Part 7:

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The branches of a massive oak tree rustled as a flurry of creatures fled from the leafy abode. Birds of all types took flight; robins, jays, and canaries dotted the sky in a myriad of color. The faint rustling of leaves greeted the night as the animals left to find a more secure shelter, away from that horrid, grating noise. All their natural instincts told them to run; that no thing that made such an ungodly sound could bring anything but chaos.

"Did you ever know that you're my hero? You're everything I would like to beeeee . . . and I can something, something eagle, 'cause you are the wind beneath my wings," Buffy sang to herself, a sort of giddy anticipation working its way up her body.

She strolled alongside the road, clutching a stake in one hand and a cross in the other, thoughts of love and redemption and vamp dust filling her head. A full moon hung lazily in the sky, shedding a dim, golden haze over her face. Somewhere far away, a wolf howled. Buffy sighed contentedly. A night like this, a perfect, glorious night, just made her want to kill something.

A rustling in a nearby tree caught her attention, and Buffy whipped her head around, just in time to see a swarm of miniscule creatures fleeing their protective habitat. A small flock of birds took flight; she had to duck as they swooped over her head. And as suddenly as they had left, so did the noise. The rustling nearly ceased, the animals were long gone, and Buffy was left in their wake, still holding a stake, a tune still on her lips. She blinked a few times, trying to grasp the situation.

"O-kay. That was about an eight on the weird-o-meter. Come back guys," she called out into the night, "What do you have against that song? What does -everyone- have against that song?!"

After a quick pause, Buffy continued on her way. A bunch of birds and squirrels running from her singing was certainly odd, but it wasn't something to worry about. She knew that she was no Whitney Houston, but she didn't think she was -that- bad. 'Hmm . . . good thing I'm the Chosen. Otherwise I might have tried to pursue a career in music.' The thought gave her the willies.

The wrought-iron gates of the cemetery loomed ahead of Buffy, and a jolt of adrenaline rushed through her system. Her thoughts came rapidly and had a sort of giddy, idiotic, disjointed feel to them. 'Spike. Patrolling. Patrolling with Spike. In the cemetery. This cemetery. With Spike.'

She pushed the thoughts aside as she came to the entrance of the cemetery, to the rusted gates. Buffy eyed the heavy padlock that held the gates shut, and judged it to be a fairly recent model. She figured that she could break it with one swift kick, but a pang of guilt wormed its way into her stomach. She knew why that lock had been replaced - she had broken the last one. And the one before that. And countless other locks on countless other cemetery gates, causing the city money to replace them every time. It was a fine example of her tax dollars at work, and she knew it would be wrong to break it again. Her tax dollars were supposed to go to fund important things, like education for children or a private swimming pool for the mayor, not padlocks. Buffy decided that she wasn't really in a kicking mood.

Besides, it was rarely fun when the thing you were beating up didn't fight back.

Buffy stepped back to get a good look at the gate. Through years of precision training she had gotten pretty good at guessing the height of things; you never knew when you would be fighting a twenty-foot tall demon, and you had to know where to stab. A sword through the groin in certainly painful, but usually not lethal; she had to know where to land a deathblow. Her very life depended on it.

Further scrutiny confirmed her first estimation of fifteen feet. Not too tall, but not a walk in the park, either. For the life of her, Buffy couldn't figure out why the cemeteries in Sunnydale had such large gates. It could hardly be for protection from vandals - they could just break the lock as she had so many times. Maybe it was just for show . . . ?

Taking a few steps back, Buffy crouched low, placing her hands to either side of her and tensing her muscles. In one deft move, she leapt from the sodden turf, propelling herself over the gate and onto the cemetery lawn, where she landed solidly on her feet. Spreading her arms out to her sides like a gymnast, a small grin crept across her face. Sometimes having to train days on end with a stuffy look-what-a pain-in-the-ass-I-can-be Watcher wasn't such a bad thing.

"She shoots, she scores," she cheered to herself, taking a small bow.

"And the crowd goes wild."

Her eyes growing wide, Buffy spun around and bumped straight into Spike. Buffy took a few steps backwards, stumbling over a tree root that was sticking up from the ground. With lightening speed, Spike grabbed her by the waist and stopped her from falling, pulling her to her feet.

"Nice form, love. A little shaky on the dismount," he teased, a wicked gleam in his eyes, "Might want to train a little more before you try for the gold, though."

Running a hand through her tousled blonde locks, Buffy found a smile spreading across her face. "Yeah, well, I don't think the Olympics tends to have judges hiding and trying to scare the athletes. You've gotta give me some credit for not staking you on the spot."

"Firstly, I wasn't hiding," he countered, "And second, you wouldn't stake me if you could."

"Okay, fine, you weren't hiding," she admitted, "But you were lurking. Not like there's a huge difference. And what makes you so sure that I wouldn't stake you? I mean, give me one good reason why I -"

He cut her off with a bruising kiss, stopping her mid-sentence with lips and tongue. Buffy reacted with matching urgency, and only drew away when she needed to take a breath. She looked up at him and smiled.

"I asked for a good reason, Spike," she said, sighing, "Not a great one."

Spike reached down to capture her lips once more, but she pushed him away after a few moments. "Nu-uh," Buffy scolded, "No more smooching until the work's done. Remember? We're here to patrol. With the demons and the vamps and the stakes and the 'poof'?"

"Aww, not even for me," Spike asked, a humorous grin on his face, "Not even for the wind beneath your wings?"

Buffy's mouth dropped open and she gaped at him. "You heard me," she squeaked, pushing Spike away with a shaky hand, "What, was it one of those vampiric hearing deals?"

"Please," he scoffed, grinning wider than a Cheshire cat, "I didn't need it. You were singing so bloody loud the entire cemetery could hear your caterwauling. But on the plus side, you scared off all the baddies. Well," he added with a raised eyebrow, "All except one."

"Yeah," she said, an embarrassed flush spreading across her cheeks, "A neutered baddie. So terrifying."

"NOT neutered," he huffed, "Not castrated or impotent or any of those other demeaning sexual terms you're so fond of using. I'm. restricted. Restricted in my killing abilities by a bleeding chip in my head. Have some sympathy."

"I'm sorry that you can't kill innocent people any more, Spike," her voice was thick with sarcasm, "I'm so upset that you can't eat my friends." Buffy rolled her eyes. "So sorry, but if you're looking for sympathy, you'll have to find it elsewhere. Especially since that 'caterwauling' remark." She turned her back to him and folded her arms across her chest in a defiant, childish manner.

Spike walked up behind her and placed his arms around hers, drawing her closer to him. "Aww, come on, pet. I'm sorry; you sounded beautiful. Really. You should be a professional."

"Yeah, just like you should get a tan," she joked. Turning around, Buffy couldn't stop a smile as she saw that Spike was pouting, sticking his lower lip out and looking as adorable as a puppy. A really, really sexy puppy. He let out a small whine, and Buffy felt what anger she had melt away into nothingness.

"All right, I forgive you," she conceded, seeing obvious relief wash over his face, "But only if you promise to be good. We're going to patrol, okay? No more hanky panky until we're through."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Yep. The poorly tacked together plans of mice and men. Or Slayer and vampires."

"Oh no," Spike protested, throwing his hands up in the air, "Don't try and give me credit for this. Not only is it poorly tacked together, it's risky."

"Risky how?" she asked, confused.

"Think about it. Doughboy gets over his injuries, decides to come out and pay you a visit like the genius he is. He sees us together, and you lose your sparkling reputation of never getting involved with vampires. No, wait; there was that one bloke. What was his name? Something poncy." Spike stopped and scratched his chin, looking pensive.

Buffy giggled. "It was Angel. An-gel. Hmm . . . I wonder how he's doing over there in LA. Maybe I should give him a call and tell him to come down here. You know," she added, grinning as Spike's eyes widened comically, "Just to give you a once-over."

"Oh, no," he said, backing away, his voice filled with apprehension, "If I never see that bugger again, it'll be too soon."

"I don't know, Spike," she teased, "I could tell him about us, and I'm sure he'd be down here faster than you can say 'I'm going to kill you for touching her'."

Spike chuckled. "Not sure that he'd use those many words. Probably'd be more like: 'Me kill. You die now.'"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "He's not Frankenstein."

"Naw, but he's got the same look. I mean, think about. Both of 'em are dead, both have that same vacant expression . . . and I think they shop at the same store."

"What, Monsters R Us?"

"No, the Gap."

Off of her incredulous look, he added, "That place is bloody terrifying. It's like they're raising an army of polo-clad minions."

"Hey," Buffy said, defensively, "I shop at the Gap!"

Spike eyed her wardrobe, and shook his head. "Not when I'm through with you, you won't."

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To be continued. Soon. I promise.

Part 8:

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'Call my name and

Save me from the dark

Bid my blood to run

Before I come undone

Save me from the nothing I've become.'

'Bring Me To Life' - Evanescence

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Carl pointed at his neck with a practiced ease; the hand-gestures were the funniest bit of all. He had to get this joke right, he just had to. If he didn't, all of his hard work, all of those weeks of brown-nosing would be for naught. Any missteps might cost him his (rightfully earned, in his opinion) place in the group. And he was sick of being a solitary vampire, a lone wolf. It was cool for a while, and a great way to pick up chicks - until they learned that he still slept with some of the dirt from his old gravesite. It wasn't wussy; he didn't care what they said.

On second thought, he did. And that was why this moment was crucial.

"And then I said: no, that was her jugular!"

Carl glanced nervously at the group of vampires surrounding him. He swallowed, wringing his hands together in front of him to stop them from shaking. They weren't laughing. In fact, upon further scrutiny, they looked like they'd enjoy ripping him to pieces more than anything else. He cleared his throat, chuckling awkwardly.

"Um, you see, the jugular wasn't the name of -"

He was cut off by a large hand squeezing his throat and cutting off his windpipe. The muscular hand belonged to Leonard, the leader of this particular gang. He glared at Carl menacingly, digging his fingers into the tender flesh of his neck.

"I heard you the first time," Leonard growled. One of the minions next to him chuckled evilly, folding his hands in front of himself.

"You shouldn't have made him mad," the minion said, a smug grin plastered on his face.

"Shut up," Leonard said, his gaze never wavering from the vampire held in front of him, "I didn't ask for your opinion. Now what do you think I should do to you, Carl?" he asked his prone captive.

Carl squirmed in the tight grasp. "I-I'm sorry," he choked out, "I didn't mean to offend anyone. I'm sorry, Leonard, please give me another chance."

Leonard sunk his fingers into Carl's throat, his eyes narrowing. "How many times do I have to tell you people, it's T-bone now! Leonard was my human name," he huffed.

"T-bone? Like that big, brainless hunk of meat?"

The group of vampires turned at the sound of the calm voice behind them. Leonard's eyes widened and he dropped Carl to the floor in shock.

"Couldn't have come up with a better name myself," Angelus finished, twirling a pool cue between his fingers gracefully, "But then I've never been about titles. Scourge of Europe sounds like such an ego trip; people don't seem to realize that it wasn't my idea. I'm just so . . . Scourge- y."

"Angelus?" Leonard said, taking a few small steps from the leather-clad vampire, "Is that really you?"

"In the flesh," he said, a wide smile spreading his features.

"Wow, it's been ages. What're you up to?" he asked tentatively.

"Oh, you know, ending world peace, destroying Slayers. Actually just one, but she's a bitch to kill. But enough about me - the real question is: how are you, buddy?" In a flash Angelus has invaded his space, one arm wrapped fondly around the other vampire's back as if they were best of friends. Leonard froze - he dared not move for fear of upsetting the master vampire clinging to him. They were both aware of how Angelus was invading his privacy, and just how much he enjoyed it.

"Okay," came the hesitant response, "recently the gang and I have been -"

"That's great, Bony," Angelus drawled, cutting him off, "I was wondering if you would mind doing me a favor." A grin crossed his face as he felt Leonard tense at his words, felt the delicious tremor of fear run down the younger vampire's spine. Fear. God, how he'd missed it.

"Uh, sure," he said, looking up at Angelus with poorly-masked apprehension, "I guess I could do that."

"Great! I knew I could count on you!"

In one deft move, Angelus dropped his grip and drove the pool cue through the hearts of two minions. As the remaining four rushed him, he took them out in a similar fashion, never batting an eye. "Now the thing of it is," he continued, ignoring the stunned look on Leonard's face, "I acquired this nifty little toy, and I really need someone to test it out on. And who comes to mind but the big filet minion."

"What the hell was that," Leonard bellowed, "You just took out six of my best minions!"

"Those were your best?" he asked incredulously, "Well, I guess it makes sense. When you're following someone named after a piece of a cow . . ."

"You can't just come back to town and try something like -"

"Have you ever seen one of these?" Angelus interrupted, holding up a small, glass orb between his fingers, seemingly studying it. "Neat little trinket, if it works like it's supposed to," he continued, "Thing of it is, I've never seen it in action. And that's what I need you for, Lenny - you're going to be my test subject."

"Get away from me," Leonard growled, backing away, "Drop that thing right now, or . . . or you'll pay."

"Whatever you want."

Angelus held his hands up in surrender, and the ball fell about two feet before catching itself. It rose into the air, glowing an otherworldly blue. "Nimphata carneus paralisya," he recited, watching with emphatic glee as an ethereal mist enveloped Leonard, hovering around his body.

Leonard snarled and moved to charge Angelus, but found that his legs would not respond. Wouldn't move. Despite the fact that they seemed altogether dead, they still managed to hold the vampire upright. He balled his hands into fists, a frothy mixture of blood and spittle forming at the corners of his mouth.

"What is this?" he demanded, twisting his body, hoping to escape the mystical bonds.

"Simple paralysis spell," Angelus replied, grinning, "Well, actually, not so simple. Practically irreversible, unless you're into that Hogwarts crap. But by the looks of you, I'm guessing you're not so much into witchcraft as you are screaming and dying. Not that that's not something we've all been looking forward to seeing for a long time now." Angelus turned to Carl, who was lying on the floor looking up at the two of them with wide, startled eyes.

"Isn't that right?"

Carl swallowed thickly, scrambling from his position on the floor and darting for the exit. Before he could make it halfway there, he was stopped by Drusilla's slender form.

"Not time to leave," she whispered, "Not until it's done."

"I have to go," Carl urged her, darting his eyes back to Angelus nervously, "He's going to kill me."

Drusilla placed a slim digit up to his lips to quiet him. "Shush, little mouse," she cooed, "Daddy wouldn't dare harm a hair on your sweet, round head. He needs you to help him. To help our family."

"Oh, God," he murmured, taking a step back from the brunette, "You're one of his minions!"

"Not a minion," she huffed, "His Childe. Minions are dirty things."

Carl bolted for the door, but Drusilla stepped in front of him, catching him in her arms. Turning him around to face Angelus, she twisted his arms back until he cried out. She smiled, moving her lips to his ear. "Just watch," she whispered, "Just look at the pretty pictures. They speak the story so well."

He watched in horror as Leonard squirmed in his place, his eyes wild and desperate. Angelus was presently relaxing on a barstool and viewing the events unfolding with obvious glee. "Are you familiar with the legend of Medusa?" he asked casually. Leonard struggled against the mist, ignoring the question. Angelus continued: "In ancient times, men that looked upon her were supposed to have turned to stone. Don't know how she did it, exactly; maybe she had one of these."

"Y-you're turning me to stone?" Leonard asked, his voice shaky and terrified.

"Hey, maybe you're not as dumb as you look!" Angelus said, caressing the small glass orb in one hand, "All it took was a blatant explanation and you figured it out."

"Why?"

"Why not? I had to have someone to try it on, you were just convenient. No hard feelings, I hope." He chuckled, his eyes trailing over the granite that was already covering about three fourths of the vampire's body. "Well, I guess you can't have anything but hard feelings pretty soon."

"Please, don't! I'll do anything!"

"Hmm, tempting . . . but I think I'd rather watch you die."

He turned his gaze to Drusilla, who was watching the scene unfold with childlike excitement. "What do you say, Dru," he asked, "Should I finish this?"

"Yes, Daddy," she said, "Please do. Teach him to be good."

Leonard looked up at Angelus with terrified eyes, but he just smiled apologetically. "Sorry, but the lady gets what the lady wants." He placed the orb on the table in front of him, and it rose once more. "Sinniforium palasidia nocturnum."

A single beam of intense blue shot out from the glass ball and straight into Leonard, covering him with a blinding light. After a few seconds, the light faded, and a granite statue of a vampire was left in its wake. Drusilla let go of Carl and began to clap, hopping up and down with glee. "Do it again, do it again!"

"I will," he promised, getting up from his seat to inspect Leonard, "But later. First, I have to talk to a certain someone." Angelus turned to Carl, a beaming smile on his face. "I need your help."

Carl backed away slowly, his throat dry from fear. "Me? Y-you wouldn't want me. I'm a screw up, I tell bad jokes, and -"

"You're just what I need," Angelus interrupted, his voice calm and deadly, "So I'm going to make you a deal."

"What if I don't take it?" he stammered, "What if I don't?"

Angelus stopped, a scowl creasing his features. In one swift motion, he pushed the stone-Leonard over. Carl flinched as it toppled to the floor, shattering in a million pieces, granite spilling every which way. Angelus smiled.

"Something tells me that you will."

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"Rocky!"

Spike turned to her, eyebrows drawn up in surprise. "Come again?"

"You know, that boxing guy," Buffy explained, curling her hand around a stake, "That's what we remind me of."

"Both of us remind you of one person," Spike said, perplexed, "How does that work, then?"

"We're both fighters that never give up. We're champions," she explained, her voice beaming with pride.

"You don't know how sick I am of that word," Spike said, exasperated, "For the love of Satan, please don't use it to describe me."

"What word?" Buffy asked, "Fighters? Because that's what we do. I fight vampires and you fight . . . vampires, oddly enough."

"No, champion," he replied, the disgust in his voice evident, "Oh, Angel, you're such a champion," Spike said in a high falsetto, "You're my one true champion." His voice came down to its regular pitch. "Give me a soddin' break."

"Okay then, just fighters. Ooh, like Captain America!"

"Not from the states, here, love. And I don't want to be Captain anything. Sounds all fruity to me."

"Fine then," Buffy pouted, "What do you want to be? Commander Britain?"

"Enough with the poncy names," he said, "That's all that you've been talking about for the last half hour!"

"Well, then, you come up with a better way to spend our time patrolling," she huffed, "We haven't seen anything remotely evil in hours."

"I don't know, that shrub over there looks pretty menacing," he joked, "And that tree could be just waiting to take a bite out of you."

"Really?" she asked, curious, "There are tree demons? Maybe I should -"

"Buffy," he said, sighing, "It's just a tree. Look, unless you want to wander the cemetery for another four hours, I think we need to call it a night."

"You're right," Buffy admitted, kicking a rock with her boot, "I know that it's time to call it quits. I just don't want to go home."

"Walk me back to my crypt?" Spike asked, grinning, "Wouldn't let a poor vamp go home alone in the dark like this, would you? Fella could get mugged."

"Maybe I could do that," she said, taking his hand in hers as he led her up the path towards his abode.

They walked in silence for some time before reaching the solid cement structure. Spike was the first to pull from her, and opened the front door tentatively. "Looks like we're here," he said, leaning in to give her a slight kiss on the cheek.

"Yeah."

Spike sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Guess you should get going, then. Don't want to keep you from your studies and all that."

"Spike?" Buffy asked, a slight smile playing on her face, "Can I come in for a minute?"

He looked over at her, surprised. "Sure, if you want."

Buffy took his hand and led him into the crypt, her eyes taking in her surroundings and doing her best to keep it stored in her memory. Spike looked at the empty cartons of blood with disgust. "Uh, sorry for the mess," he said, embarrassed, "Didn't know I'd be having company."

"It's okay," Buffy said, dropping his hand and glancing around the room. "Hey, where's the bed?" she asked.

"What?" he started, unsure of what he had heard and what the implications might be.

"You know, the place where you sleep. Is it a coffin, or is that too Hollywood?"

"I'm not bloody Dracula," Spike snorted, "I sleep in a bed, yeah, it's downstairs. Saves space and all that."

Buffy walked over to the hole in the ground, and smiled. "Wow, when you said downstairs, you really weren't kidding." She started down the ladder and Spike followed her carefully.

"Don't trip," he warned as she stepped down to the floor. Buffy spun around and leapt onto the bed, giggling.

"Wow, it's so bouncy," she exclaimed, hopping up and down on the mattress. Spike walked over to her quickly, attempting to steady her with his hand.

"Be careful, love, don't want to break it now," he cautioned, "S'the only bed I got."

Buffy stopped jumping and put on a pouty face. "Okay, I'll stop. But you know what would be better?"

"What's that, pet?"

She grabbed his arm and flipped him onto the bed with her, laughing at the surprise on his face. "If you join me," she finished, grabbing his hand and making him bounce with her. A few minutes later, she collapsed onto the bed in giggles. Spike stopped jumping and laid down, holding her in his arms. Buffy looked up at him and slipped her hands around his head, pulling him down to her for a kiss. After a few minutes she pulled away, panting.

"God, Slayer, you're beautiful," Spike exclaimed. Buffy put two fingers on his lips to quiet him.

"No, not Slayer. No titles, remember? No Chosen One, no vampire . . . just us. Just Spike and Buffy. Can we do that?" she asked quietly, "Can we be ourselves, just for tonight?"

"I was always being myself with you, pet," he replied, smiling, "Didn't know I was supposed to be anything else."

Buffy sighed, stroking the back of his neck with her fingers. "You're not. You're perfect the way you are."

He grinned, leaning in for another kiss. "I can live with that."

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To be Continued . . .

Part 9:

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The alarm buzzed shrilly in her ear, signaling the start of the workweek. A muffled groan escaped her lips as she sat up and grabbed the clock, fumbling blindly for the sleep button. The bell continued to sound, however, and Buffy slammed the alarm against the floor, hard enough to break it despite the carpet that cushioned the blow. The grating noise having ceased, she slumped back into bed and yanked the comforter over her, attempting to block out the light that was pouring into the room at an alarming rate. Buffy clenched her eyes shut.

"Sweetie, it's time to get up!" Joyce's cheerful voice called to her from downstairs.

Buffy groaned, clutching the blankets tighter over her body. No more patrolling two nights in a row, she decided. Every part of her ached, even parts she didn't know existed. 'Damn Spike. Damn him for making me sore, damn him for tearing my new shirt, and damn him for making me want to come back for more.'

A tentative knock came from the other side of the door. When Buffy didn't respond, Joyce opened the door and peeked her head through.

"Glad to see that you're awake," she teased, "And so full of energy, too."

"Go 'way," Buffy mumbled from beneath the covers, "I'm tired and achy and I really don't want to have to do anything. Like, you know, walking, breathing, making vowel sounds."

Joyce pulled back the blankets covering her head, and Buffy moaned in protest, flinging an arm over her eyes to shield herself from the sun. "Mom," she whined, curling up into a fetal position, "what part of 'no living today' didn't you understand?"

"Well, I'm sorry," she replied, taking a seat on the bed, "But you have to get up now."

"Nothing you could say would make me get up out of bed right now."

"There are pancakes waiting for you downstairs, but I guess I'll just have to get rid of them," Joyce said, heading towards the door.

Buffy sat up, a smile on her face. "Did you say breakfast?"

"What part of 'pancakes' didn't you understand?" Joyce said, smiling as Buffy leapt out of bed and hurried to her closet to get dressed.

Buffy threw on a pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt before bounding down the stairs, taking them two at a time. She walked into the kitchen calmly, then sat down at the dining room table. Buffy looked up, and her eyes went wide at what she saw.

On a plate in front of her sat a massive mound of pancakes, flawlessly golden and perfectly round. Her mother was at the kitchen counter, pouring some fresh-squeezed orange juice from a crystal decanter into two wine glasses. Buffy looked up at Joyce, confused.

"Mom?"

Her mother turned around, holding out the two glasses filled to the brim with juice. She set them down on the dining room table, then took out a lighter and lit two candles in the middle of it. Buffy looked around at the kitchen, and saw that the dishes that had once congested the sink had disappeared. More than that, her mother was wearing an evening gown. At breakfast. Very strange, indeed.

"Hello, Buffy. I hope you've worked up an appetite," her voice was filled with sunny cheer, "It was so sweet of you to make breakfast this morning."

Buffy shook her head. "But I thought you said -"

"This is all here because of you," she swept her arm in front of her like Vanna White, indicating the food on the table, "Now aren't you proud?"

"What's going on? I'm really -"

"Come on now, Buffy, chat time later. Right now you've got to get to school. Don't want to miss cheerleading tryouts."

Buffy looked down at her outfit. She was dressed in her old Sunnydale Razorbacks cheerleading uniform, complete with pom-poms and pigtails. 'Flashback to high school - Sunnydale style,' she thought, 'Am I the only one that sees the uber weird in this?'

"Look, mom, not that I'm not grateful or anything, but this is kinda getting a little Twilight Zone-y for me, so I'm just gonna head out, okay?"

"Oh, no, young lady, you're going to sit here and have your breakfast," Joyce reprimanded, "There were too many pancakes for your friends to eat, so you're just going to have to finish them off."

Buffy prodded the breakfast food with one fork, before cutting a piece off. Raising it up to her lips, she recoiled when she saw a maggot squirming inside the pancake - alive despite having been baked with the batter. She dropped the fork out of shock, a sharp clang resounding throughout the room as it fell to the floor. Glancing out at the food in front of her, she gasped at what she saw.

Everything was rotten. The pancakes were lumpy, malformed gray masses of dough, teeming with insect life. The juice was moldy and fetid - a clumpy, dusky-orange color. Crimson puddles of wax were cooling on the lacey tablecloth from long burnt-out candles.

Pushing back her chair, Buffy leapt to her feet and took a few steps backwards, away from the banquet of horrors. Her mom dropped the dishrag she had been holding onto the floor, and turned around.

Joyce's normally pretty face was a hideous mass of decaying flesh. One eye was weeping yellow fluid and the other was missing altogether; a flap of skin and muscle had been torn away to reveal ivory bone; her smile had been increased with the use of the knife - she had been cut ear to ear. She grinned, and the muscle of her cheeks was revealed along with rows of gleaming teeth. Joyce tilted her head as if in confusion.

"I knew this would happen. You make a mess of things then you never want to take care of it. Your friends tried, they really did," her voice was cold and bitter, "We tried to fix it for you, but there was too much. And now you have to eat your fill. You made it, Buffy. Now take care of it."

"Mom," she whispered, backing away from the advancing corpse, "Mom, what's wrong with you?"

"You made it, you stupid bitch," Joyce shrieked, her mouth twisted into a grimace, "You made it, and now you have to pay the price! I did."

With a sob, Buffy pushed past her mother and ran towards the front door, clawing at the doorknob with desperate urgency. She felt the lock release and with a great sense of relief, she ran out into the night.

And straight into Willow and Xander.

It wasn't so much the impact as it was surprise that sent Buffy reeling back onto the sodden earth of the cemetery. Xander kneeled down and offered her a hand, which Buffy graciously accepted, using the counterbalance to pull herself to her feet.

"Where are we?" she asked, dusting herself off.

"You don't remember?" Willow asked, her voice filled with extreme sadness, "We have unfinished business."

"Well I know that college loans can be a pain in the ass to repay, but . . ." she trailed off, taking in her friends' strange, all-black attire.

"What's with the new look," she wondered aloud, "Are you going to become mimes or something? 'Cause then I'll really have to rethink our whole friendship," she joked, nervously.

Xander looked over at her with somber eyes. "I don't know why you can't remember," he muttered, "You did do this, after all."

"Do what," she said, exasperated, "force you to dress like theater majors? Because, really, someone must've wiped my memory or something."

"We've almost arrived," Willow whispered, "When we get there you'll have to be quiet. No one can talk."

"We're going to Giles' place?" she joked. Willow and Xander stared back at her blankly. "Jeez, is this thing on?"

"We're here," Xander said, pulling her over to a crowd of people. Everyone was dressed in similar black, and many of them were crying or looked as if they were about to. Two open coffins sat next to an elderly minister, who was reading from the bible in hushed tones. Buffy's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"A funeral," she whispered, "We're going to a funeral? What is this - Depress the Hell Out of Buffy Day?"

"We're not finished," Xander replied, "We have to keep going."

Buffy stumbled after her friends as they made their way over to the coffins. "Gonna pay your respects?" she asked, swiping a hand through her hair, nervously. She glanced down into the plush interior of the two coffins, but noticed that they were empty. She looked up at Xander and Willow in surprise.

"No one's in there."

"No," Willow agreed, "Not yet."

Buffy watched in horror as her two friends got up into the coffins and laid down, crossing their hands over themselves in a traditional burial manner.

"You can't mean -"

"You did this," Xander muttered, "You did this, you know."

"We can't rest, Buffy," Willow said, "We'll never rest." She looked up at her with watery eyes. "Because of you."

"No," Buffy whispered, staring at her friends lying prone in their burial garb, "No, I didn't do this. I didn't do anything!"

Willow opened her mouth as if to say something, but the coffin lid slammed shut. A split second later, the coffin holding Xander closed as well.

Dull noises from inside the coffin met her ears, and Buffy's blood ran cold. Her friends were trying to get out, scratching at the heavy silk lining the boxes. Buffy scurried to one of the coffins, pulling at the lid, trying to force it open to no avail. She banged on the oak prison, but the wood seemed impossible to break, even with her Slayer strength. The minister stood by, watching her with a cool disinterest. Buffy turned to him, her eyes teary and pleading.

"You have to let them out," she cried, her voice quavering, "They're not dead! You have to help me open the coffins!"

"These people came to see a funeral," the minister turned from her, "And I'm not going to disappoint. They came to see a show, and that's what they're getting."

"But they're still alive," she shouted angrily, grabbing him by the shoulders and jerking him back around to face her, "You can't bury someone when they're not dead!"

"Haven't you learned anything by now, Buff?" The minister turned his face up to look at her. Buffy recoiled. "Because it doesn't look like it," he taunted her, grinning, "Old Rupert must be going soft on your training."

She stared at him with wide eyes, her mouth open and gaping. The elderly man's face had been replaced by one that was all but too familiar - the high, lumpy forehead of a demon, menacing amber eyes, dark hair that had been shellacked in place.

Angelus.

"Don't look so shocked," he said, absentmindedly twirling a rosary around his fingers, "I thought you liked surprises." Angelus looked down at the cross that was resting on his palm, and smiled. "Funny how this thing doesn't hurt," he mused.

"How are you here," she asked in a shaky voice, "Why are you doing this?"

"This," Angelus turned out towards the grieving funeral-goers, "This is just the beginning. Personally, I don't care if you like surprises or not. Cause either way, you're in for a big one, and nothing you can do will stop it. Stop -me-."

"You're wrong," she seethed, her hands clenching into fists, "I sent you to hell before, I can do it again."

"You can believe whatever you like," he said, his voice turning serious, "This isn't Acathla, little girl. It's something bigger."

Buffy turned around at the sound of the mourning funeral crowd shifting. She watched in horror as they got up from their seats, each one of the fifty some-odd people shifting into game face.

"And it's gonna be one hell of a ride."

Buffy watched helplessly as the swarm of vampires advanced on her with lightning speed. Unarmed and alone, she did the only thing that came naturally to her.

She fought back.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

"Ow. Ow! OW!"

Buffy kicked and thrashed, landing a bone-crushing punch to his jaw. Spike reeled backwards from the blow, making sure to stay a good distance from the sleepwalking girl.

"Buffy, love," he coaxed, edging away from her, "You have to wake up. You have to come out of it, pet. Now."

She came towards him once again, and he decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. Spike went over to the small refrigerator that sat in the corner and opened it. Scanning the contents, he was dismayed to find only blood and alcohol occupied its shelves. He glanced over his shoulder at the petite blonde who was presently kickboxing dead air, and picked up a large bottle of Jack Daniels.

Unscrewing the lid, he took one last cursory glance at the liquor before pouring a portion of it into a small, plastic cup. Taking aim, Spike held the cup out in front of him and towards Buffy, drawing back his arm and splashing it into her face. 'Hope this does the trick . . .'

Moments after the liquor hit her she spluttered, her eyes flying open. Spike grinned in relief, tossing the cup onto the crypt floor and setting the Jack Daniels on a table for later. "Nice to see you back in the world of the living," he teased, "Well, so to speak."

Buffy looked up at him, bewildered. "Spike?" she asked in a meek voice, "What are you doing here?"

"You're in my crypt," he explained, "We came back here after patrolling. You fell asleep after - "

Buffy's eyes grew wide, and she clutched onto Spike's arm in desperation. "Willow and Xander - where are they?"

Spike looked over at her terrified expression, and cocked an eyebrow in confusion.

"Sleeping, probably."

Her heartbeat slowed and her breathing became steadier as relief swept through her.

"Mom?"

"Probably at home, waiting for you or something. Buffy, what's -"

Buffy relaxed her grip, her eyes narrowing.

"Angelus," she murmured.

"Uh . . . not so sure about that one, pet," Spike replied, "Isn't he kinda banished in Angel and all that?"

"No. He's not. He's back." She looked over at Spike with a haunted, determined look.

"And if we don't stop him, everyone's going to die."

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

To Be Continued . . .