That is his most positive traits and or most possibly his negative. As we know, the Powers work to test a structure by seeing where it will break.”

“How much power?”

“A lot.” Wesley considered before continuing. “As you described him to me and if I remember correctly-he was the youngest Master vampires in recorded history, not to mention, he was able to kill two slayers, one of them while he was still extremely young--“

“Point?”

“Imagine that his strength--something that was spread evenly across his nature, his physical abilities, is now directed toward a single point--a diamond head.”

“Which would be?”

“You knew him. You tell me.”

Beat.

“Rope him. Bring him in. Get Gunn on it. Alive. Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. Spike’s a bomb waiting to be dropped. If you need the talent, I’ll be in on it--oh and Wesley?”

He was already halfway, eagerly out the door.

“If all his power goes to one place, that would make him weak in another-he’s human? Not all purpose fighter anymore?”

“Seems logical.”

“O.K. work on that--how you can nail him-but. But. Don’t. Ever. Underestimate. Him. EVER. You got it? After all he is my family.”

Wesley’s brow knitted, as he left-was that a note of familial pride? Vampires, he thought and if he had been moving just a little slower as he closed the door behind him, he might have heard this:

“If I can’t kill him-I’ll lock him up for a hundred years…”

Angel resumed beating out a rhythm on the table. Hmm….great solid satisfactory sound!

Thadd da BUMP!

This wood was really great-really. A good fit for him. What ever had bothered him about it? He shrugged. It was almost…pleasant, thump drumming away here like the last of the Mohicans on the last on the Mahogany.

Angel smiled. But not like the pretty angels of heaven when they thrum their harps.

He sang:

“Mandy, you came and took without breaking, and I blew you away oh… Spikey…”

Bad da da BUMP!

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Day 47

3:10 p.m.

Heart on Hard ON

He was giving up. He could feel himself slipping into sleep. He held on by his fingertips. He held on with his fingertips to her sweat, the sweat as it rolled down the small of her back. He focused on the small of her back. He was always deeply aroused by the small of her back, the curve, the dip into butt cheeks. God. The agony of being outside her body bowed his in two-he was tortured by separation-her scent, her scent, find her scent…there it is…there…now inhale her…inhale…breathe…breathe. He recalled and inhaled the scent recorded in his marrow. He inhaled her until he was breathing. He was breathing. See, not so hard. His lungs rose, filling, fell and rose again. Life took practice. Spike sat up with a start like a shot. He was back. He awoke with his heart on his sleeve and a hard on the size of the Sears Tower.

“Bloody hell.”

“How ya doing Buddy? Back with us?”

Spike was sitting opposite the voice, the source of the words. He was at a picnic bench, at a rest stop sitting in a grove, sheltered by trees. There was a bottle of water in front of him. Her words finally registered.

“Us? Who’s us?”

“Figure of speech. Us is we. We two. We two of we the living. You were upright, but out, really out at the same time. Shock maybe. What do you remember?”

Well…I don’t remember you…do I? We met?”

Ronnie chuckled. “Not ‘properly’ Mr. English accent guy. I’m Ronnie Jablonski. I found you walking around in nothing but your smile at the Sunnydale crater.”

“I was smiling?”

Oh boy.

“Another figure of speech.”

Spike muttered under his breath. “Don’t feel too jolly and I will not play Santa, I bloody well won’t.”

Ronnie hesitated. “Uh huh.” He really was not all back yet.

Should she have taken him to a hospital? What about the government spooks?

Maybe some lunch. Ronnie left him to rummage in the back of the Blazer for ‘the box’ of staples she always kept stocked and a bag she had picked up from the drive through.

“Hey Buddy, I got a bucket of fried chicken. You like spicy wings?” She looked back toward the picnic table-it was empty.

Hell.

“Buddy!”

She left the car and walked into the clearing, he couldn’t have walked far, she stopped when saw him in a pool of sunlight, sunbathing in a summer shower of light. His face aglow with pleasure and wonder, fingers spread as if to touch, face upturned.

Ronnie stared transfixed. Who was this guy?

God he was beautiful.

And then she knew. She had an epiphany in total and complete and without a doubt knew that only a man who loved a woman dearly, deeply and forever could be so beautiful.

Oh my god, she wiped away at her eyes. I’m crying, she thought, haven’t cried in years.

What she said out loud was this:

“Chicken wings, Buddy…Wings Bud? Wanna fly on a bucket of bird?”

Spike smiled and cocked his head to look at the strange intense woman with short dark hair offering sustenance.

Her knees did the jelly wobble

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Day 47

7:25 p.m.

Dinner was quiet, no conversation save the winding down of the day toward twilight. There was one disquieting moment when Buddy (Spike) sniffed at a pint of gravy to go with the mashed potatoes, and then did a chug a lug. Ronnie’s raised her eyebrow for a moment and then shrugged. Maybe it was a British thing. What did ‘Limey’ stand for anyway?

Dinner done. They sat in quiet until Ronnie spoke.

“I gotta tell you who I am. What I’m about. I don’t want to misrepresent myself.” She picked up a toothpick from a box and gnawed at the end. She looked apologetic. “Trying to quit smoking.” She sighed.

“You gotta a fag to spare?”

Oh what the hell. A smoking buddy was even better than a drinking buddy. She rummaged around in the bottom of the box and fished out a smooshed pack that was still half filled. She pulled a cig for herself and then passed the pack to him. She struck a match, the light from the flame flaring in the growing twilight. She lit hers, then his, and they both took the first drag in tandem. Hers ended in a sigh, his ended in a choking, hacking, wheezing, coughing, spluttering fit.

“Huh. You been off the wagon for a while, huh Bud? Well don’t blame me for falling.”

Smokes in hand, the real conversation began. She told him her story, briefly, unemotionally and he listened intently, jaw clenching now and again to something she said. She ended with:

“So, I’ll be upfront, I want your story, I want to tell it, put it on the internet, I want to help you regardless, and if you don’t mind talking, Id like to tell. First hand account or something whatever it is. Free speech, baby. The facts and only the facts-one of the last real weapons we the people have to fight the massive mind control being exercised against us. What a ya think”?

Spike looked at his feet and then seemed to realize for the first time that he was bare footed-

“Oh yeah, sorry about that-have to find you some shoes.” He smiled suddenly thinking of something.

“Souls in the feet…” And then turned to look at the bottoms-“

Ronnie shrugged-must be a private joke.

“I’m remembering, I’ll admit that. But it’s coming back, like remembering parts from a dream, in pieces. And every time I see someumpt’ or hear a sound, like a little more comes back-locks into place. But a lot of it seems…pretty bad. When something starts to come, I gotta’ brace myself-how bad is it gonna be this time, an al’. I don’t think I should say anythin’ until I get more. Til it makes more sense. But it’s coming”

“Would it help to talk about her?”

Spike looked at Ronnie sharply. She shrugged.

“Woman’s intuition. A vibe. Guts good guess, you know…”

He answered quickly and without preamble.

“I’m afraid if I remember her, I’ll remember her gone…dead maybe…I seem, I seem to have, I might remember her dying, grieving, that is…”

Shit. What could Ronnie say to that?

She had found him at the crater, after all--could have been from the aftershock of grief and then suddenly-

“We gotta go to the hospital-“

“NO!”

“No, I mean it will be o.k., I just got this feeling like we should go, check out some of the hospitals around Sunnydale, just to check them out-I won’t bust you, you know, turn you in for a nutty whatever you are and by the way, I’m a little on the, hello--pot calling the kettle black, right? Buddy? Bud?”

She stopped until he looked at her.

“Someone might be looking for you. What if she’s looking for you. Gotta try. Shouldn’t we try? “

He liked her use of the word ‘we’-that’s what convinced him-Ronnie had said ‘we’. Somehow he hadn’t felt like a ‘we’ in a long time.

“All right Ace Ventura, pet, be my detective…”

Ronnie ground her cigarette under her heel and then poured water over the end for good measure.

“Of all the things for you to remember, you remember you’re funny, punny and a Jim Carrie fan-well say no more…”

“Hey-Dumb and Dumber-bloody brilliant-“

--The attack was swift-the vampire leapt from the cover of the trees and grabbed Ronnie in the classic arm lock-dragging her from where she sat, to put her in position to snap her neck and cart away into the woods. No time for her to scream or use any of the self defense moves with which she was so well acquainted-she looked at her new friend Buddy and sent herself a voice mail-

A blur shot across the picnic table, same blur hit the space between her and the vampire driving them at least fifteen feet apart.

Blur was Buddy. He stood casually surveying the vampire on the ground.

“Get up. Don’t make me do this while you’re down.”

The vampire stood up, almost docile-held humble by the will in Spikes eyes.

“Sorry…” It sputtered

“Don’t apologize either-you lost is al’-“

And then quicker than snot Spike’s hand shot out, plunging into the vampires chest and pulled out its heart. The vampire’s mouth hung agape in a silent scream, its eyes pleading. Spike looked around, walked to the picnic table picked a tooth pick from the box-looked at the vamp watching him.

“You always have a choice don’tya mate?’”

He waited until the vampire nodded.

“Well, all right then…”

Spike plunged the toothpick into the heart in held in his hand.

It fell into dust.

The monster that should have stayed in the movies fell into dust.

And Ronnie fell to her knees.

“What in heaven or hell are you?”

Spike considered this seriously and said before she passed out-

“Feelin’ a bit o’ both, actually--now, now, s’al over, luv--none of that--”

She passed out.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Day 47

8:31 p.m.

Ronnie’s hand shook visibly as she reached for the lighter when it popped up from the dashboard of the Chevy. Her other hand might have been shaking too, but it so firmly grasped the steering wheel of speeding vehicle that she didn’t have to worry about that one. Just one fuckin’ thing at a time. So.

So.

“You can pull over to the side of the highway and let me out-if you want.” Spike offered in a friendly way. He had thought about steadying her hand for her as she lit her cig-but refrained himself. He was not going to make any statements to ease her mind about him, because frankly, he didn’t know if he should. ‘Sides. Something’s you just know. He couldn’t tell her that she could trust him. Only she knew that for herself. It was something one had to suss out on gut instinct. Also. He knew he was headed for trouble, could feel it coming like homeward bound. Maybe it was best if she bailed-

‘’-No, it isn’t that…well maybe it is a little, but it’s more like shock, you know, adrenalin still shooting through me, that, and…and DAMMIT! I’m real embarrassed. It got the drop on me. Big time. I feel like I got caught with my pants down with…” Ronnie looked at Spike sharply, “With, like, YODA watching me. What the hell was that? What you did back there.” She took a drag from her cigarette and spoke in control, quite sure of herself now.

“People--nothing human can move that fast. Like what you did. And I’m including Kung Fu masters given the FX treatment in movies and-“

“No. Not human.”

“Then…what?”

Spike studied her, twinkle in his eye and the beginnings of a smirk about his lips.

“You sure you wanna’ have this conversation in a metal box, you chock full of adrenalin and going-“

He leaned forward here to look at the speedometer-“Going 85 miles an hour down the highway with unsuspecting raccoons waiting to be squashed?”

She had to laugh outloud. Charming.

“O.k. sly boots. You keep slipping pass me, but that’s o.k., I bought the ticket, I’ll take the ride. But. I won’t freak too bad-at least not permanently, I’ll bounce back from what you got and I got nothing to loose. The more I know, the more we can help each other.”

“Fair enough.”

They rode for about five minutes in silence.

“I figured we’d start at St. Bartholomew’s, that’s the nearest hospital outside Sunnydale, according to my research. The office should be closed by now, but the emergency room will always be up and running with a computer and access to hospital records of course. You won’t even need to say a thing.” Ronnie looked down at her clothes and mused aloud. “I may have to change my shirt-find something a little more civilized, do I smell o.k.?--.”

--“St. Bartholomew….he’s the one no one knows about, right? The one everyone forgets. The forgotten apostle.”

“Huh. Well, then, that makes it is a good place to start doesn’t it? Odd the things you remember. Maybe when it all comes back to you-you can make it on to Jeopardy and reimburse me for gas.”

“Only if your invoice statement is in the form of a question.”

Ronnie laughed hard and loud.

“Who threw you back into the water, Man? Hey look Ma what I caught! I wanna keep YOU.”

Spike smiled but said nothing.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Day 47

9:45 p.m.

He sat in the hospital waiting room, waiting. Ronnie was at the admission’s desk, spinning some tale when he felt it.

His heightened sense of empathy was already being electrified just by being here in this building, full of people in pain of body and heart, when he felt acceleration, a trauma happening on the scale at TEN-

A severely distraught woman moved quickly into the emergency room carrying a screaming child.

“Mi Dios! Mi Dios! Mi chica pobre de bebe, mi bebe, de pobre…me ayuda, me ayuda!”

She babbled as she ran to the front desk. Ronnie turned to look at the Mother and child and Spike could tell by her expression that it was bad…very bad. Ronnie turned away, putting a hand to her mouth.

Spike knew as he stood-it was a burn…very, very bad burn, he could see it feel it happening-a little hand reaching up to grab at this, at that, at whatever, until whatever became the handle of a boiling pot of oil. The oil was for food, for tacos for Louis the way he likes them for dinner-he-had-been-working-two-jobs-and-so-hard-and--OH GOD! OH GOD! MAURGAURITE!

The oil spilling, falling, searing and melting the little bit’s face.

“God no…” Spike was trembling, walking toward the girl screaming the end of her world on a gurney, nurses ran calling for the resident, screaming instructions as they prepared to sedate her. A Nurse’s trembling hand dropped the syringe-Christ oh Christ hafta make another--she darts away--Spike moves in to fill the empty space next to the child-

“Oh god…no…don’t hurt the girl…” He felt love and compassion for the poor mite, it was an overwhelming flood filling his senses until he had to reach out, had to, had to quiet, to ease--he reached out touched the small bit of skin on her arm that remained untortured.

The child’s mother saw this strange man touch her suffering child and screamed-but…stopped-when her child stopped. Her child had stopped screaming.

The silence was a cacophony.

“Shhh…shhh…I won’t hurt you little girl…” Spike crooned to the four year old. “’ello Maurgaurite-can I call you Maggie?” Spike continued speaking something, anything to ease the pain while he held her little arm. She looked up at him with solemn big watery brown eyes. She nodded a bit.

The nurse and doctor came rushing back. The Doctor nearly shouted.

“Sir, get the hell away from her-“

“No, no,--“Maurgaurite’s mother ran interference and stopped the duo from stopping Spike. She spoke in Spanglish.

“Ah mi Dios, Ninguna hoja que el es, noel es parado su dolor, el es un curador, permitio el ayudarla…No…no…es ummm…un mir acle…wait un minute…”

They did.

They watched as Spike’s sweet words crooned her to quiet, the loving touch conducted a healing wave through her small system. The open and running wounds closing fast now…still, still a lot to do…her poor little destroyed face…

“Sir I have to ask you to step away from her-call security!” The doctor barked.

Spike called over his shoulder.

“Ronnie, I need you. Keep this wanker off me, right?” Spike looked into Margaurite’s Mothers eyes and she didn’t have to be told twice-she was a good catholic woman after all and knew a miracle in the making…

She stood beside the woman the man had called over and held the nurse at bay.

Ronnie called out to everyone in the emergency room-

“You all…everybody here, you can see how he’s helping the little girl, these guys, these doctors don’t get it-but you do, right? Come on and help us hold them off.

At that moment three men, Hispanic, came through the sliding doors of the emergency room. They heard the tag end of Ronnie’s speech and then recognized the Mexican woman at Ronnie’s side.

“Magdalaine! Que pasa!”

“Louis! Louis!” Ronnie turned her attention to Spike and the girl as Magdalaine quickly brought her family up to date-the men reacted quickly. And indeed the security guards seemed unwilling to lift a hand to prevent this…this…

It was that feeling in the air. So distended and full of love that it slowed every angry intention every ignorant unthinking action. Soon all were silent; all were smiling as Marguarites face regained its shape. Perhaps, it took thirty minutes, maybe forty five, was it an hour? But everything, everything…stopped; all injuries seemed easier, the love flowing from the center of a little girl, cascaded in waves throughout the room and into the dark recess of the hospital itself. And because love welcomes love, every heart that opened to it, added their voice in the healing pool to the factor of ten. Somehow every heart that was willing, was helping the little burn victim to heal herself. Spike had been the catalyst, but they all felt it now. It felt like…community…communion.

No one dared break the prayer. And this is what prayer really was. Not supplication to a higher being, to the remote, but to the ready, to the willing. An affirmation of intention:

We agree that love is good. We agree not to live in pain. We agree this girl is restored.

Marguarite giggled. “You’re tickling me!”

Spike laughed lightly. “Thas’ cuz you’re funny-“

“No!” She squeaked, laughing. Spike backed away as Magdalaine stepped in to look at her little girl’s perfect face and gleaming glowing skin. Perfect. Perfect.

She sobbed her thanks to one; all, and sundry and she lightly touched her little girl.

Ronnie backed away following Spike, taking him by the elbow as they cleared away from the group that had gathered. All wanted to see the fruit of their prayer and the two were allowed to slip away unnoticed…for the moment.

Ronnie spoke; her voice was tight, firm and would brook no argument.

“We have got to get you out of here…”

Spike looked at Ronnie.

“Spooks man, government spooks and worse…man, when you come out of the closet, you come out dragging everything inside.”

“I…not feeling too good. Need some water, maybe…real bad-burning away-“

Ronnie looked at him, he looked like ash, and dehydrating fast. She hustled him down to the entrance foyer at the other end of the hospital-gotta be vending machines-oh yeah.

She deposited Spike on chair against the wall, so no one could sneak up on him and starting slipping coins into a machine and punching out water faster than you can say One Arm Bandit.

Spike sat dazed in the chair. His blue eyes were huge, almost haunted in his face. He felt like he was solidly in the throes of a fever, a fever with that strange feeling of wonky time and lightheaded epiphanies. So he wasn’t at all surprised to see him standing there. And upon seeing him-the complete and total return of the remaining missing memories of his earth walk.

“Peaches?”

“Heya’ sport! That’s what I think I’ll call you now, Buddy. My favorite Sport!”

It was there again, that feeling, that void-

“You’re not Angel. You’re that other thing, (what did Buffy call it oh yeah) The Taunter.”

“I am so pissed off with you I can hardly spit. You’ve chewed up my last nerve, sport-you’re fair game now-“

Spike laughed. “How’s that different?” Even as he spoke he knew it was not a good idea to talk to The First or even acknowledge it.

“The home team advantage Buddy, that’s what’s different. AND you’re starting lineup is shot to shit-“

Beat.

What was it saying?

“Buffy made it out-had to-she’s alive--“

“That’s for me to know and you to find out-“ The First/Peaches winked at him and then winked out. Gone.

Ronnie brought the stash of water over. “Ok. Here start on this-oh my god what’s happened to your face?”

Spike absently touched his skin, the nerves were jangling and it was feeling very tender. (Burn. Topical skin burns. First degree. And climbing? Uh oh. How bad would it get?) Spike looked at Ronnie, drank a bottle of water down in one continuous gulping motion, stood and said.

“Angel would know. Gonna have to call him. Bugger.”

“O.k. we’re moving right?” Ronnie said leading the way to the parking lot, cuz you can’t go back in there. And my insides are screaming go, go, go… ”

Spike didn’t need to be told twice. Funny, no one did tonight. Well maybe he did, but for once, he took the advice the first time ‘round.

“I gotta tell you Buddy, I don’t mind admitting I’m in over my head now. You’re too big a fish for me to hide for long.”

She took a moment to look at him as they walked to the car to make sure he was getting it. She opened the passenger door for him, he climbed in, exhausted. He nodded at Ronnie, he was listening. She slammed the door and walked around the Chevy talking out loud.

“We’re gonna have to come in from the cold. Right? We need some bigger muscle-I know this guy, well not so much guy, as geek, but he has a good heart, met him a hi-tech convention almost two years now-anyway he told me he knew supergirl. Figurative or literal, I don’t know but she helped him out of a jam. Couple of times. Anyway if that doesn’t pan out, he might know somebody else or have some ideas-Buddy?”

Chirst he looked awful. Oh wait he was saying something, Ronnie leaned forward to listen.

“Angel….Los Angeles…bugger whas’ it called?…ah…(unintelligible)…them, that group Investigations…Angel…Investi….”

And with that he passed out.

Shit.

Ronnie put some speed on her spin out of the parking lot-her mind already racing, plotting, putting together act three of how this was going to fall down…O.K. first she would need a good motel, one that catered to businessmen--access to the internet. Angel Investgations huh? Isn’t that what Buddy had said? Well, she’d look them up, but felt much better, really, getting her own team on it.

Always pick the devil you know.

She was about to discover the meaning of another cliché, it was this: ‘too true.’

*

Day 47

8:00 p.m.

Naked Spike! Naked Spike!

HOLY CRAP!

Well maybe not totally naked. The picture being displayed on the computer monitor ended discreetly well below Spikes midsection-and WHAT WAS THAT!

Xander felt his member twitch a little coming to a half salute as he looked at the smooth skin and almost feline grace that was Spike in the nude-THAT so did not happen! And as if to distract himself from himself--he railed out loud at Andrew.

“Buffy is so gonna kill you!”

“What? What?” Andrew hurried almost scurried into the study to Xander. “What? What?”

“Why do you have video of naked Spike on your web site?”

“I so do not-oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my-“

“Buffy told you NO MORE. You know if you broke any of her rules, any, we have to turn you in-she’s got you on probation man, doesn’t that mean anything to you-do you really want to be a butt monkey-“

“I didn’t, I don’t…“

Andrew protested pushing Xander out of the way so he could get a better look.

“No, see this is an email-see it’s Jonathon’s website-I check it for messages…“ Andrew’s voice trailed down to almost a whisper. “I check it to see if anyone is looking for him, you know? For anybody, who might, you know…have cared about him…who would send this?”

As the significant aspects of the picture sank in, Xander and Andrew looked at each other, brows knitting together. “Huh?”

They looked at the picture as one.

“Xander…this video was shot--”

--“Outside…” Xander finished his thought.

“-In the light of-“

“--Day-“

“--Oh my god, oh my god-“

“SHUT UP! Is there an attachment? Maybe another file sent separately?”

“Here is one marked S.O.S.”

“Shit outa steam-“

Andrew opened it, Xander read over his shoulder.

“Ohmygodohmy--“ Andrew stopped when Xander smacked the back of his head.

Andrew spoke quietly, “I kinda remember her, she made friends with Jonathon-she’s smart, a little nuts, but-she wouldn’t make that up. She was…intense. What are we going to do? Buffy’s on her way out to Colorado, Giles is in Chicago…Faith and Robin are already in Cleveland--Xander, you’re in command!”

He was.

God, life was funny; sometimes, hysterically throw down funny. Is this a test? He wouldn’t have to do much, as a matter of fact, that’s exactly what he could do. Nothing. Plead insufficient information, stay at home and do nothing. Say, he had to wait for Buffy to call in or Faith to come back-or ‘oh man, I lost the phone number to the hotel where Giles was staying.’ It wouldn’t be hard, and they would all believe him, because he was, after all, Zeppo. Just give this crisis scenario a little inattention and maybe, just maybe, Spike would…drift away…

“Xander?”

“Chill little man, I’m thinking…”

And what ever it was he decided to do or not do. It would be the action or inaction that would define and inform the rest of his life.

There was a fork sticking in the road.

Chomp.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Day 47

10:30 p.m.

Buffy liked driving this cool little red car. Neato buttons. Nice little NEO bug. Not quite the classic car, the classic Bug but close, what, with that added fun of buttons to push and play with.

Classic cars were cool. Spike’s DeSoto. She should get a vintage Mustang, Spike would like that, he would love to see her drive a shift-oh my god.

She did it again.

Ever since the memorial, it was amazing how quickly some things began to change. As if certain events and ideas were just waiting in the wings for a breeze to blow the dirt, and grief away so they could come on stage and play. The idea was born, to create a center for slayers, an international meeting place for girls to get focused. They would be trained and counseled on the responsibility of power. Faith and Robin were to manage Cleveland. And with the money from Spikes ‘estate’; the way was paved for a center of sorts. After Andrew had done the initial recon they were down to two different locations. Choice number one was: The Midwest--namely south Wisconsin just a couple of hours from Chicago. Choice B: The old west--Boulder Colorado near Denver.

So…the Midwest or the Olde West.

She, with Clem and Dawn along for the ride had left very late that afternoon and had dawdled, dawdled at every tourist trap-(hey lets check out those grape vineyards, always wanted to see) and so on…They were on their way to check out Boulder, theoretically, and had decided to turn this into a vacation.

Boulder was supposed to be beautiful, the atmosphere clear and buzzing with that impression of being at University.

But, ironically, the description almost didn’t seem quite dark enough. Even with Denver nearby, would the girls get the chance to chew some real bad nasties? Hmm Now Chicago had that blackness, plus the added component of Midwest kindness. In south Wisconsin, they could live in beautiful country and still be an awesome pure presence on the dark fault line that ran through the middle of the U.S. A lot of people didn’t know about that quake line.

Sunnydale had been near the quake line. Maybe that was a sign? Perhaps Chicago and the Cleveland area is where they might be able to do the most good. She would have to go check out Wisconsin, after Giles reported in.

But still, with all these changes afoot and the stimulation of new ideas-these odd thoughts, leftover notions would be there in her mind. Is there fresh blood for Spike? I’d love to see his face when he sees me in this dress. Reaching for the carton of cigarettes. Reaching for his arm to wrap around her while she slept. Retching in the morning. Retching three morning in a row now.

Morning sickness

She might be pregnant. She might be, she knew she--should get a test, should get one of those home things for the proof positive, after all it was only a little more than a month. She wouldn’t even be thinking about it except…

She knew when it happened. She knew exactly when.

She recalled from her studies of human anatomy, that sperm could live up to a five to seven days after coitus. How Latin that sounded. It happened on one of those days-in that week…the week after, when that warm glow had sufficed her body, mind and spirit... It was the potential of life, just there waiting for her to…agree. When she accepted Spike as her man. The first part of the deal was done. And she was not surprised and one could even say she was happy about it…if…only. Is that why she felt him alive? Because a part of him might be alive here in her?

She also knew that she kept saying ‘maybe; and ‘might be’ because if she wished it away, hard enough, it would go, ‘it’ would leave her. She could feel that it wasn’t a done deal.

Is that why she needed him, because how was she going to do this alone?

Giles had cautioned her on how dangerous it might be for she and Spike to rely on each other. He didn’t know the half of it. And didn’t understand the half he did know. Giles had been looking at Spike and Buffy in some old way, some old cautionary tale about how men and women related. Some old tale of the self that has halved when shared with the other.

She knew that was absolutely not the case with Spike. She was stronger with Spike at her side. It was something she could feel. She wasn’t halved…she was…trebled. It wasn’t old. It was new. What they were just beginning to have is what the world had been trying so hard to evolve to.

Men and Women as equals, separate but mated, individuals fused and stronger for it. But how could she pioneer without him? She sighed--just another war widow with a child on the way.

There. She just did it again.

Clem stirred in the back seat. “I heard that, I heard you sigh. You want me to drive?”

“No, I was thinking maybe…maybe…I know this is soooo crazy but maybe if we turn around, just a little, that is, detour, maybe we could get a motel around Sunnydale somewhere…”

Her voice woke Dawn who was dozing lightly on the passenger side. She looked a blurry look at Buffy.

“You wanna go home?”

“Just for a look. We can crash at a motel and look at it in the morning.’ She added as a further explanation. “We’ll be moving away soon, and I wanna see it before we go.”

There was a pause…yeah it was crazy, they had left late and dawdled and now Ex Sunnydale was TWO HOURS out of the way.

“Sure…o.k. with me…” Clem settled back in his seat. “Call me when you wanna switch drivers…”

Dawn just looked at Buffy. Buffy hid so much all the time. She could never tell the level of her sister’s suffering. Buffy spoke low to Dawn, her eyes still on the road.

“It just feels right Dawnie. This still doesn’t feel real to me…I can’t feel him gone. I gotta go back, I gotta see it.”

Dawn nodded. And the little red car sped along the black asphalt.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Day 47

11:10 p.m.

Ronnie was in a near panic-no, no, maybe it was a panic, maybe she wasn’t near it all but had climbed right on board Starship PANIC.

She had sent an email to Jonathon via his web site requesting eye witness accounts of unusual sightings and manifestations. She had roughly sketched their situation in the most ambiguous of terms, relying upon the elements of Jonathon’s character that compelled him to want to be a superhero himself. Let’s face it, all of us out here on the fringe, have an uber-man complex. She had also downloaded a segment displaying Buddy in all, well, rather, some of his glory to pique his interest. Hey. Whatever it takes.

She had emailed Jonathon the address of the motel across the street from the one where Ronnie had rented a room. From this vantage point she could do surveillance on the neighboring motel. She didn’t know Jonathon that well, and didn’t trust anyone that much. So she had parked her Chevy Blazer across the street where she could espy anyone who might come a sniffin’ around it. One stop shopping. Check for Jonathon who might check out the address and watch for anyone who might have gotten a tag on her vehicle--from the hospital maybe, she didn’t know, didn’t care, always safer than sorrier. Always.

So she had rented this fine room to headquarter in and for Buddy to crash.

And crash he did. This was the source of her panic. He would slip in and out of consciousness and with ever increasing pain. That was worrisome enough but when his arm and face started to blister in what appeared to be the burn patterns of the little girl from the emergency room-Ronnie was in a near freak. She really didn’t now what to do. He had helped the little girl and clearly he would have the best information on how she could help him.

I dunno Buddy should I take you to the Hospital?

“No.”

Had she spoken outloud?

Ronnie jumped up quick from her sentry position at the window.

“What’s that Buddy? You gotta tell me how you did that-how you helped that little girl-I dunno what to do-“

Spike’s voice was soft and raspy as if his vocal chords were getting fried.

“Just couldn’t stand to see her in that much pain…I ‘ave fast healing, let her borrow is ‘al…’an it put it on me…put it all on me…thas’ my girl…”

Ronnie looked confused, were these instructions?

“I don’t think I can do that Bud-I don’t know how, plus…I’m not that strong…you want some more water?”

“Blood…”

”You want I should take you to the emergency room, get a…what? A transfusion?”

“No…” Spike connected his eyes to Ronnie’s, although in pain, he willed his eyes to remain calm, his thoughts clear so she would know he was not delirious.

“…Need blood to drink…”

Ronnie tried to wrap her mind around why that would help?

“What? There’s something in blood, like protein-like what that guy did in The Killing Fields? He drank cow’s blood to stay alive when he was starving or like…”

Her voice faded away as her logic reached the dead. End.

“A vampire.”

The skin on her new friends face was splitting now from the stress of burned flesh. Spike couldn’t speak, but large blue black eyes nodded some kind of answer that felt like ‘yes’ and ‘no’ accompanied by a mischievous glint and glitter of tears.

Mercifully, he passed out.

Blood? Where was she going to find blood at 12:00 at night? And of course, the answer was sharp and obvious.

Well, duh? Where does blood come from?

Her hand slipped into the low pocket of her cargo pants and pulled out a swiss army knife while she looked around for some kind of cup-any straws anywhere? Or maybe she should mix water with the blood to help it go down a bit--so it goes down faster? Would that dilute its properties?

She was already troubleshooting because after all, in for a penny in for a pound--(of flesh).

She smiled grimly as she drew the blade across her open palm-“Buy the ticket, take the ride baby…”

* ~ * ~ * ~*

Day 48

1:33 a.m.

Angel and Wesley sat in the back of the limousine as it sped north by northwest angling toward their destination just east of Sunnydale. That is, well you know, Sunnydale on the sunset side. They were re-reviewing the facts that had brought them out this night.

They’re in-house psychics couldn’t get a bead on Spike, whoever or whatever he is now wouldn’t track, but they caught a break when the satellite picked up enough details from the top of the get away car to make it a sold ID.

A Chevy Blazer. White. Most probably. That helped. Checking all registered Chevy Blazers in California to Women-well that was a list, but at least there was one. Two of the five psychics gave a 60 % probability the owner/ driver they were looking for would be within a five mile radius of old Sunnydale between 10:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m.

Flimsy. But when this information was coupled with the blurb from the Big Brother department in Wolfram & Hart that worked round the clock sifting news-that a certain man 5’10” or so, light brown hair caused a sensation at a local emergency room by seemingly healing a young girl suffering from severe burns--the department had contacted Wesley with the information seeking confirmation from a department head to stifle the story from local news agencies. Wesley congratulated his employees on their astute assessment and yes of course that story should be buried at all costs. The Hospital was one hour south west of Sunnydale. No. There no coincidences. They had enough info to hit the road and with a round up crew. Angel and Wesley in the limo where they planned to treat Spike with the greatest courtesy-if he came peacefully, and riding shotgun was Gunn and his ‘gun rack’ if Spike did not. Come peacefully, that is.

“Here’s something,” Wesley mused aloud, snapping his cell phone closed. “Just got another report regarding the incident at St. Bartholomew’s-seems there is evidence of other healings, spontaneous remissions, broken bones mended, various healings that can be verified in the short term still occurring at the hospital. Hmm…imagine what long term implications there might be, that is outside of crisis care…”

As Wesley drifted off in wonder, in contemplation, Angel spoke, though barely intelligible through clenched teeth:

“I’m going to lock him up for a hundred years.”

Wesley considered this, hmm…time for research, study of all and sundry--not to mention a lighthouse, a beacon of hope to cut a path in the darkness of their world…

“Yes…yes…indeed…

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Day 48

2:20 a.m.

Ronnie sat in the chair by the window. One eye was on her Chevy Blazer across the street one eye on her friend, her buddy, who had chugged down at least a pint of her blood. But she couldn’t guess. She used to donate blood and did her best guess at what she could afford to give up as a, well, lifeline.

He was looking better, much better. The open and oozing burns completely

Healed over, leaving only the splotches of what might have been a sun burn. As she looked back out the window he spoke.

“Thanks.”

Ronnie said nothing regarding him quietly. He continued his voice low and sweet with sincerity.

“I know that couldn’t have been easy for you, with what happened to your family-“

--“What are you?”

Spike sighed.

“O.K. too tough, let’s start with your name.”

Another pause.

“Well, it depends on what you want me to be. I could be Spike or William…”

Ronnie considered this. “Naw…do you mind if I stick with Buddy?”

“Only if you get me some Budweiser to go with that-“

“Hey, hey, no product placement…”

They both laughed.

“I’ll tell you the whole story-but it’s a long one and some food-“ Spike amended quickly, “…the other and…carbohydrates and such will help us get through it…”

“Oh, that’s where the libation’s come in? Well all right then. So you’re hungry.”

“Very.”

“Well that’s good isn’t it? Good appetite is a sign of healing. There was an all night diner attached to the motel. I’ll be back in a few…and Buddy…could you keep a watch on my car across the street. I left a message with some people and that’s the address they’ll hit first, that motel across the street…O.K.?”

Without a blink or a question Spike agreed and took her place as sentry. The least he could do was placate her paranoia.

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