AUTHOR: Medea
TITLE: Judgment (14/?)
E-MAIL: medealives@hotmail.com
PAIRING: Willow/Angel friendship, Buffy/Spike, Willow/Tara
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Willow's joyride in 'Wrecked' was only the beginning of her
downward spiral.
SPOILERS: Season 6 BtVS "Smashed" and "Wrecked"; and Season 3 AtS
"Birthday".
ARCHIVE: Please do.
DISCLAIMER: Joss created. I am not Joss. Therefore, not mine, never will be.
NOTE: A response to Kendra A's challenge to "fix" Wrecked.
NOTE 2: This went out un-beta'd, so all ghastly mistakes are wholly my
fault.  //...Denotes Flashback...//
NOTE 3: Part of the inspiration for the Willow/Dawn situation came from
Melissa's story, 'Oral Fixations'. As a conscientious author (and a big fan
of Melissa's), thought I'd give credit where it was due.
DEDICATION: To Carrie and Jonquil, friends I'm glad I've made along the way.
Many thanks!
FEEDBACK: Much appreciated: medealives@hotmail.com



Déjà-vu wasn't unusual for Angel. He had walked the earth long enough to
realize that events and encounters often repeated themselves with little
more than a change of scenery. However, a slight tremor nonetheless ran
through him at the sight of the immortal demon who had served as the
catalyst for his transformation.

Scarcely six years earlier, Whistler had found him in a New York alley,
starving, filthy, and hopeless. A mere blink of the eye for someone of
Angel's longevity, yet a lifetime ago in terms of how far he'd come.

Six years. Angel had been a vampire for two and a half centuries. What were
six short years in that immense span?

Everything.

Those years held in them more than was dreamt of in heaven and in earth.
They eclipsed his first two centuries, overshadowing the worthless
drunkenness of his human life, the sadistic cruelty of his reign at Darla's
side, and the mind-numbing despair that had been his souled existence until
Whistler's appearance. In just six years, he had become something -- he'd
made himself worthwhile.

So he understood more than anyone that a visit from Whistler was no casual
affair.

"Whistler?" Angel repeated incredulously. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, it's L.A.," came the demon's cavalier answer. "There are a thousand
reasons'd bring a guy to this town."

"Not when the guy is you," Angel observed, folding his arms across his
chest.

"Um, Angel? Who is this guy?" Willow asked hesitantly. She rose to stand
beside Angel and peered warily at Whistler.

"It's okay, kid, I haven't slipped here from one of your other stomping
grounds. Name's Whistler," he said, extending a hand. However, rather than
shaking the proffered hand, Willow shrank against Angel and stared
uncomfortably at the shabbily dressed demon.

"Whoa, so don't make with the nice," Whistler shrugged, withdrawing his
hand. "Suit yourself."

"You didn't come to chat. The Powers That Be don't send their emissaries to
make small-talk," Angel pointed out.

"Tell me about it. Do you know how fast I wear out my welcome, delivering
message after message about an impending Apocalypse?" Whistler huffed.

"There's an Apocalypse on the way?" Angel's expression instantly grew
serious.

"Nah, 's already happened. A couple of times, actually," Whistler replied
easily as he perused Willow's spartan room with a smirk. "You know, this
room'd look a lot nicer with a painting or two -- even a bookshelf."

"It's me...I did it," Willow murmured, eyes widening in despair. "Oh,
God...Oh, God...I'm an Apocalypse."

"Willow, shh...Easy..." Angel steadied her, resting a hand on her shoulder.
"You couldn't have known."

Willow's entire frame was shaking, reminding Angel how fragile humans were
in body as well as in mind. When he'd broken her, Drusilla's heart had raced
as Willow's did now. But whereas he'd savored each anguished tremor, each
tormented moan he'd wrenched from Drusilla in that dark age before his soul,
it pained Angel to see Willow reduced to this state.

She turned her back on Angel and Whistler, wrapped arms around herself, and
hunched her shoulders, as if to make herself a smaller target, or deny
herself closeness and comfort.

"I can't write this off as an honest mistake," Willow insisted brokenly.
"This goes way beyond 'oh, oops, sorry'. I could feel it everywhere, all the
time. Something was wrong, because of me. The world was out of control
because *I* was out of control. Each time I slipped from one dimension to
another, it followed me. I brought it with me. The magic I'd tapped into was
disrupting things on a fundamental level and I couldn't make it stop."

As Angel listened to Willow's bitter self-reproach, a sickening hollow
formed in his gut and he realized what had been stalking her through her
journeys.

She had.

She was the ominous specter, bringing destruction to each incarnation in
which she'd found herself.

"That's pretty much it," Whistler agreed, hands thrust casually in his
trouser pockets. "You played with fire, kid."

It was a blunt statement, stark in its acknowledgment of the devastating
consequences of Willow's actions. Angel's throat tightened with grief as he
watched the young redhead sink to the floor in defeat. She dropped her head
into her hands and sobbed quietly. As her tears fell Angel recalled a
painful night in the woods of Roumania. The ground had been cold and sharp
with twigs as he'd knelt, crying out from the depths of his newly restored
soul. The force of guilt had crashed down on him so fiercely he'd pulled out
his own hair until his scalp was bloody.

"So that's it?" Angel whispered, aghast. He tore his eyes from Willow to
stare expectantly at Whistler.

"What?" came the bemused reply. "Angel, man, you've gotta stop being so
cryptic." Whistler ambled toward the desk, opened the drawer and frowned in
disappointment. "What is this, a prison cell? Even the dives I stay in have
a Bible or a phone book in the nightstand."

Angel snorted in disbelief. Cryptic?! Whistler was one to talk...

"Have the Powers started sending you out to condemn people? Is that what
this is about? You're just going to rub her nose in it and leave?" Angel
demanded, gesturing toward Willow, who huddled despondently at their feet.

"Hey, cool down, already," Whistler raised his hands, giving Angel the
brush-off. "No one's passing judgment on anyone yet...well, except the kid
there. She's beating herself up something good. When she snaps out of it,
you can tell her the Powers did her a favor."

"A favor?"

Whistler shrugged. "Yeah. See, she wasn't far off the mark -- she was an
Apocalypse, six times over."

"Willow kept saying something about seven worlds," Angel interrupted.

"One of those wasn't her fault," Whistler replied. "Anyway, it's too big for
the Powers to ignore. Something like this isn't just going to work itself
out. One Apocalypse, sure -- maybe two. But not six. She's gonna have to fix
it."

"Fix it?! How can...are you saying Willow is powerful enough to undo an
Apocalypse?" Angel demanded incredulously.

He looked down at the silent, withdrawn woman whom he still thought of as a
girl. A helpless girl he'd terrorized more than once. She'd been so
frightened, so unsure of herself.

And the Powers expected this little one, this timid, troubled soul to tip
the balance? Surely it was too much weight for such slim shoulders.

"Let's just say she's made a big splash. There are plenty of parties who are
going to be real interested in what she can do, real soon. She's already had
one offer that I've heard of. But this is big enough that she's got some
help. Like I said, the Powers did her a favor."

"What did they do?"

"Put the worlds somewhere she can fix them. Trouble is, she's going to be
afraid to try. That's where you come in." Whistler gave him a nod.

"Me?" Angel frowned.

"She'll need a coach. You know: 'Get in there and give it your all, champ';
'Up and at 'em, slugger'; 'Go team'. That kinda stuff."

"Why me? Wouldn't her friends be better at that?" Angel protested, daunted
at the prospect of shepherding Willow through something as arduous as
undoing an Apocalypse.

"Her friends? Jeez, what do you think *you* are?" Whistler chided him with
an impatient, sidelong glance.

"I only meant..." Angel began, pausing awkwardly as he struggled to
characterize his relationship to the young woman who had known him back when
he'd taken his first steps toward redemption. "Of course I'm her friend, and
I'll help however I can. But she has other friends who are closer to her.
How could I possibly know how to help her better than they would?"

"Use your best judgment. Talk to her. You'll find out you've got more in
common than you think. In the end, you pretty much use what you've got,"
Whistler shrugged. He glanced down at his watch. "Will you look at that?
Time to go. Well, take care of her. Hope you work it out."

He started for the door.

"Wait!" Angel nearly yelped, more confused than ever. "You've got to give me
more to go on than this. How am I supposed to help her work this out? You
said the Powers put the worlds where Willow could fix them. What does that
mean? Where?"

"Her head," Whistler grinned, nodding toward Willow and tapping his own
skull.

"But that's im--" Angel stopped mid-protest, dumbfounded. Six worlds in her
head? He stared at her, brow furrowed, for several moments before turning
back to Whistler...

...who was no longer there.

Angel closed his eyes and groaned inwardly. Great.

Just once, couldn't the Powers give clear instructions? No visions, no
visitations from demons whose curse was to be always misunderstood -- just
some nice, straightforward clues about what they wanted from their Champion.
Was that too much to ask?

Grimacing uneasily, the dark vampire lifted his gaze toward the ceiling and
thought, '*Don't answer that...*'

*****

"I suppose it was too much to hope for straightforward dealings from the
Council," Giles remarked. He took a sip of tea, then set the white china cup
back down on its saucer. "Still, it was a rude awakening to discover how far
my sense of my mission diverged from the Council's."

The ex-Watcher's observation was met with nods of agreement and grim
resignation from the others who sat with him in the office. Oddly enough, it
gave him a sense of solidarity, an inner peace he hadn't had since he'd left
Sunnydale so many months earlier. Truly, the people in this room were his
colleagues, his peers, far more than the Watchers Council.

"Giles...please don't take this the wrong way," Buffy said, her eyes
glimmering with a volatile mix of hope, uncertainty, and sadness. "I'm glad
you're back -- you have no idea how glad. But I thought you'd decided this
wasn't your mission any more."

A lump rose in his throat, and it was a moment before Giles could speak.
Xander and Tara glanced at him furtively from their seats on either side of
the Slayer, their expressions mirroring Buffy's halting stoicism.

"I never abandoned my mission, Buffy. I just lost sight of it," Giles softly
voiced his regret. "I thought I was holding you back. I no longer knew how
to guide you. In all the years I've worked with you, you've
been...remarkable. You shattered everything the Council had trained me to
believe about the Slayer -- no Slayer has ever been quite like you."

He paused, fixed his gaze pointedly on Buffy, then added, "Or so I had
thought."

"How exactly did you learn about the other Slayers, about their...sense of
fellowship with vampires?" Wesley interjected from his seat by Cordelia's
desk. He leaned forward, his brows knit in intense concentration. "You've
told us how uncooperative the Council was upon your return. For the love of
mercy, Rupert, they tried to kill you."

"I know," Giles agreed, pursing his lips thoughtfully. He closed his eyes
and shook his head, still finding it difficult to come to grips with all
he'd experienced in the past few months. "However, I think you know as well
as I do that the Council is usually at its most revealing precisely when the
hierarchy is trying to obstruct someone's path. Their response to my initial
research on past Slayers who survived into their twenties exposed some
particularly damning truths...."


//...Two Weeks Earlier...//


Giles shook with pain as he reclined against the cold, tiled wall of the
Metro tunnel and struggled to tighten a make-shift bandage around his
bleeding arm. A cursory self-examination gave him hope that the bullet had
passed clean through the flesh, but he was by no means out of danger. He was
losing blood at an alarming rate. He needed proper medical treatment, but
alerting the Council to his whereabouts by visiting a hospital could prove
fatal.

He cursed himself for not having anticipated such an ambush.

Quentin Travers had been uncharacteristically gracious in directing him to a
reclusive demon scholar in Paris. Indeed, he'd been *too* forthcoming with
information, especially given the scarcely masked alarm that had flashed in
his eyes when Giles had asked him about vague references in the Watchers'
Diaries to a Spanish Slayer in 1809. That alone should have set Giles on
guard.

But Giles had been so eager to follow up any lead that might help him
understand what Buffy needed, how he could help her, that he'd let himself
get careless.

Now he was paying the price for that lack of caution.

Giles gritted his teeth and clamped his hand down over his throbbing arm.
Ruefully, he thought back to the terrible moment when he'd arrived for his
rendez-vous with the demon scholar and discovered his unfortunate semantic
error. Ramon Diaz was no scholar *of* demons and demonic lore, he was a very
learned demon.

A vampire, to be precise. A very old and powerful vampire.

And very, very deadly.

Giles had escaped only through blind luck and the arrogant miscalculation of
the Council itself.

"You managed to get further than I would have expected."

The cool, smooth voice sent a white-hot bolt of fear coursing down his
spine. Giles scrambled to his feet and desperately scanned the vicinity for
a stick, a pencil, any fragment of wood whatsoever. Unfortunately, his luck
had run out.

Unarmed, he braced himself and raised his eyes to look at the calm yet
predatory face of Ramon Diaz.

"Apparently...not....far enough," Giles bit out, wincing at the pain that
radiated from his gunshot wound.

The immaculately groomed vampire arched an eyebrow. Like so many of his
kind, his sartorial preferences ran toward dark colors and sensually
pleasing fabrics. Yet though his attire was that of a contemporary
businessman, right down to the tasteful, navy silk tie and tailored,
charcoal gray suit, Diaz had the look of a Roman centurion. Raven hair
adorned his brow in short, clipped locks, and timeless, dark eyes stared out
from stern, proud features.

"Yes. It would have had to be much further," Diaz allowed with genteel
grace. He stepped closer, but paused when Giles stiffened defensively. With
a slight smile, his eyes narrowed and he asked, "Who are you, that the
Council of Watchers would not only misdirect you to a vampire's lair, but
have its best marksmen follow to finish the job in case the vampire himself
didn't kill you?"

"Obviously a very dangerous man," Giles bluffed, fixing Diaz with what he
hoped was a steely, menacing glare. "Too dangerous, perhaps, for the likes
of you."

A sly grin stretched across Diaz's face. "Ahh...false bravado. So, you're a
Watcher, then." The vampire turned his back on Giles, dismissing the
bleeding human as a threat, and strolled toward the edge of the platform.
Staring out into the darkened tunnel, he said, "I have no use for Watchers.
After the last fifty I killed, I would have thought they'd learned to
respect my privacy."

Turning back to Giles, he arched an eyebrow and murmured, "You, however, are
a curiosity."

"It intrigues you that the Council would murder one of its own," Giles
surmised. No doubt the vampire saw this as a welcome sign of weakness.

However, to Giles' astonishment, a brief spark of pain -- almost human in
its vulnerability -- flickered in dark eyes before fading to contempt. "I am
well aware that the Council has no scruples about killing its own. Probably
more so than you."

The remark was laced with such iciness and velvet rage that Giles shivered
involuntarily. His body's self-betrayal did not go unnoticed. Diaz smirked
back at him.

"So, Watcher, why does the Council want you dead?"

"I haven't figured that out yet," Giles answered guardedly. He felt his
limbs trembling, and realized that it was not solely due to fear. The
evening's events were taking their toll. His agitation seemed to run
cell-deep, and he'd been unable to steady his shaky breathing and his rapid
pulse. His system was showing the classic signs of hypovolemic shock.
Grimly, he acknowledged that the Council might get its wish after all.

Diaz nodded thoughtfully, clasped his hands behind his back and paced slowly
along the edge of the platform. "Their motivations are often clouded. Petty,
base..." He glanced coolly at Giles. "Human."

The well-groomed vampire paused and frowned slightly. "Why would they bother
to send you to me, though? They could have killed you more efficiently a
dozen other ways."

A grim truth Giles understood all too well.

Fighting light-headedness, Giles remarked, "Why does it matter to you?"

Another arched eyebrow. "As I said, you're a curiosity." Slowly, a cruel
smile spread across the vampire's face. "More importantly, the Council fears
you. I would be interested to know what it was that had them so threatened
they would seek to kill you."

"As would I," Giles agreed weakly. His knees felt wobbly and he swooned
against the wall. "However, I haven't yet...figured...that out... either"

No longer able to stand, Giles slid down the wall. Diaz knelt before him,
his human mask having given way to demonic ridges and fangs. Once again,
Giles was taken aback by the vampire's actions. With consummate skill, Diaz
undid the bandage around Giles' arm, provoking a fresh trickle of blood.
Then, biting into his own wrist, Diaz sprinkled a few drops of his blood on
the poorly dressed wound. Giles felt a warm, burning sensation in the
surrounding flesh. He glanced down and saw that his arm was no longer
hemorrhaging.

"That should speed the healing. Or, at the very least, prevent you from
dying before you can answer a few more questions," Diaz noted with
satisfaction. He rose to his feet.

"Might've spared yourself. I haven't any answers to offer...only questions
of my own," Giles murmured absently. He stared, intrigued, at his rapidly
healing wound, brushing it experimentally with his fingertips.

"Don't poke," Diaz reproached him. Folding his arms across his chest, he
prompted, "Tell me your questions, then. What were you so eager to learn,
that you let yourself be fooled so easily by the Council?"

His pride wounded, Giles scowled crossly and said nothing for several
moments. Patiently, Diaz reached into his breast pocket and withdrew an
elegant, silver cigarette case. He slipped one between his lips, returned
the case to his pocket, then raised a lighter and ignited the end of his
cigarette.

The vampire inhaled, then gently expelled the warm smoke from his mouth.
Still, he made no move to harm Giles or coerce him into speaking.

Perhaps it was Diaz's apparent lack of interest in killing him, or his
undisguised contempt for the Council; or maybe simply that his quiet,
unhurried enjoyment of a minor vice was reassuringly familiar, reminding
Giles of an irritatingly arrogant, blond vampire who, contrary to all
expectations, had proven himself an ally. Then again, it could have been the
massive blood loss, clouding his judgment. Whatever the reason, Giles found
himself opening up to his unlikely demon confessor.

"For the past few months, I've been researching past Slayers who survived
into their twenties, to determine whether their needs changed as they
entered adulthood, whether they had difficulty adjusting."

Diaz chuckled and tapped his cigarette, shaking loose the ash that had
accumulated on the end. "That is what the French would call 'une question
mal posée'. You think like a human of the twentieth century. For the
majority of my years, a Slayer, like any woman, was already an adult at age
fourteen." He took another thoughtful drag, then inquired as smoke filtered
out from his mouth, "What interests you in these matters?"

Bowing his head slightly, Giles stared at his shoes and murmured, "I have
nothing left to offer my Slayer, nothing that I can teach her. She's faced
the impossible...countless times, now...nothing has beaten her. Not even
death."

Giles raised his eyes to find Diaz watching him intently. Again, the Watcher
was startled by the depth of emotion he saw in the vampire's steady gaze.

"I realized I was holding her back," Giles continued. "She let herself rely
on me for things she could handle herself. It was easier, I suppose. So I
left. But each day thereafter, I felt like I'd betrayed her, failed her
somehow. I began to scour every record left behind by previous Watchers
about their Slayers. It was after I'd come across a reference to a Slayer in
1809 that the head of the Council sent me looking for you."

Diaz had turned away from Giles. He said nothing for a moment, merely stood,
motionless and silent. Then, in a soft voice, he said, "Jacinda...Jacinda
Santos."

"There was no mention of her name. In fact, there was surprisingly little
about her at all in the Council's archives," Giles admitted.

"Not surprising at all," Diaz countered, his back still to Giles. Ignored,
the vampire's cigarette slowly burned down to a column of ash between his
fingers. "Undoubtedly, the Council wanted to purge all traces of her from
their history. Jacinda committed the cardinal sin."

The cigarette fell to the ground. When Diaz failed to elaborate, Giles
prompted apprehensively, "What did she do?"

In the silence, Giles heard the rats skittering across the tracks.

"She loved a vampire," Diaz said simply.

Neither man nor vampire spoke for a while. Then, Diaz turned half-way toward
Giles, cocked his head, and observed, "This does not surprise you."

"No, it doesn't," Giles sighed. At this admission, Diaz slowly brought
himself around to face the reclining Watcher head-on. Comprehension dawned
in his eyes -- and something more.

Respect.

"Your Slayer, too. She loved one of my kind." A statement, not a question.
When Giles nodded, Diaz fixed him with a sober, unwavering gaze. "It is more
common than the Council wishes to admit. They fear the truth."

"And what is the truth?

Diaz narrowed his eyes and smiled the sinister, toothy smile of a predator.
"That familiarity does not breed contempt, but fosters a sense of
kinship...awakens a longing for those who walk the same path in the
shadows." Absently, the vampire traced his thumbnail over the tip of his
index finger until it drew blood. "Kindles the flame of passion."

For the first time since he'd initiated their conversation, Diaz closed his
eyes. To Giles, it looked as if the vampire were miles away, lost in another
place, another time. When Diaz opened his eyes once more, he stated bluntly,
"Jacinda was not the first. Your Slayer will not be the last."

Giles had a disturbing feeling that it would be dangerous to press Diaz any
further on this matter, but his curiosity somehow managed to override his
better judgment. Leaning forward, he asked, "What happened to Jacinda?"

The murderous look that seized the vampire's face and the barely controlled
rage that tensed his entire frame told Giles that his instincts were
correct. Instantly, the Watcher regretted his question. However, Diaz
regained his composure, and began to speak in a faraway voice.

"Her vampire...loved her as deeply as she loved him. He offered her
immortality. And she *accepted*...she was ready to walk beside him as his
mate. She would have been his most glorious creation." Diaz paused and
clenched his jaw. "For this, the Council killed her. Their assassins
surprised her as she was confessing her intentions to her Watcher, and
murdered them both. Her lover found them, beheaded and staked through the
heart -- a precaution taken by men who considered the union of Slayer and
vampire to be an abomination."

"Dear God," Giles whispered, aghast. He wasn't sure whether he was more
horrified by the Council's brutality, or by the fact that he knew full well
that the Council was capable of such actions, and even worse.

"Your *dear* God had nothing to do with it, did nothing to prevent it," Diaz
spat bitterly. "As I told you, Jacinda wasn't the first. So you see,
Watcher, I do know how easily the Council will kill one of its own."

Grimly, Giles realized the terrible extent of his dilemma. If Buffy hadn't
been in danger before, his unintentional trespass into the Council's darker
secrets had now most likely placed her in serious jeopardy. And he was
gravely ill-equipped to warn her. If he didn't die at the hands of the
vampire who stood before him, and if he survived his gunshot wound, the
Council would most likely find him and kill him before he could reveal what
he'd learned.

With uncanny intuition, Diaz seemed to anticipate his concerns. "Do you have
a name, Watcher?"

Giles blinked momentarily, then replied, "Giles. Rupert Giles."

"Keep yourself alive for the next twenty-four hours, Rupert Giles," Diaz
instructed. Calmly, he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a black
leather wallet. Thumbing through various business cards, he finally
extracted one and handed it to Giles. "Tomorrow night, go to this address.
Someone will attend to you until you are able to return to your Slayer."

Although Giles suspected he knew the reason for Diaz's generosity, he
thought better than to ask the vampire why he was offering sanctuary to a
human, and a Watcher no less. Lifting his eyes from the card, Giles
acknowledged his benefactor with a solemn, "Thank you."

Diaz regarded him impassively, then turned to leave. As he walked away, he
said, "I do not do this for your sake."

Nodding, Giles murmured to himself, "I know."


//...The Hyperion, Present Day...//


Wearied from the emotional tale, Giles reached for his cup of tea and took a
sip. As the soothing warmth slid down his throat, he surveyed the deeply
troubled faces before him. Xander grimaced in confusion and clutched Anya's
hand. Although she appeared least worried of the group, Anya nonetheless
frowned in sympathy and patted her fiancé's hand. Wesley had removed his
glasses, shut his eyes, and now rested his forehead against a tightly
clenched fist. Tara breathed shakily as tears ran down her cheeks.

Buffy sat very still and stared, unblinking, at the floor.

Slowly, she raised her head and looked at Giles. "I think we need to talk."

"I think we do," a voice agreed from the doorway.

Sheepishly, Giles realized he'd been so wrapped up in recounting his
experience that he was unaware how long Angel had been standing there.

"This conversation should wait, then, until all interested parties are
here," Giles suggested, knowing that a central figure in Buffy's life had
elected not to return to the hotel that night.

Nervously, Buffy averted her eyes. Angel said nothing, but acquiesced with a
curt nod, then looked away.

*****

"You're not seriously gonna sleep on the floor, are you?" Dawn demanded as
she settled herself beneath the airy comforter on the Host's bed.

Spike snorted. "Anything's better than the work-out mat in the Poof's
basement. Don't trouble your head over it, Niblet. This'll do fine. Now,
lights out, already."

"Yes, *Dad*," Dawn grumbled as she flipped the switch on the wall.

"Drop the attitude, pet," an irritated growl carried through the darkness.




(To Be Continued)


_________________________________________________________________

Chapter 15


Dawn listened absently to Fred's giddy chatter as they walked with Gunn back
to Caritas, her temporary home.

Home. Yeah, right. There with the rest of the freaks, where she belonged.
She frowned. The whole gang was back at the hotel, and meanwhile she was
shoved off to the sidelines again, sleeping at some weird demon bar and
being babysat all day by two people she hardly knew. All because she was
like some kind of cosmic heroin to Willow, and everyone was too busy trying
to find a way to protect her to spend any time with her.

"Maybe tomorrow we can go to the beach. Would you like that, Dawn?" Fred
asked, smiling shyly.

With a half-hearted shrug, Dawn replied, "Sure. That sounds okay."

Gunn craned his neck and let out an exaggerated sigh. "Well, that's a
relief. I don't know how two girls as small as y'all could buy so
much...stuff." He punctuated his remark by raising both arms, each heavily
laden with shopping bags in a medley of rainbow plastics and stiff, glossy
paper.

In spite of the easygoing smile Gunn flashed at her, Dawn winced. Spending
all day at one of L.A.'s malls had forced her to struggle with old
temptations, and he'd caught her trying to steal a silver bracelet from one
store they'd visited. He hadn't made a scene; just told her in a low, steady
voice to put it back, then walked away. Gunn hadn't even hovered nearby to
ensure that she did as he told her. Maybe it was that, or maybe it was the
total lack of shock or disappointment in his eyes, but Dawn had felt ashamed
of herself, rather than defensive.

But Gunn had played it cool for the rest of the afternoon, as if nothing had
happened. It kind of surprised her.

They made their way into Lorne's establishment just as the shadows which
angled across the street were lengthening. It was dusk, and already a patron
or two had arrived at the bar.

Lorne approached them in an elegantly tailored, deep red Armani suit that
nicely accentuated his vermilion eyes. "Well, looks like you went on a spree
that could put Elizabeth Taylor to shame," he noted approvingly. Gesturing
to the scaly bartender who was busily polishing glasses, Lorne asked, "Can I
have Ronnie fix you anything? A little Shirley Temple after paying homage at
the temples of commerce?"

Dawn shrugged indifferently, lowered her gaze and muttered, "I'm fine."

She didn't want to feel comfortable here. She didn't want to let Angel's
friends make her feel comfortable. For months upon months, even though she'd
been the object of everyone's concern and the center of their efforts to
combat the latest threat, be it Glory or Willow, Dawn had nonetheless felt
like an outsider. She was so tired of being sheltered, so very tired of
being protected to the point that she was closed out of the gang.

Besides, every time she started feeling even the least bit comfortable or
reassured about her connection to her family and friends, they left her. She
wasn't going to set herself up for that again. Not when this was a temporary
arrangement anyway.

"You sure, cupcake?" Lorne asked her in a voice as melodious as a siren's
lure. "It's easy to work up an appetite when you're doing serious shopping,
and Ronnie makes a mean plate of nachos."

Traitorously, Dawn's stomach chose that moment to rumble, and she was forced
to admit that she was hungry.

"I guess that sounds good," she conceded.

"Ooh, nachos!" Fred chimed in with child-like glee.

Lorne beamed indulgently at both of them. "Tell you what, sweet things. I'll
have Ronnie fix you up a triple order. Why don't you have a seat?"

Lorne gestured to a nearby table as he headed toward the bar. Meanwhile,
Gunn gripped the shopping bags and said, "I'll be right back. Just wanna
drop these in your room before my arms fall off."

Dawn joined Fred at the table and fiddled nervously with her hands. She
scanned the near-empty room, her glance falling briefly on a spiky, blue
demon seated near the stage, then looked back to the shy, youthful woman
across from her.

"I know I'm not the greatest company," Fred began, with an awkward,
apologetic smile. "I guess that kind of comes from having spent five years
living in a cave in a demon dimension..."

Busted.

Inwardly, Dawn cringed even as she reassured her soft-spoken companion, "No,
no, I had a great time today. It's just..."

At this point, Lorne set two glasses of water down before them and pulled up
a seat. "Got a lot on your mind, huh, pumpkin?"

Dawn frowned in discomfort. At her uneasy pout, Lorne remarked, "Don't take
it personally, Dawnie. I do this to everyone. Call it an occupational
hazard."

"And do many people tell you to butt out?" Dawn retorted wryly.

"Sure. Angel's one of the worst. Now *there's* a big ball of tension --
doesn't take an anagogic demon to read the pent-up frustration coming off of
that one. But will he listen to advice? Nooooooo. That, my dear, would be
one of the first signs of the Apocalypse," Lorne observed, leaning forward
conspiratorially. This elicited a grin from Dawn, who'd had plenty of her
own experience with the dark vampire's stubborn pillar-of-strength routine
when he and Buffy had been dating.

Fred giggled. Gunn, who had returned from Lorne's suite, eased into the
chair beside Fred's, smiled adoringly at her and asked, "So what are we
laughing about?"

"Angel," Dawn supplied with a smirk.

"And how he's not good at opening up," Fred added, returning Gunn's
affectionate gaze with equal measure.

"No kidding?" Gunn snorted ironically.

"I suppose I can appreciate that," Fred admitted, self-consciously nudging
her glasses above her nose with her index finger. "It took me a long time to
open up to anyone after we came back from Pylea...and then only with Angel's
help. I guess I got so used to hiding in my cave that I kept on hiding, even
when there weren't any more monsters."

Gunn gently rested his hand over hers. "You survived five years in a world
where demons treated you like a slave or an animal. It takes a lot of
strength to hold up when everyone around you says you're no better than
dirt. You weren't even in control of your own life. I think you were
entitled to have a few problems with trust. Anyway, you came through it.
You're strong, girl."

Dawn watched them and felt a pang of jealousy. She hated feeling so alone,
and wanted to wrap herself up in the warmth that they so obviously shared.

"It must be hard," Lorne's gentle observation startled Dawn. She stared at
him warily, wondering exactly how well he could read minds. He offered her
an understanding nod. "Being uprooted at a moment's notice, hiding out from
the bad guys. Having the Slayer for a big sis. It probably makes it tough to
have a normal life."

"You don't know the half of it," Dawn sulked, lowering her eyes to hide the
faint glimmer of moisture.

The scaly bartender appeared at their table and set down a heaping platter
of nachos, piled high with bubbling cheese, richly aromatic chili, shredded
lettuce, salsa, olives, tomatillo relish, sprigs of fresh cilantro, and sour
cream. Lorne scooted the platter toward Dawn and said, "Go ahead. Nothing
feels better than a nice, warm snack. Sometimes we all need to live it up a
little."

"You got that right," Gunn agreed, helping himself to a blue corn tortilla
chip piled high with toppings. "Hey, where's the guac?"

Ronnie re-appeared and left a bowl of guacamole next to the nachos.

"Live it up," Dawn muttered glumly. "That would be nice, if I actually had
my own life to live." She munched on a chip, savoring the piquant salsa and
rough, stone-ground corn, and found herself confessing her misery in spite
of herself. "My life isn't even real. My whole past is fake. My family isn't
even really my family. All I am is a ball of energy that one person or
another keeps wanting to tap into."

Dawn wasn't sure how much Willow had explained about her when she'd taken
the news of Buffy's death to the L.A. gang last spring. However, she figured
they knew at least the basics, since they regarded her with sympathy rather
than bewildered shock.

"Dawn," Gunn said after a few seconds, "I don't mean to mess with your
business. I know what it's like to feel cut off from the world when you
don't have family. Believe me, I know how much that hurts. I'm not sayin'
your situation isn't unique. But your family isn't any less real just
because you weren't always part of it. Family is more than what you're dealt
at the beginning of the game. Family is the people who help you get through
whatever you're dealt, no matter how tough it is."

For a moment, Dawn said nothing. Her insides trembled uneasily as she
reluctantly admitted to herself that these people were friends, that try as
she might, she couldn't shut them out. She didn't want to need anyone new,
she didn't want to make room for more people who would leave her, but...she
couldn't stop herself from needing somebody to talk to.

"Thanks," Dawn murmured. "I get that."

"This might not make you feel any better," Lorne added, his voice rich and
soothing. "But you're not much different from any other sentient being I've
ever met. They're *all* balls of energy, at the core. Why do you think I can
read their auras?"

Dawn gaped at the green-skinned demon. She'd never really thought of it that
way. Slowly, a smile began to spread across her face. Lorne saw her
brightening expression and continued.

"And being a familiar involves a lot more than supplying a little energy.
Granted, it shouldn't be forced on anyone -- you're right to feel upset
about that. But in some circles -- actually, a lot of circles -- familiars
are highly respected and very influential in their own right. It's
considered an honor."

A self-conscious grimace spread across Dawn's features. She knew that Angel
had shared a few details with Lorne in order to persuade the demon to let
her stay at his establishment, but it nonetheless made Dawn uncomfortable
that so many people knew, especially about Willow's first attack. The
experience had left Dawn feeling humiliated, raw and vulnerable. Talking
about it made her feel exposed.

And yet...this last time had been different. It hadn't felt bad at all. It
had felt strangely right...

"I just don't like feeling controlled," Dawn protested softly. "Willow tried
to use me, and it hurt."

"And it didn't work," Lorne agreed reassuringly. "Because that isn't what
familiars are for, that isn't the relationship. It isn't something that can
be forced. Any more than love can be forced. When it's the real deal, it's
offered freely. And then -- whoa! Look out, it's a force that can't be
stopped. Most importantly, it's a two-way street."

Dawn paused and reflected.

That was exactly what it had felt like. The last time she'd been drawn to
Willow, it had felt warm...loving...sharing...

She was angry at Willow for hurting her before. Willow had done a horrible
thing. But, she realized, Willow wasn't a bad person, not at heart. A
possibility churned in her mind.

Could Willow need her?

*****

In the spartan yet comfortable room that had been made up for Giles not long
after his arrival, Buffy sat in the one desk chair and listened numbly as
her Watcher told Spike the same story he'd shared with the rest of the
group. To his credit, Spike kept his face a neutral mask of detachment,
revealing nothing that might suggest the Slayer's love life was any of his
business. Angel leaned against the far wall and observed from just beyond
the edge of the soft light cast by the floor lamp.

After Giles finished, Buffy's throat ached with tension as she watched the
three most important men in her life stare at each other in awkward silence.
Never mind that two of them technically weren't men at all, and that they
were glaring rather than staring. As necessary as this conversation was, as
hard as it was for Buffy to believe she'd avoided dealing with this for as
long as she had, it was still her worst nightmare.

A very irrational, panicky side of her wished she were trapped in a room
with the Master, Adam and Glory. Anything would have been better than having
to explain her relationship with Spike to Angel, Giles... and Spike himself.

The Cruciamentem had nothing on this.

Buffy felt utterly abandoned by every last ounce of her strength and wanted
nothing more than to run away and hide. Where was her inner Slayer when she
needed her? And what about her easygoing, witty banter? Why did the quips
come so naturally when she was fighting demons, only to abandon her when it
came time to discuss her feelings?

"So, you met Diaz," Spike remarked coolly, shifting his gaze from Angel to
Giles. "Told you 'bout the girl, did he? Huh. Heard rumors, but never
bothered to find out if they were true. Bloke was jealous of his privacy,
didn't take kindly to anyone askin' too many questions. Figured it was a
legend started by a vamp who got bored. What I want to know is why the
soddin' Council gives a rat's arse now? Why weren't they all up in arms when
the Slayer and the Poof were snogging in the graveyards four years ago?"

The sickening knot in Buffy's stomach tightened even further. She wanted to
weep with gratitude and shame at Spike's gesture. Angel had always been a
difficult topic for them, yet Spike was willing to cover for her, to
maintain the illusion that there was only one vampire who had ever worked
his way deeply enough into her heart to be a cause for the Council's
concern.

It was time for her to stop hiding.

"Well, actually...they were," Giles countered haltingly. He grimaced
apologetically at Buffy, then glanced away. "But then Angelus...er,
returned, and there no longer seemed any danger that the Slayer would be
seduced away from her duty."

Buffy took a deep breath. "And if the Council hated that their Slayer loved
a vampire with a soul, they're probably having one, big, group heart-attack
over the thought of her with a soulless one."

Instantly, three sets of eyes locked on her. In Giles' somewhat pained gaze,
Buffy nonetheless saw compassion and understanding. In Spike's winter blue
eyes, pure, unadulterated shock, softened by hope. It was the same look that
had frozen his features for several seconds when he'd first seen her after
the resurrection.

And, just as she had dreaded, Angel's eyes shone with stark, painful
despair. Guilt sliced deeply through her heart. When Angel averted his gaze,
unable to look at her, it hurt even worse.

"Thanks for not making any of us say it," Angel murmured quietly.

Buffy bit the inside of her lip, but it didn't stop the tears from flowing.
She supposed she couldn't really be surprised that he'd already guessed.
"I'm so sorry," she lamented in the barest of whispers. "I never wanted to
hurt you..."

Her breath hitched momentarily, then she continued, "...but I need him.
Coming back was...hard. I wouldn't have made it through the past few months
without him...Spike makes me feel alive."

Two quick nods of the head were Buffy's only indication that Angel had heard
her. He remained motionless, lifeless, revealing nothing. Buffy closed her
eyes, aching with regret that she had tarnished the one thing she and Angel
had left between them.

Hope.

Somewhere deep inside, she knew that he would have come to accept anyone --
for her sake. Anyone *else*. Anyone but Spike.

Flushed with the storm of her emotions, Buffy wiped impatiently at the tear
tracks on her cheeks and opened her eyes again.

The sight she beheld merely proved to her how deeply, how paradoxically,
Angel and Spike mirrored each other even as they were a study in contrast.
Like Angel, Spike was nearly motionless. But whereas Angel shielded his
emotions from view, obscuring the depth of his pain with silent stoicism,
Spike was utterly transparent. His eyes brimmed so intensely with joy and
awe that they quivered. He pursed his lips slightly, as a hesitant, wondrous
smile threatened to burst forth.

"Didn't know if I'd ever hear you say it," Spike murmured, his eyes burning
into hers.

Buffy offered him a shaky albeit warm smile, even as she silently begged him
with flaring eyes and rigid posture not to gloat. She knew Spike could be
mature -- she'd caught him at it once or twice, usually when she needed to
rely on him the most. She desperately hoped he'd come through for her now.
It was no secret how much the two vampires loathed each other. The last
thing Buffy needed was for Spike to shove this in Angel's face.

She saw Spike weigh the temptation. His eyes widened briefly at her
painfully visible distress before gleaming with comprehension. For just a
moment, he smirked and cast a devilish glance at Angel. Buffy's pulse
quickened and she felt her stomach twist with dread. It was then that Spike
shook his head gently and gave her a small, reassuring smile that swelled to
fervent adoration by the time it reached his eyes.

"Right. So...Council'll be sending more assassins, then. How soon d'you
figure?" Spike brought the discussion back to business in a gruff voice.

"Difficult to say," Giles confessed. Buffy saw him relax slightly, but he
still looked as tightly strung as a bow. Poor Giles. He probably thought
this was all so unseemly. "They might send a team right away, hoping to
strike before we've organized ourselves. On the other hand, they might wait
weeks or even months, until we let down our guard."

Buffy snorted. "That'll never happen. New Spring fashion for Slayers:
keeping your guard up is in. Not likely to go out of style for, oh, possibly
-- ever."

"They won't wait too long," Angel amended quietly, studiously avoiding
Buffy's gaze and instead looking at Giles. "The longer they wait, the
greater the risk."

"What do you mean?" Buffy asked warily. For the first time since she'd
admitted how important Spike was to her, Angel turned his eyes to hers. A
distressed wrinkle formed above his brow. He glanced briefly at Spike, then
back to Buffy, and opened his mouth as if to speak, but thought better of it
and merely frowned in silence.

"By now, there is a good chance the Council is afraid that Spike will try to
turn you," Giles explained with an apologetic grimace.

Buffy gaped at her mentor in shock. For several moments, the soft hum of
Giles' travel alarm clock was the only sound in the room. Buffy even
wondered if her heart had stopped beating. She felt completely numb.
Finally, still dazed, she slowly shook her head and murmured, "No. That's
ridiculous..."

In a low voice, seething with barely restrained fury, Angel growled, "Spike,
if you care for her even half as much as she seems to think you do, come
clean with her NOW, you pathetic excuse for a--"

Instantly, Spike was in his face, glaring through demon-gold eyes and
snarling, "Back. Off. This is none of your damned business."

"Both of you -- back off," Buffy snapped sternly, eyes narrowed. Her
patience was wearing thin. She had a sullen, confused sister to help, a
friend who had fallen so far she might never find her way back to herself,
not to mention that Buffy still hadn't adjusted to the fact that Angel and
Darla had produced a son. So help her, if Angel and Spike started with the
male, proprietary posturing, she wouldn't be responsible for her actions.

"If you won't tell her the truth, you don't deserve her," Angel muttered,
although he stepped away in deference to Buffy's demand.

A menacing growl rumbled in Spike's throat and he clenched his fists, but
he, too, stood down. He closed his eyes and paused for several moments
before shaking away his demon face. Turning stormy blue eyes to Buffy, he
conceded softly, "I'd never do anything against your will. I wouldn't force
you. But," here he grimaced with distaste, "the Poof is right." Spike
squared his shoulders with determination and continued. "I love you, Buffy.
There's no changing that. And there's no changing what I am. I'm a vampire.
I'll want to love you forever. Sooner or later, I would have asked you. But
you have my word, I won't change you unless it's your choice."

For several seconds, Buffy couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. Finally, she
managed to choke out, "But you'd want to."

Eyes closed, Spike bowed his head slightly. "But I'd want to." He opened his
eyes again and fixed her with a piercing gaze. "I let you die once. I don't
think I could survive it again."

Buffy took a half-step back, deeply disturbed, albeit not as much as she
would have expected to be. Spike was everything that she, as the Slayer,
should be against. Everything about their relationship was wrong according
to the beliefs that had been instilled in her. This was yet another jarring
reminder of the fact that they violated every code of decency and morality
she could think of.

And yet...she couldn't deny how he made her feel. True, some of it had been
cheap and sordid and violent. Well, actually, a lot of it had. But deep
within Spike, there was also a love so tender, so strong...and all the more
precious because he'd only been willing to share it with her.

She had been so vulnerable these past few months. He could have betrayed her
in a dozen ways, reveled in demonic triumph over her as he'd always bragged
he would. Instead, he'd offered her comfort when no one else could. This
aggravating demon had been her beacon of light in the dark that had been her
life since the resurrection.

"Perhaps for the moment we should concentrate on preparing for the Council's
next move," Giles interjected delicately. He paced to the center of the
room, placing himself between Angel and Spike, as if to diffuse some of the
tension by physically blocking them. Such a small, subtle gesture, but it
nonetheless lifted Buffy's spirits. It was reassuringly familiar to be on
the receiving end of Giles's protective instincts. With a nod toward Spike,
he continued, "Whatever Spike's intentions in the matter, it's academic for
the time being since the chip still prevents him from harming Buffy."

Buffy saw Spike's jaw clench. His eyes glimmered with sullen resentment, but
he made no move to correct Giles on his assumption. Before she had time to
talk herself out of it, Buffy found herself explaining, "No it doesn't.
Something happened when I was resurrected. For some reason, the chip doesn't
recognize me. So, Spike can hurt me -- even kill me. But he's chosen not
to."

Giles stared at her in shock. "Buffy, why didn't you tell me?"

A deep, hollow pit ached in Buffy's chest as she answered, "Because you
weren't here."

The look of guilt on her Watcher's face ripped right through her.

Angel moved toward the door. Poised to slip out of the room, he said in a
voice thick with emotion, "It will be safest if we make the hotel our base
camp. If we're split up, the Council will get to you by going after the
weakest link. I know you're worried about Willow, but I think it would be
best for Dawn to be with the rest of us....Spike," Angel's voice lowered and
hitched slightly, "is welcome to stay here."

"Thank you, Angel," Buffy breathed, blinking back tears.

The dark vampire raised his eyes and sent her a look so charged with longing
and regret it shook her to the core.

"I'm going to check on Willow," Angel murmured as he exited the room.

Almost too hastily, Giles followed on his heels. "I think I'll accompany
him." Pausing, he looked to Buffy and explained, "I haven't really had the
chance to speak with Willow, and...there are a few things I said last fall
that I regret..."

With a weak smile, Buffy nodded. "I understand. Go check up on your other
daughter. I'll be okay, dad."

Mild astonishment flashed in the Watcher's eyes, then slowly eased into
genuine delight. Hesitantly, Giles walked back to her and opened his arms
rather awkwardly. Grinning, Buffy stepped in and hugged him.

"I missed you," Giles murmured.

"Missed you, too," Buffy confessed. He gave her a final squeeze, then
extricated himself from her arms and went to seek out Willow.

Buffy let out a long, shaky breath. She felt like her entire body was ready
to collapse. Spike drew close, and she was about to comment on how that
conversation hadn't been *quite* as bad as fighting a hell god, when he
stilled her with a gentle finger against her lips.

He replaced his finger with his lips. His tongue slid against hers and
explored her mouth with agonizingly slow, languid strokes. Buffy felt
herself melting into him, wanting to bathe in his fire. Spike finally broke
away, only to nibble his way down her jaw. As he nipped her earlobe, he
whispered, "I."

A light flick of the tongue against her neck. "Love."

A hungry, open-mouthed kiss over her pulse point. "You."

Buffy closed her eyes and sank into his embrace. She'd made it through one
of the most difficult things she'd ever had to do. It was so humbling, it
made her tremble. For her sake, Angel and Spike had been...they'd actually
been *civil* to each other. She understood how much that meant, and as
grateful as she was to have Spike, a small part of her died inside to know
just how cruelly that must stab at Angel's heart.

Why did love have to hurt?


(To Be Continued)
 

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