Book Two. Chapter 43. Persistence of memory


Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance.
Confucius

Time is just something that we assign.
You know, past, present, it's just all arbitrary.
Most Native Americans, they don't think of time as linear;
in time, out of time, I never have enough time,
circular time, the Stevens wheel.
All moments are happening all the time.
Robin Green and Mitchell Burgess, Northern Exposure, Hello, I Love You, 1994

We are here and now.
Further than that, all knowledge is moonshine.
H.L. Mencken

I do not believe...I know.
Carl Jung

Existence really is an imperfect tense that never becomes a present.
Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

Everything you can imagine is real.
Pablo Picasso

Did you ever wonder if the person in the puddle is real,
and you're just a reflection of him?
Calvin and Hobbes

Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.
Albert Einstein



Buffy changed Connor out of his dirty diaper, getting him quickly into a warm sleeper. He mewled in sleepy protest a couple of times, then settled down when his mouth found his thumb. With a quick kiss on his forehead, Buffy tucked him into his crib, a baby cookie monster by his side.

She stopped, just short of the doorway, grabbing her pajamas. There was dried blood all over her, a mix of Casey’s and Dawn’s, transferred from her sister’s clothing. The dark gummy splotches covering her brought tears to her eyes, and Buffy was hard pressed to stem the tears again. Dawn shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of stuff – shouldn’t have had so much death and destruction around her. And how could she believe any of this was her fault, all this because she had been given to them by the monks. . . . how could she believe the bullshit Glory had fed her about being evil?

It was a silly question, and Buffy knew it even as her mind was thinking it. Dawn believed Glory because at the time, they hadn’t understood anything about the Key – what it did, why it existed and how it could be used. They still didn’t, or so she thought. Perhaps that was another one of those memories . . . . Buffy stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, bloodstained washcloth in her hand, wondering exactly how much of her life she didn’t remember.

How did Spike . . . . And why do I just trust him so much? It had to happen . . . I had to trust him before we mated, otherwise I wouldn’t have agreed to it. The last thing I remember was . . . . fighting Glory. The tower. Oh my god. I remember the tower. I jumped. . . . to save Dawn.

The washcloth dropped from her hand, splattering wetly against the tile floor, watery blood seeping from its edges.

“So you’re telling us whoever cast this spell wanted to recreate a moment in time when Buffy was dead?” Giles stared at the younger Englishman, disbelief written across his features.

“It’s the only theory I can come up with that even begins to make a bit of sense out of this whole situation. These are the facts, as we currently know them. Buffy and Spike are mated. Angel has lost his soul and has attacked twice now, Oz first and again tonight. Darla is Connor’s mother.”

Wesley’s pronouncement of Connor’s maternal parentage stunned the rest of them, leaving them all silent. Tara’s stuttering question brought them all back to the present. “Who is Darla?”

“Darla is a vampire. Angel dusted her when Buffy was sixteen. . . . four years ago.” Giles answered her, his eyes steadily on Wesley. “How is it possible? Connor is an infant. This is. . . . Wesley do you realize what you are hypothesizing?”

“I do. I realize its beyond the pale, but can you honestly say that it is completely and utterly impossible? We’ve already established Buffy’s death and subsequent resurrection . . . how is this any less improbable?”

Once more Giles was silenced, his mind working up several different scenarios and possible explanations as to how and why they were currently in this situation. Wesley’s compiling of the information they knew to be fact was in itself a feat, since the known factors changed almost hourly. Conceding his point for the time being, Giles said, “I suppose there isn’t a more credible explanation for any of this. What we do need to unravel is this spell. If it is at all possible, that is.”

“How. . . how do you . . . how can we do that?” Tara ducked her head, embarrassed by her stutter.

Giles and Wesley both smiled kindly at her, though, which eased her discomfort just a bit.

“Last year, when Buffy was trying to discover information about her mother’s illness she used a trance.” Giles started explaining, only to be interrupted by Anya.

“Oh, Cloutier’s spell. Tirer la couverture.” Anya turned a bright smile on those present, which Faith thought was quite bizarre. “But Buffy said it didn’t work.”

“You and I both know its not possible for it to have failed.” Giles peered steadily at Anya, waiting for her agreement. “She also admitted later on it did work, although she had been unprepared for the information revealed.”

“So does this mean anyone can do this whatever?” For the first time since Tara came into the kitchen, Faith spoke up, directing her question to either of the watchers.

“Anyone who is familiar with breathing techniques and meditation.” Wesley looked at each of the faces arrayed around him. The only one of them who might not be immediately capable of the trance was Anya, though her past as a demon gave her an edge none of the rest of them had.

“So basically, any one of us.” Faith, in typical fashion, was the one to state the obvious.
“Basically.”

“So. . . which one of us is gonna be volunteered for this?” Faith shifted her glance between the two watchers, noting when the Englishmen shared a look she couldn’t readily interpret.

Buffy had been gone for far too long and Connor wasn’t fussing because Spike would have heard him clearly. Kirsten was back from her trip to the bathroom, the borrowed pajamas two sizes too big, making her look like a little girl playing at dress up. Spike fought the smile the sight of her invoked, knowing it wasn’t quite appropriate.

Gone too long. . . getting to his feet, Spike pointed a finger in Kirsten’s direction. “Stay in this room, pet. Be right back.”

He didn’t close the door completely on the way out and she didn’t bother to either. Kirsten knew it was likely Angel wouldn’t attack again now – considering the hour – but she wanted to be able to get to weapons quickly – just in case.

Didn’t take him long at all to find her, she was sitting on the toilet in her bathroom, head down in her hands, soft sobs ripping through her.

He hesitated for a brief moment, just watching her, gauging how bad she was. When she didn’t register his presence, Spike knelt down in front of her, his hands sliding along the outside of her thighs. Expecting some resistance, Spike was braced for her initial rejection. Instead he found himself almost falling when Buffy practically fell into his arms.

“Hey, love, what’s all this then? The only answer he got was more tears and slight hiccupping and her fingers digging into his shoulders. “Kitten?”

Spike pulled away from her, just a little, his strong hand reaching out to cup her chin. Tilting her head up so their eyes could meet, he was staggered by the raw pain reflected in her mostly green eyes. “Oh, kitten, what’s wrong?”

“I remember. . . . what happened with Glory.” Her voice cracked and broke, tears sliding down her cheeks, then dropped to a bare whisper. “I remember. . . the tower and. . . jumping. Don’t remember after. . But I was dead.”

“Oh god sweetheart.” Spike gathered her in his arms, encircling her in whatever warmth he could lend her. He had hoped she wouldn’t remember any of that . . . hoped, even knowing it was hopeless, because once this was all sussed out, she would remember. “Sorry, Buffy, so damn sorry.”

She sniffled, reaching for a tissue to blow her nose. “Why?”

“I blew it. Failed you. . . . my fault you had to jump that night.” Her tears were triggering his own and Spike clenched his jaw, fighting the emotion.

“No.” Buffy shook her head, fingers lingering on his cheek, brushing across his lips. “Wasn’t your fault. It was what I had to do.”

She searched his eyes for a long moment, drew in a quavery breath and shocked him completely. “I trusted you . . . . to take care of Dawnie for me. Knew you would, better than anyone, because you love her. And me. And I asked you because I loved you then . . . . just didn’t know how to say it.”

Her lips found his, warm and wet, and Spike pulled her close with a groan. “Love you. . . so bloody much.”

“I know.” Buffy whispered with a shaky laugh, her eyes boring into his. “I love you right back.”

A wide grin split his features, then faded away as he remembered the night’s events. “Have to suss out what’s going on kitten. Need to know.”

Buffy slipped her hand into his as he got to his feet. “Yeah we do. And then we need to sleep.”

“We?” He raised an eyebrow, watching her reflection in the mirror.

“Yup. You can stay up, but Buffy and baby Buffy need to sleep.” She smiled back at him, even though his reflection wasn’t there and he could see the strain and fatigue around her eyes.

“Could forego questioning the chit, so’s you and bitty-bit could get some kip.”

“No, we’ll do this first.”

“Right then. Lead, on MacDuff.”

“I think perhaps, you might be the best candidate.” Unexpectedly, Giles had his eyes on Faith, watching her intently.

“I could do it.” Tara’s voice broke in timidly, but Giles only smiled at her warmly, shaking his head negatively while he did so.

“Me? Why me?” Confused by this completely unexpected show of support, Faith couldn’t stop the questions.

Giles sighed, trying to gather his thoughts before speaking. “We are all affected by this spell, except you. You were miles away from Sunnydale at the time and weren’t part of this at all. I believe it would be easier for you to discover the magic and spells involved since none of us is entirely certain what is actually going on.”

Catching onto Giles’ meaning, Wesley backed him up. ‘You are the only one of us untainted by this. In fact, you somehow appear to be immune. Giles is right. We have no real way of discovering anything until this is done. At the very least we should be able to discover who is the focal point.”

“Makes no difference to me.” Faith shrugged, displaying a certain amount of non-chalance that was belied by her enthusiasm. “How soon are we gonna do this?

“That’s basically up to you.” Wesley reached for an empty cup, pouring himself some coffee.

“Then let’s do it.”

Kirsten was sitting caddy-cornered to Dawn’s bed, her head resting in her cupped hands, watching the other teen sleep. Her head turned to look at the doorway as Spike, followed by Buffy, came back into the room.

He made no mention of her pose or her position, but his warrior’s instincts noted it and approved. Chit’s smart. . . got good instincts. . . never met a baby slayer before. . . looks like we’ve got one here though. . .

“How is she?” Buffy also noted her position and her thoughts were remarkably similar to Spike’s. How do we test a potential?

“Sleeping.” She shrugged, getting up from the chair, moving toward the window, then peering out behind the curtain. “Hasn’t moved since . . .. .”

“Good.” Buffy moved toward the bed, her hand automatically running through Dawn’s long dark hair. She sat down on the edge of the bed, her eyes focused on the smaller girl. The silence stretched between the three of them, the two adults unsure how to start the conversation.

Spike leaned back against the wall, feet spread wide in a deceptively lazy pose, his eyes locked on the slight figure at the window. “So pet, gonna tell us who you are an’ how you knew about all this?”

Buffy hid the smile his question raised, watching Kirsten closely for her reaction. Kirsten looked down, staring at her feet. It was obvious she was trying to decide how much she was willing to share and equally clear how uncomfortable she was. They waited her out though, neither one of them about to push.

Taking a deep breath, Kirsten looked up, her eyes on Dawn and started to speak.

“Are you sure about doing this right now?” Giles turned concerned eyes on Faith. “It is nearly four. Would you rather get some sleep first and then attempt the trance?”

Faith shrugged. “Nah. I’m pretty wired. Wouldn’t be able to sleep or settle down for another couple of hours anyway. No time like the present.”

“Do you have the sand and incense?” Anya stared at Giles wondering if they were going to have to make a quick run to the Magic Box for supplies.”

“The sand isn’t as important as the incense. As long as someone casts a strong circle around Faith, she’ll be fine.” Giles shook his head, then continued, “I’m sure between us, we can cast a strong ritual circle.”

“We should set up in the living room.” Wesley suited action to words by getting to his feet and moving toward the room in question.

There wasn’t much free floor space, the Christmas tree and Connor’s portable bed taking up most of the room. Wesley pushed one of the chairs back, then moved to lift the coffee table. Faith, catching on to his intentions quickly, grabbed the other end of the table and helped him move it temporarily into the dining room.

Anya and Tara were piling gifts neatly under the tree and Giles was mapping out the room’s cardinal points. “Faith, I believe you should face east.”

Tara got an incense burner from the fireplace mantle. “Which. . . what kind of incense do you need? She finally managed to stutter out the question after a few tense moments.

“Sandalwood. . . . . frankincense. . . ah, juniper and dragon’s blood.”

She thought for very long moments, an unquiet look upon her features. “I think we have those. Let me go look.”

And she was gone in the next moment, following her intuition, her feet flying down the stairs.

“Before I start to tell you, can I ask you a couple of questions?”

The two adults shared a look, then Spike responded, “can ask. Might not get any answers.”

“I suppose that’s okay.” She shrugged, then wandered back toward Dawn’s desk. “How much do you remember about the last couple of months?”

“Not much. Mem’ries are a bit blurry.” Again Spike answered her while Buffy stayed silent.

“The reason why I’m here is because of Dawn.” Kirsten easily hopped up on Dawn’s desk, swinging her feet back and forth. The idleness was deceptive because her hands clenched the desk’s edge on either side of her, her knuckles showing almost white.

“Why?” Buffy asked.

“I came back to save her.” Kirsten had the words out of her mouth before Buffy was finished talking. She looked away from the sudden watchful wariness in both of them. “She was. . . Casey. . . . I helped once before when the knights were attacking.”

“What?” Buffy’s almost yelled question almost blocked out Spike’s low-voiced, “when?”

“Homecoming dance. The knights attacked and Spike got really messed up. Totally trashed.” She paused, her eyes on the floor, unwilling to look at them. “You were this close to being dust.”

Buffy stared at Kirsten for a long moment then turned anguished eyes on Spike. “Knew something bad happened.”

“‘M all right now, sweets.” His eyes met Kirsten’s “an’ this still doesn’t explain how you knew about this an’ why you’re helpin’.”

She sighed, knowing it was time and also knowing she couldn’t get out of telling them. But maybe it’ll be easier if I tell them who Dawn is first . . . “look at her.”

Both their eyes focused on the sleeping teen. “Who does she look like?”

Kirsten fell silent, waiting for them to make the connection. She’d heard Dawn after they’d gotten her in the room – and it was obvious the other teen knew the truth. It wasn’t long before Spike looked up, his eyes resting on Buffy while he spoke. “She’s ours, isn’t she? Mine and the Slayer’s.”

“Yeah. She is.” Kirsten paused, racking her brain for more information for them. “I don’t know how the monks did it. But I know somehow the Initiative was also involved.” She didn’t know everything, all the specifics, since no one had ever told her or Robbie.

Buffy was staring at Dawn, her mind racing. Just how much have I forgotten? I don’t remember anything but jumping. . . what the hell else have I missed? And why is this happening? She looked at Dawn, really looked at her. Oh my god. She does look like Spike. I know she looks little bit like me, but damn. . . . she looks just like him.

Kirsten’s voice broke through her thoughts. “So now you know.” That was the easy part. Trying to pick through all the things she knew, Kirsten stared down at her hands. “I’m here because I had to help.”

Spike’s mind was jumping to conclusions he wasn’t sure were wrong. “How long have you known you’re a baby slayer?”

“My whole life.” Oh shit. So didn’t want to admit that.

Buffy’s eyes bored into hers. To her credit, Kirsten didn’t flinch. “Tell me how you knew all along.”

“My parents told me.”

All sorts of witchy supplies were in the basement, in the new bedroom. Tara wondered why the room was decorated to her taste and even had some of her books and things lying around, but couldn’t take the time to figure it out. . . and how did I know this stuff was down here and not upstairs? Self-explaining it as part of the general wonkiness made it easier to just accept, get the stuff Giles had asked for and move on.

Clutching the requested items to her chest, Tara hurried back up the stairs, to find Faith sitting cross-legged on the living room floor. She was sort of facing the Christmas tree, her eyes slightly unfocused, her face set and her chest rising and falling steadily. Giles and Wesley were circling around her, one behind the other muttering protective incantations.

Handing two of the resins to Anya, she and the other girl quickly got the incense lit. As they got the last one to flare, the chanting stopped and the mingled scents wafted through the air and Giles silently motioned them all out of the living room and into the dining room. Uncertain of how long it would take Faith to slip into the trance, Giles indicated they should all sit and get comfortable.

“An’ who might they be?”

Oh crap. How stupid am I? How the hell am I gonna get outta this one . . . Crap. Crap. . . this is just craptastic. Kirsten refused to look at either of them, keeping her eyes downcast and away. Spike straightened up, then leaned one shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “You grew up here in Sunnyhell, didn’t you?”

It wasn’t really a question and Kirsten was well aware of it. “Yeah. Was born here.”

“Talkin’ to you pet is like pullin’ teeth.” Spike’s patience, never one of his strong points, was thinning. “You’re gonna have to be a bit more forthcoming, princess.”

Buffy glanced over at him, a funny little smile playing on her lips. “Spike?”

“Yeah kitten?”

“Take a look at her. . . . a real look.” Buffy’s words echoed Kirsten’s earlier ones and the significance wasn’t lost on Spike. He did as his mate asked, his eyes focused on the little girl sitting on the desk. Dark blond hair, doe eyes of changeable color – at the moment they appeared to be a pale aqua – framed with thick dark lashes, high cheekbones and a pert nose with an off-center bump. . . . wide mouth. . .

“Wha’?” He hesitated, not certain he was understanding her. “Kitten?”

The Slayer looked at Kirsten. “You came because Dawn was in trouble. How did you know?”

“Someone had a vision.” Her next words were soft, barely audible. “Please don’t ask me who.”

Kirsten?” Buffy got up from the bed, standing in front of the young teen. “Tell me who your father is.”

Miserable eyes lifted to hers and Kirsten tried not to, but she couldn’t help herself, her eyes flicked to Spike.

“What year were you born?” Spike had caught the look, same as Buffy and not giving Kirsten a chance to lie, fired the next question at her.

She answered before she really had time to think. “2002.”

Buffy caught the panicked look in Kirsten’s eyes and knew. “It’s all right. I think I understand, okay not understand really, but I get it. What you’re saying. And not saying.” She half shrugged, a bright sparkle in her eyes. “Spike?”

He was staring at the two of them, his eyes wide and unblinking. “Well then.”

And the room fell silent.

Spike was trying to wrap his mind around what their questions had revealed. This . . . baby slayer really was . . . this . . oh fuck. . . this is the bitty one she’s got all tucked away safe an’ sound . . . does she realize this? Course she does. . . holy fuckin’. . . . “kitten?”

He moved away from the wall, needing to touch her, to feel her beneath his fingers. At the first touch of her skin, he inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, jaw clenching. His fingertips brushed over the almost baby-soft skin of her cheek, his eyes mapping the contours of her face, his nose scenting her closely. She was tiny, smaller than Buffy and as he searched her features he looked closely for traces of his own. They were there, but blurred, softened by Buffy’s . . . his jaw clenched again, as it struck him just how much of a risk she’d taken to come back – to save Dawn.

And the implications of that registered in his head seconds after he recognized the risk Kirsten had taken. Dawn wasn’t – she wasn’t supposed to have survived her confrontation with Angelus. The anger and fear and frustration of it all rose up in him, rousing his temper to a pitch he’d never shown any of them before. Kirsten tensed beneath his fingers and Spike stepped back, giving her room and himself space. The muscles in his cheek tensed, and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed for him to hold onto the ragged edges of his temper.

Kirsten’s eyes widened, feeling the anger rising off her father in waves. Some of it was directed at her, and she knew she was in for a rough night, but there was more to his anger at the moment than just her presence where she shouldn’t be.

Spike practically ground out the words. “Took an awful risk coming back here, princess. Only somethin’ terrible should’ve made you think it was worth wrecking everythin’.”

She started to speak and he held up his hand, motioning her to silence. “Seein’ as how you already admitted why,, you can’t deny it. An’ ‘m not sure I really wanna know how you could manage such a feat, but ‘m not feelin’ real understandin’ at the moment.” He stabbed a finger at her, forcibly holding back from hitting her. “Put yourself in danger, you did. . . . an’ what bleedin’ insane notion got into your head made you think you could take on Angelus? By your bitty self?”

His voice was rising and Kirsten felt the first stirrings of real panic flooding through her belly. “What the bleedin’ hell did you possibly think you’d be able to do?”

Buffy had been silent while Spike approached Kirsten, watching while his eyes focused on this unexpected little girl. Her hand strayed to her belly. Well, not completely unexpected. . . . . It had taken her a minute to follow his line of thought, but the moment he started speaking, she knew his temper was hanging by a thread. The muscles in his cheek and temple were throbbing, almost pulsing to a non-existent heartbeat. His finger rose in the air, almost poking at Kirsten and when his voice rose to a near shout, Buffy decided it was time to intervene.

“Spike?” Her voice was quiet, her hand still covering her belly protectively and she took a step toward him, angling her body away from the bed, moving closer to Kirsten. “Calm down for a minute.”

His eyes were glittering, swirling with unstated emotions she knew were churning up inside of hm. “C’mon Spike. Just for a minute, please, calm down.”

He relaxed fractionally, seeing the concern in her gaze.

Book Two. Chapter 44. Shadows of the world appear

When one tears away the veils
and shows them naked,
people’s souls give off such a pungent smell of decay.
Octave Mirbeau, 14 September,The Diary of a Chambermaid.

There was a door to which I found no key:
There was the veil through which I might not see.
Omar Khayyam

Shall any gazer see with mortal eyes,
Or any searcher know by mortal mind?
Veil after veil will lift
-but here must be
Veil upon veil behind.
Edwin Arnold

Shrouded by the night
and by the secret stair I quickly fled
The veil concealed my eyes
while all within lay quiet as the dead
Loreena McKennitt, The dark night of the soul,
from the album The mask and mirror, 1994




Slow breaths. . . .

In. . .

Out. . .

Slow . . .

She could feel her lungs contracting. . . . count. . . two. . . three. . . four. . expanding. . . six . . . seven. . . eight. . . nine. . . contracting.

Faith repeated the process until she was focused only on the breathing. . . . until awareness of everything else faded.

The Christmas lights blurred, twinkling, fading. . . . getting stronger . . .

Turning her head, Faith focused on the baby’s playpen, expecting signs of magic woven around it. Instead there was nothing, the area was free of any trace of magic.

Rising slowly to her feet, Faith turned, missing when an entire pile of Christmas gifts disappeared from beneath the tree.

Still breathing slowly, on near silent bare feet, Faith paced through the living room, making her way past the tree into the kitchen.

Nothing was out of place, everything was where it belonged. Makes sense, didn’t really expect to find anything in the kitchen.

The voices in the dining room fell silent as her footsteps echoed on the tiles.

The rasp and hiss of air escaping from her lungs was loud in her own ears, the pounding and humming of blood through her body a steady back-beat. White noise filled her head like the echoing static of seashells against covered ears.

She felt insubstantial, achingly unreal in a place of make believe. Nothing was real . . . . not the floor beneath her feet nor the walls enclosing her. Passing her hand in front of her face took ages and yet it was over in an eye’s blink.

A grocery list on the refrigerator wavered, the concise clear handwriting morphing into a more feminine hand, curled and flowing.

Steps around the counter, hand sliding along the top. This is real . . . solid. . .

More footsteps.

The dining room doorway loomed ahead of her, the lintel feet away. Reaching out a hand, the molding was suddenly in her grasp.

Eyes closed. . . . open. . . the air is thick, almost tangible. . . muted colors flickered and faded, then lightning flashed, blinding her eyes, burning images into her brain.

Giles . . . . lights wavered growing . . . stronger, then fading. . . . He was covered in magics.

Wesley. . . . lines of fatigue bracketed his mouth and he stared, silent . . . . magic covered him, but fainter, less intense. . .

Anya . . . . is that her name? . . . Her features grew veined, the skin hardening, changing. . . . demonic . . . . then flashed, reverting back to human. . . . and the magics were similar to Wesley’s sitting lightly upon her. . .

Tara . . . . unwittingly, Faith reeled back as if struck. . . . darkness . . . . wrapped around her . . . . covered in whatever this was Faith moved through it, pushing her hand toward the miasma, meeting resistance. . . . It clung to her, coating the other girl like a second skin. . . . .

Anya started to speak, but Giles laid a hand over hers, stopping her comments, while he gauged Faith’s reactions.

Her voice sounded hollow to her own ears. Faith waved her hand around Tara, appearing to the others as if she were trying to push something off her. “Bad stuff here. All over her.”

Slowly shaking her head, Faith moved away from them, almost gliding into the hallway. Her foot on the bottom step, she turned back to look at Wesley and Giles. “Watcher man. You better follow. Major badness up here.”

With that she turned back to toward the steps.

The hold he had on his temper was fraying by the second, the rage feeding on itself, building toward an explosion of volcanic proportions. Lacking a proper outlet, Spike fell back on anxious pacing, his eyes darting between the three females in the room. The real implications of Kirsten’s admissions were hitting him hard.

Dawn shouldn’t be on that bed.

Buffy was staring at him, watching him carefully for signs of the explosive blow-up she knew was brewing. Anger and fear were swirling thickly in the room, fueled by the sole male. It angered him, she knew, the inability to protect those he viewed as his, and this was no exception. Buffy hadn’t missed Kirsten’s admission about Dawn – it had been in the back of her head when the beepers had sounded, the feeling worsening as the night progressed.

Dawn was supposed to be . . . . gone.

Spike swept past her, tension radiating from every muscle. His elbow clipped her shoulder and Buffy reached out a hand, catching the back of his shirt in her fingers. The silence was palpable as he turned back to look at her. His blue eyes swam with emotions, some of them she readily flinched from unwilling to go there just yet. Her lower lip quivered and in the next instant, his arms had curled around her, enclosing her in his embrace.

Neither one spoke.

There was nothing either one of them could say. Too much had happened for either to make sense of it, too much information had been uncovered in the last few hours . . . . Spike’s jaw flexed, as he fought off the tears that were threatening.

This was his place, here, now, with Buffy, surrounded by each other and somehow, some way, something evil, some force had tried separating them. Buffy’s fingers rubbed restlessly against the fabric of his tee-shirt, her face buried against the crook of his neck. His hand slid down from shoulder to waist, dipping beneath the pajamas she wore, calloused fingertips brushing the soft skin at the small of her back.

His eyes focused on the bed, intently gazing at the sleeping teen. Dawn was nestled beneath the blanket, her long hair dark against the light sheets. I have a daughter. . . . he blinked, glancing over at Kirsten. Two daughters. . . An’ could’ve lost them both tonight. Not gonna happen again. . . .

A low rumble sounded in his chest and each one of his companions reacted.

Buffy knew that sound. Uhoh. . . . temper’s up again. . . .

Kirsten knew it . . . and shrunk back away from it, knowing that anger, if it wasn’t released soon, would have only one outlet. . .

Dawn shifted in her drug induced sleep, whimpering for his attention. . . .

Spike tightened his arms around Buffy, laying a kiss on her temple, then released her. Short steps took him to Dawn’s bedside and his hand rested lightly on her injured cheek. He whirled, reaching for his discarded duster, fixing a stern look on Kirsten. “Best still be here when I get back, princess, not done with you yet.”

Wide-eyed, she shook her head, knowing to disagree would only make things worse.

Buffy’s voice saying his name stopped him at the door. “Spike?”

“Be back in a bit, Slayer. Go on now to bed.”

“Spike?” He froze, waiting for her to say something, knowing she was going to try and talk him out of leaving. When no further words came, he half turned to look at her. His raised eyebrow broke the silence. Her concerned whisper nearly undid his resolve to leave. “Don’t. . . . please be careful . . . and come home soon.”

He shook his head again. “Don’t wait up.”

And he was gone.

Faith heard his footsteps before she started up the steps, the heavy tread of his boots pounding loudly, the soundwaves thrumming against her bare feet.

She paused, staring up at the top of the stairs, her hand resting on the newel post. Spike hesitated at the landing, spying her waiting at the bottom. He eyed her quizzically and it took him a moment to realize she was staring past him, through him, not at him as he first thought.

Her eyes were unfocused, pupils dilated and he sniffed, idly noting her slowed heartbeat and the unmistakable smell of incense. Abruptly, his temper soared higher. More fuckin’ magic. Will these people never fuckin learn. . .

The patter of light footsteps sounded behind him and Spike knew it was her. Buffy’s voice was a bare whisper, just his name on a breath, but it was enough to halt him in his tracks more effectively than Faith’s odd presence.

Ignoring the silent figure at the bottom of the steps, Spike half turned to face Buffy and was unprepared for her pleading expression or words. “Don’t go. Please, Spike, the sun’s almost up. . . you’ll get caught and I won’t be . . . please. Don’t go.”

“Kitten. . . “ he couldn’t explain to her, he knew she understood his need for violence, to get rid of the tension, to vent his frustration in violence and bloodshed. Spike shook his head, negating her request.

“Spike?” She reached for him, her small hand grazing his chest.

Unconsciously he leaned into her and they both forgot their audience. “Buffy just go to bed, I’ll be back in a bit.”

His hand brushed her hair away from her face, the touch feather soft despite the rage and repressed power lining his muscles. “Need to go out. I’ll be back.”

Faith’s increased heart rate and heavier breathing caught his attention, but it was her soft exclamation that drew the attention of all of them. An involuntary tear slid from her eye, her body’s defense against the bright light shining between the two superhuman beings at the top of the stairs. Giles appeared at her right, Wesley right behind him, his eyes following Faith’s line of sight to the tableau above them. To his eyes, it was just Buffy and Spike, caught in a moment, where no one existed but the two of them. For Faith, they were bathed in a golden light, her hand resting on his chest and his on her shoulder. The light was strong, like sunlight breaking through dark clouds, and it was then she realized there was darkness surrounding them. Even as she watched, though, the light broke through, momentarily overpowering it.

“I’m not going after him. Not now.” Neither one had to voice the name to know who Spike meant.

“Promise?” She stared into his eyes, knowing he couldn’t hide his intentions from her.

A wry grin split his lips, “yeah. I’ll promise.”

it was as much of a guarantee she would get from him. Spike needed to go, but he wouldn’t seek out Angel on his own. Unspoken between them was the knowledge that if the two vampires accidently encountered each other, Spike would not back down. And she understood him, understood why he needed to go. She nodded her head once, leaning up to place a kiss on his lips. “Remember that.”

And she let him go.

They’d waited, bodies poised for action the moment the traitor appeared.

Watched while others arrived, retreating back into shadow, ignoring the humans that weren’t prey. The youngest hounds grew restless, prowling, tails twitching, soft whines emerging from their throats, almost asking for permission to attack.

A low, rolling growl from the alpha was the only response and as one the hounds slunk down to submissive positions.

A door slammed somewhere inside and the alpha pricked his ears, then relaxed.

Another noise. . . a human departed. . . the alpha male.

The alpha female growled a question at her mate, who just barked once in answer.

She loped off, following the vampire to the end of the block, then disappeared after him.

The two slayers stared at each other, recognition of the moment flaring between them. On some level, Buffy was aware of what Faith was attempting and she approved. However, there was another part of her, a rather large part, that resented Faith for her presence, for her abilities and for what she’d just witnessed. Buffy hated being vulnerable, hated showing any kind of weakness and Faith had just witnessed a very needy Buffy practically pleading with Spike not to go. Anger flared within her and she came very close to picking a fight with any one of the three people at the bottom of the stairs.

Faith could almost see the anger rising from Buffy and for once held her tongue. Much like Kirsten had done earlier, she chose not to comment on the intimacy she’d just seen. There were some things that defied commentary. So instead Faith just stared at her counterpart, trying to discover what was the current spell and what was not. It was easier to see, now Spike was gone, what tethered them together. Colors flickered and faded around Buffy, sickly browns and oily greys Faith had no trouble identifying as part of the current spell. A jagged flash of arcing white light pulsed and Faith was forced to close her eyes in reaction. Like a negative in her mind’s eye, the outline of Buffy’s form flashed against a black background, then behind her she could just make out Spike’s shadow.

Opening her eyes again, Faith stared up at Buffy, and the lights belonging to her and Spike flashed gold and silver, forcing Faith to focus once more. Trailing away from Buffy, like some stream of continuous light, was a triple band – braided together and running like liquid gold along the wall, down past her and, as she turned to follow it’s path, out the door. Assuming that was the mystical manifestation of her link with Spike, Faith involuntarily reached for it. The light flowed through her, uncaring of her interference or presence. With her hand playing through the light, Faith turned her head slightly to look up at Buffy.

“Its beautiful.”

The exasperation on Buffy’s face was replaced with curiosity. “What is?”

The answer was simple. “You and Spike.”

At the mention of his name, the light intensified, pulsing with warmth and arcing little silver sparks. Her lip quivered, tears sprung to her eyes and all Buffy could do was nod her head in acknowledgment of Faith’s declaration.

But Faith’s next words stole her breath. “Too much bad stuff though. Any idea who’d wanna break up you two?”

“I don’t know.” More fear than she was willing to admit to colored her voice and Buffy shook her head. “I just don’t know.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The stomping sound of his boots rang softly in the pre-dawn morning as Spike stalked his way through the still dark streets of Sunnydale. He hated this town, some days. Really truly loathed it with a deep and abiding passion.

Every plan, every good thing, always got completely fucked up in this place. Nothing ever went smoothly.

He paused, his ears pricking at the faint sounds of a scuffle going on off to his left. Even as he listened, the sounds died away, making him sigh with disgust. Can’t even find m’self a decent fight.

The two fledges he’d staked weren’t any more than appetizers, teasers, merely whetting his appetite for destruction. Violence. . . . need to beat the livin’ hell outta somethin’.

Not much night left. . . maybe I should go back . . . . Spike half-turned, then thought better of it. He couldn’t go back to Revello Drive – not just yet. If he went back now, he’d only end up hurting Buffy and that was something he wasn’t willing to do. They could’ve sparred in the basement, but the knowledge of her pregnancy held him back. He needed to unleash the raging beast within him, not restrain it.

And it wasn’t just his demonic nature calling out for blood – the long dead Victorian poet was also screaming for blood – and not just any blood.

His whole being was in accordance with just whose blood needed spilling.

Angelus. . . .

Fucker needs to bleed. Needs to hurt the way m’girls do. . .

Spike didn’t understand what drove the older vampire to constantly, consistently attack those who garnered his attention. Whether it was Drusilla or Darla or Buffy or countless others that caught his eye. . . . Why was it that he wanted to eradicate them?

Even as a fledge, he hadn’t so little self control. The only unthinking indiscriminate act he’d committed had been done out of concern. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her – had, in fact, been trying to save her. His actions had backfired horrifically but his intentions had been of the best.

And why was he thinking about this now? Almost visibly throwing off his introspection, Spike stalked off towards the Alibi Room, hoping for some action there.

Lawson slipped quietly into the mansion, hiding from prying and questioning eyes. He had spent the hours between the fight in the hospital and now hunting, looking for, not just a meal, but answers as well. The evidence of his own eyes startled him. His memory of William the Bloody was vivid, a vampire without remorse or conscience, inflicting bloodshed and mayhem on a small group of men stuck at the bottom of the ocean.

Yet now, here he was, fighting alongside the Slayer. . . . which just – Lawson was having real trouble wrapping that thought around his brain. The famed Slayer of Slayers, who’d battled more slayers than some vampires had ever even seen, was fighting beside one.

Sam headed for the room he’d commandeered for his own, uncaring of the minions he passed, effectively ignoring their presence. Angelus had instituted a rotating watch, to insure neither the slayer nor any of her people would be able to slip into the mansion again, so there was always someone awake, watching the doors. Ray, the vampire who’d luckily missed the rescue, was in charge of that and he and two others were walking about on silent feet.

His room was quiet, dark floor length curtains covering the windows and he dropped his peacoat on the only chair, running his hands through his hair in the same motion. He paused when the scent of blood and patchouli reached his nose and he looked around sharply in the dark, seeking the source of both scents.

“Why are you here?” He could barely make out her pale form in the darkness, covered as she was in dark clothing, blending into the dark curtains.

A low quiet laugh sounded in the air between them. “Question is where’ve you been. . . out chasing little girls?”

He moved further into the room, sitting on the bed to unlace his boots. “Why do you care where I’ve been?”

“Questions within questions, dear boy. . . . perhaps one of us should answer.” She moved away from the window then, her eyes on his back, watching him closely for signs of unease.

Lawson stilled, all senses alert as she moved closer. “So which one of us is going to answer first?”

Cool fingers caressed the back of his neck, running down his back, across his shoulder. “Must be you. . . . should always take care to answer big sister’s question. So tell me, baby brother, where were you?” She paused, coming round to face him, her large dark blue eyes boring into his. Sam ducked his head, avoiding her mesmerizing gaze. “Come now, sweets, tell me true. . . . “

“Drusilla. . . What do you want?” Lawson stiffened at her giggle.

“Want you . . . . “ she slid into his lap, her fingers playing with the hair on the back of his neck, long nails scratching his skin.

It took him a moment to realize what she was implying and he tightened his hands, pushing her away from him. “What the hell? Drusilla. . . What about Angel?”

“Daddy’s sleeping and his baby girl wants to play.” She stroked his face, her nails drawing blood.

“He’d kill me. And I don’t want to be dusty, so what’s the real reason you’re here?” Sam didn’t believe for one second that Drusilla was here because she wanted sex – there had to be more than that on her mind and he knew the least of what she was trying to discover was where he’d been earlier.

“What Daddy doesn’t know. . . . pretty kitty wants to play. . . “ Dropping her hand beneath her, Drusilla palmed his cock, feeling it lengthen despite his protests. Her grin widened, a low growl emerging from her throat and her tongue licked a path across his cheek. “Delicious you are. . . come play with sissy. . . “

“He’ll be able to smell us Drusilla and he’s not stupid.” Trying one last time to force her away, Lawson dug his fingers into her upper arm. “This is not a good idea.”

Giving way, she allowed him the momentary illusion that his strength equaled hers, then slowly began pushing him back. “Now, now. . . Little boys shouldn’t hurt pretty girls, especially their sisters.”

Before he knew it, Sam was flat on his back, staring up in the beguiling dark indigo eyes of Drusilla. His last coherent thought was he needed to leave before Angelus smelled what they were about to do.

Flashes of light, muted now and slower than before, flickered in Faith’s eyes as she walked the second floor hallway. The trance was beginning to loosen its hold on her and she knew there wasn’t much time left. Saying as much to Giles and Buffy as they trailed behind her, Faith hesitated outside the door to the room that used to belong to Joyce.

“Last stop kiddies.”

Neither of her companions spoke, hoping her concentration would hold for just a bit longer. Buffy hadn’t been surprised when Faith mentioned the magics surrounding the two teens, knowing what she did about both girls. She’d been more surprised to find Connor’s space was free of any magical influence. His crib was a “free zone”, although she was surprised and dismayed to discover her bed was surrounded by magics, but again, it appeared most of it was being blocked by the mating. The last place to look in was behind the closed door, where Willow was currently sleeping.

Faith hesitated so long beside the door her two companions thought perhaps she’d come out of the trance. Lifting stricken dilated eyes toward Buffy, Faith shook her head. “Can’t . . . too much in there.”

And it was only because of the blond’s supernatural reflexes that she was able to catch Faith before she hit the floor.

Book two, chapter 45. Mingled yarn

I have realized that the past and future are real illusions,
that they exist in the present,
which is what there is and all there is.
Alan Watts

A hallucination is a fact, not an
error; what is erroneous is
a judgment based upon it.
Bertrand Russell

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn,
good and ill together.
All’s Well That Ends Well, act iv, sc. iii

If our web be framed with rotten handles,
when our loom is well nigh done,
our work is new to begin.
God send the weaver true prentices again,
and let them be denizens.
Elizabeth I, The Sayings of Queen Elizabeth, ch. 11,
by Frederick Chamberlin

Fiction is like a spider’s web,
attached ever so lightly perhaps,
but still attached to life at all four corners.
Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible.
Virginia Woolf, A Room Of One’s Own, ch. 3



Jenner hadn’t planned on staying long on the hellmouth, and anticipating the possible need for a quick getaway, left his own personal ship waiting at the harbor. He’d spent some time in London, when its hellmouth had been active and unlike most of his brethren, he’d hated it. The chaos, the constant bickering and jockeying for position and not to mention the near constant influx of otherworldly demons – it had played havoc with his unlife. Jenner preferred controlling his own place, absolute control, allowing no others refuge in Plymouth and its surroundings. Which was why he always had his own transportation.

With only a half dozen handpicked minions, Jenner had effectively cleared out Sunnydale’s waterfront in the twenty-four hours since his arrival.

Angelus is an idiot. Wasting time playing games with children, focusing on tormenting the Slayer. Used wisely, a Slayer’s presence was a benefit to a prudent master vampire. From the sources he’d spent the last few hours questioning, Jenner had discovered the current Slayer’s history – and her connection to both Angelus and William.

Staring out into the pre-dawn sky, Jenner contemplated his possible options. He could jump the gun and blindly side with Angelus while keeping his options for escape open – or he could wait, biding his time and see what would happen. William, while impetuous and impulsive, had the uncanny knack of always surviving, if not coming out the better of any situation. Which was, he supposed, part of the problem. In the past, Jenner had always chosen the path of prudency, and thus, losing out to William.

Time to make a choice . . . . Dismissing his minions, Jenner prepared to settle his large bulk in the king-sized bed. I’ll sleep on it. Another day or so won’t change anything. . . except give me more information.

Realizing he’d already inadvertently reached a decision, Jenner stripped down and climbed beneath the silk sheets.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spike slammed back another shot of bourbon, carefully watching the rest of the bar patrons, his eyes constantly scanning the faces. He had no idea what he was looking for, but he knew, sooner or later one of the human-looking demons was going to trip up and cause a fracas. He was counting on it.

His wait wasn’t a long one.

By the time he’d finished half the bottle, a fight had broken out between a coil’ach-dubh and two vampires. Waiting a bit, until all the surrounding demons got involved, Spike let a grin cross his features.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Spike dove into the fray, attacking both sides with impunity. He didn’t care which side was right – didn’t care about anything but easing his own temper and anger. Throwing caution – and punches – to the wind, Spike gleefully fought, reveling in the pointless violence.

Completely pushing everything else from his mind, Spike howled with glee as he used fist and fangs on the bar patrons.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Giles lifted Faith from Buffy’s arms, his eyes narrowed in thought, wondering if he’d been fooled by her insistence she was okay enough to attempt the trance. What concerned him though, was the deeper question of what had actually caused her collapse.

Was it the amount of magics in the house? Or was it the rebound effects of all these magics? Or is it something as simple as fatigue? He had no way of knowing either, or also knowing exactly what Faith had uncovered. What he could glean from Faith’s few comments wasn’t enough to establish who was the focal point or from where the spell originated.

Not enough information. Though it was telling where she’d lost consciousness, as were her last words. Giles thought about mentioning what Faith had said when he caught Wesley hiding a yawn.

Buffy motioned him downstairs, where he and Wesley set up Faith on the couch. Sharing a look with his fellow former watcher, Giles motioned him away from the two slayers. “She collapsed outside the room shared by Tara and Willow.”

“Did she give any indication of what she was seeing just before?” Wesley questioned the older man.

“No. Nothing clear at all.”

Wesley looked back over his shoulder to glance at the two girls. Buffy was laying a blanket over Faith’s inert form and she swayed, fatigue stealing over her. “There isn’t much we can do now. It’s nearly seven. Perhaps we should all just get some sleep.”

There wasn’t much else they could do. They were all reeling on their feet and he had to agree with Wesley. “Agreed. The bedroom downstairs is currently unoccupied. Do you want it?”

“No, Rupert, you go ahead. I’ll stay up here.” Wesley shook his head, motioning toward the chair.

Giles raised an eyebrow. “That can’t possibly be comfortable.”

“It won’t be. But I think one of us should be up here. It’s all right.” He shook his head one more time. “Go ahead.”

Nodding his acquiescence, Giles turned his attention to the three young women who were still awake. “Why don’t you all go on to bed. There’s nothing more we can do tonight. . . er, this morning.”

Buffy started to protest, but a yawn stole through her and she shook her head, letting out a husky chuckle. “Yeah. I’m just gonna get a bottle for C-man, coz I’m sure he’ll be up soon.” She motioned for Tara and Anya to go ahead. “The room downstairs is empty, Anya, why don’t you crash here.”

Yawning heavily, her natural exuberance weighed down by exhaustion, Anya nodded sleepily and trudged toward the kitchen and the basement steps.

Starting to protest a bit, Tara looked at all of them, thought better of what she was about to say, then headed for her own bed.

Sleepily Buffy followed after Anya, getting a bottle ready for Connor, finding her way upstairs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Surveying the carnage around him, Spike inhaled deeply, the varying scents of demon blood heavy in the air. His grin widened, and he swallowed his satisfaction, stretching his neck from side to side.

The anger and tension was eased, released in the unabashed violence of a simple mindless bar brawl. Spike didn’t care – didn’t matter to him at all – who bore the brunt of his anger, all that mattered was he hadn’t resorted to sparring with Buffy. And he kept his promise. He hadn’t sought out Angelus, stayed away from any possible confrontation with the older vampire.

Grabbing a couple of bottles of bourbon from behind the bar, Spike gauged the distance to the nearest sewer cap, grinning madly when he realized there was one in the alley just outside the back door. Heading out the back, Spike grabbed a discarded jacket from the floor, growling out a warning to the barkeep as he shouted something about payment.

Not once in his nocturnal wanderings had he even caught a glimpse of the she-bitch hound that had followed him patiently from Revello Drive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

it’s nine-thirty.

Sun’s up. It’s broad daylight outside and Spike’s not back yet. Where the hell is he? Buffy fiddled idly with the blankets tucked around her and Connor, debating with herself whether to go out looking for him. She’d only catnapped in the two short hours since she’d come upstairs. Connor had been stirring and she’d given him the bottle, cradling him in her arms, her mind not on her tiny company.

Where the hell is he? He promised. Refusing to believe something bad may have happened to him, she focused instead on his disregard for convention, most especially his refusal to hide from sunlight. She absently kissed the top of the baby’s head and closed her eyes for a brief moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kirsten rolled over, disturbed by the whimpers coming from Dawn. She’d been stirring for the last couple of minutes, the drug-induced sleep beginning to wear off. Her previous sleep had been deep, Dawn unmoving and silent nestled beneath the comforter, despite the noise in her room of three people talking. Instead of going to get Buffy, Kirsten decided to deal with Dawn’s distress on her own. Judging by the noises, Dawn was having nightmares. Figuring any comfort was better than none, Kirsten left her spot on the floor, climbing into the bed next to her.

“Shhhh, Dawnie, I’ve got you.”

Dawn whimpered some more, moving about restlessly, but when Kirsten reached for her hand, she settled down and fell back to sleep.

It wasn’t long before Kirsten also gave into sleep again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house was quiet when he ran in the front door, Wesley asleep in the armchair, Faith sprawled out on the couch. He guessed Rupert and demon-girl were still somewhere about, since the Watcher’s car was still parked in front.

Spike took the stairs two at a time, dropping his duster on the newel post as he practically ran past it. Buffy was facing her bedroom door, eyes closed in slumber and arms around the sprog, who was also asleep.

A smile broke out over his features, as he took in the sight before him. The fiercest slayer he’d ever fought was tucked up in bed, an innocent tiny infant tight against her side, both of them sleeping peacefully. The fact he wasn’t there for any other reason than to crawl in beside her didn’t give his demonic nature a pause.

She was his; he was just as equally hers.

Connor stirred, mewling softly in his sleep and Spike gently lifted him from the circle of the Slayer’s arms. The baby quieted, knocking against his shoulder with a tightly closed fist, which uncurled at the feel of Spike’s finger rubbing over it.

Giving the boy a moment to snuggle against him, Spike made certain the curtains were closed over the windows. Buffy stirred, rolling over to curl closer into the pillows and blankets.

Figuring he had a bit more time, Spike put the baby down and headed for the shower.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was dreaming, visions of the past night replaying themselves over and over in her tired mind. Those last moments with Spike, the vision of Angel choking Dawn . . . . Buffy tried swimming toward wakefulness, away from the painful images.

Fighting the pull of sleep, she opened her eyes when the bed creaked behind her and strong arms wormed their way around her body. Buffy stiffened, relaxing when a deep whispered voice sounded in her ear. “Mornin’ goldilocks.”

“Hey.” Her voice was equally soft, husky from lack of sleep. He was spooned up behind her, one leg wedging its way between hers.

“Miss me?” Tiny kisses were traced over her shoulder as he nuzzled her.

“Thought you were gonna get stuck.” She rolled over, sliding beneath his angled form.

His left hand trailed down her side from shoulder to hip, resting at the curve, his thumb rubbing lazy circles over the softly jutting hipbone.

Buffy’s hand stroked his hard bicep, noting how small it looked against his strong arm.

“Wasn’t gonna get caught, knowing you were waitin’ for me.”

She glanced up at his face, the snarky retort dying on her lips. He was staring down at her with a look in his eyes she couldn’t name. Awe, adoration and fierce love combined, shining with enough force to steal her breath.

“I love you.” His fingers stroked the side of her face, eyes roving over her features. “Woke up all out of place this mornin’. Arms felt empty, like part of me was missing, lost.” Spike paused, watching as she shook her head in agreement. “Felt like. . . somethin’ vital was gone. Saw you sitting there in the shop, an’ knew it was you. Don’t want that ever again.”

Her hand caressed his cheek while he spoke, tracing the small lines of stress and fatigue at the corners of his eye.

Spike grabbed her hand, pressing a kiss into her palm. “Would cross the desert for you.”

His next words were silenced by her lips, then she pulled away, whispering softly, “you’ve already done so much for me.”

“You’re m’whole world, kitten.” Tears welled up in her eyes and he caught one on the tip of a finger. “Hey now, what’s this for?”

“Don’t leave me. . . “ Buffy choked up, unable to say more, hoping he understood.

He did. “Not goin’ anywhere.”

His hand settled on the valley between her breasts, resting over her heart. “Everything ‘ve ever wanted is here, with you.”

Buffy reached for him, drawing his mouth down for a kiss. “We’ve done this before. . . . how come we don’t remember it?”

“Must be the spell. ‘Coz I’d bloody remember bein’ here with you, doing this . . . “ and his fingers found a nipple, stroking it to hardness. “Or this.”

That same hand slid down to cup her mound, parting her pussy, sliding roughly against her clit. Her hips arched up into his touch, legs parting to grant him better access.

She was already slick, aroused by just his nearness. Questing fingers honed in on her slippery channel, sliding in and out, his thumb pressing heavily on her clit. Panting softly through opened mouth, Buffy gasped out his name.

Every touch set off sparks. His touch on her nipples sent shockwaves straight to her womb. His fingers buried in her pussy had her writhing, clenching, tightening her inner muscles around them.

“Spike. . . need you.” Her hand grabbed his wrist and the play of his muscles as he thrust his fingers inside her made her head spin.

“Mmmmmm.” His head dropped down so he could nuzzle her neck and the vibration of his voice had her gasping desperately for air.

Her fingers dug into his arms, nails scoring half-moon lines of red wherever she held on tightly. Spike slid between her legs, his hips parting her thighs, hard cock nestled against her warm wetness.

Buffy pushed her feet up, rubbing her toes against his thighs, the angle giving him better access to her center.

Mouths met, lips and tongue melding together. Hands groped and soothed, cool flesh meeting overheated skin. Buffy couldn’t stop the tremors coursing through her, didn’t want to stop the delicious sensations of Spike’s hands touching her everywhere. They were quiet, neither one able to talk, words beyond them.

Inch by agonizingly slow inch Spike slid his cock inside her, her wet core swallowing his cool hard length. Halting when he was fully embedded inside her, Spike fought for control. She was molten silk, her warmth surrounding, engulfing him. Living, breathing, pulsing velvet walls enclosed his impossibly hard cock, sucking him deeper inside with every thrust. Every nerve sparked with fire, the slippery slide of his flesh into hers inducing sensations he’d thought beyond him.

She was fire. Burning embers coiled in an ever tightening vice.

“Fuck. . . . Love you, love you. . . f’rever. . . . “ Voice like rough, raw chocolate whiskey rasped against her ear, Spike’s words triggering internal spasms in her womb.

He was marble, living, almost breathing, soft, oh-so-touchable . . . . thrusting in . . . driving . . . His hard cock filling her completely, nudging her higher and higher with each pulsing thrust.

“Oh god . . . oh god. . . . Spike. . . . gonna. . . need to . . . please.” Breathy half whispers, little girl husky with desire drifted over his skin, notching his answering need higher.

“Never. . . . felt. . . oh fuck!” Her legs wrapped around his waist, holding him tight. His pelvic bone hit her clit and her inner walls rippled over him and his spine arched, taut muscles clenching in response, overloading his body.

Reeling up, his knees spread her wider, opening her up to his heated gaze, changing his angle of entry. Cool hands circled her hips, raising her up to meet his slow thrusts. Sapphire dark eyes focused on the spot where their bodies met, mesmerized by the sight of her pussy spread open, his for the taking. “Fuckin’ . . . . god. . . mine. . . . never. . . B’fore.“

His thumbs spread her wider, tensing over her aching clit and Buffy mewled, whimpering out her need for him, her nails scratching along his arms.

“C’mon. . . baby. . . . fuck. . . . aaugghh” Circling her clit with both thumbs, Spike felt the impossible to miss beginnings of her orgasm rip through her and clenched his jaw, desperate to hold on until she fell.

Glazed green gold eyes lifted to his, a soft whisper breaking through his labored breathing and he crashed with her over the edge.

“Love you. . . . always.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Nothing so dire as the end of the world, but it is an end. Or rather it could be.” A deep rumbling voice filled her head, but it was too dark to see who’d spoken, the accent, though, gave an indication who it might be, though she wasn’t sure. “Then again it could just be a different beginning.”

“Cryptic much?” Trying to get her bearings in the absolute darkness surrounding her, Faith turned in a circle, one hand stretched out away from her.

“How will I know which it is?”

“Now isn’t the time. There is much more to come.”

“They are coming.”

Buffy’s voice came out of the darkness and Faith turned sharply in that direction. “Who’s coming?”

“Not too much longer.”

“Christ B, not you too. Could you cut a girl a break and tell me without playing the Riddler?”

The darkness faded and Faith could see Buffy standing beside a crib, her hands resting on the sides. “What’s the matter Faith? Not up to playing guess my line?”

“No. Not really.”

Buffy shrugged, smoothing the blankets, her eyes on the bedding. “He’s Angel’s son, you know. But the others won’t be.”

“Others?” Faith stared at her counterpart, watching as she restlessly fiddled with the blankets. “B? What are you telling me?”

Another voice sounded in the dark, this one coming from somewhere behind Faith. “Nothing you shouldn’t already know. You have to remember all of this, what we tell you. The hardest thing to face is when your friends betray you.”

“Friends? What friends?” Faith whirled around, coming face to face with a short guy with dark hair and eyes and a sad smile on his face. “I don’t have a whole lot of friends ya know.”

“Who said anything about your friends? Maybe it’s the monsters who have friends.” The little guy walked around her, facing Buffy, then glanced up at Faith. “You really should trust her a bit more. She’s not so bad. Saved my life once or twice.”

“Its up to us to protect them.” Buffy finally looked at her, a strange look in her eyes. “From the monsters.”

“Monsters? You mean the bad guys, vamps and demons, right?”

“Sometimes the monsters are a bit closer. Sometimes they don’t wear a different face. You need to warn them. . . You need to wake up and warn them. . . c’mon Faith, wake up.”

She woke with a lurch, eyes wide open and wary, trying to remember where she was. For a long minute, Faith couldn’t make the connection between where she’d woken up the day before and just now. . . . And then it all came back to her.

The increasingly ominous dreams and the seeds of fear they engendered; the urgency to get back to Sunnydale and finally, the harrowing hours before sleep.

Everything came flooding back.

Angel’s lost his soul . . . . and the kid is his.

Buffy and Spike, so didn’t expect that.

Blond girl. . . Tara. . . hey, wait a sec.

Where the hell is Willow?

Faith got up from the tangle of blankets and stood over Wesley’s sleeping body.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pain radiated everywhere, breathing hurt. Not moving hurt. Not breathing hurt.

Dawn slowly opened her eyes, hazily focusing on the wall opposite her bed. There was no break in awareness, no waking up to a moment of forgetfulness. The memories of what happened the night before were there, full blown and in technicolor, replaying constantly in her mind.

Angel’s face as he squeezed her throat, blank and uncaring.

Casey’s set jaw as he faced off against the face of her own personal demon.

Somehow, she’d always known Angel would be the one – even knowing her childhood memories were false – the fear of being held by Angelus was enough to freeze her heart.

Casey. . . . silent tears slid from her eyes, pooling into the pillow beneath her head. Its my fault. I should have warned him, told him. . . . something. A shudder broke through her and Dawn stuffed her fist into her mouth.

She was aware of someone in the bed behind her and for a moment – a very short moment, she was confused. But then she remembered a vague vision of Kirsten fighting alongside Spike. . . .

Dawn struggled to sit up, fighting the nauseating pain every inch. She wanted nothing more than to just give in and collapse again, but she wouldn’t. Determined to escape for just a moment, Dawn slowly got to her feet.

Tears of pain mingled with the grief and she halted, trying to get a deep breath and unable to because of her broken ribs.

No more pain. . . can’t.

Its all my fault.

Panting rapidly, Dawn tried to fight the crisp shards of pain arcing through her with every step.

Wincing deeply, she finally made it through her door.

A wave of dizziness washed over her and everything went dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Willow stretched, rubbing her eyes of sleep. Tara was snuggled next to her, still deep in slumber, an untroubled look on her face. Willow breathed a relieved sigh, realizing the spell was still holding.

It has to hold.

I did the right thing.

The red-head leaned down, brushing a light kiss across her girlfriend’s face.

No mater what, I did the right thing.

Book two. Chapter 46. An untimely frost

Death lies on her like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Romeo and Juliet, act iv, sc. v

Quem Di diligunt
Adolescens moritur
(He whom the gods favor dies in youth).
Plautus: Bacchides, act iv. sc. 7

The whisper of your scream
sighed through the air
and faith-the flag is torn and frayed
inferno heat, glory in flame
love was beaten and betrayed

In every step I hear your sobbing
dare I break the shade with one caress?
dare I trespass to lift the veil
to touch the lips so soft and frail?

Hold the whirlwind, don't let it blow
I seemed to know the ghost in you

Your captive heart, the belief you share
with a kiss eternal, the spirits of the square

Hold the whirlwind, don't let it blow
hope remains with the ghost in you
Hold the whirlwind, don't let it blow
I seemed to know the ghost in you
Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Ghost in you from the album Superstition




Her eyes fluttered, opening slowly, everything coming into focus breath by breath. Pain crested, rising with awareness, sharpening her senses. Dawn felt air passing through the swollen tissues of her throat, moisture flooding her mouth.

It hurt to breathe.

It hurt to swallow.

It hurt whether she moved or didn’t.

Sweat broke out along her hairline with every agonizing step she took toward the bathroom.

One more step. . . one more. . . . Dawn focused on her thoughts, trying to ignore the pain, the effort breathing took. I can do this . . .

Coz the pain has to freaking stop.

Can’t . . . one more step. . . . look, there’s the bathroom. . . . just a little bit . . . then no more pain.

Dawn gripped the doorknob tightly, almost leaning into the door for support. She wanted to fall, just give into the pain and sink down into oblivion, but she didn’t. Wouldn’t. With a stubbornness that was inherited from both her parents, she fought the waves of pain, willfully shoving them aside.

No. . . open the damn door Dawnie. . . just turn the knob and shuffle in. . . .

Her mind went blank when she inhaled deeply, dark spots flashing before her eyes drawing her attention.

Long moments passed before Dawn came back to herself, forehead pressed against the unyielding door, hand still wrapped around the doorknob. Gathering rapidly flagging strength, Dawn turned her wrist and pushed open the bathroom door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rupert woke, a slim arm wrapped around his waist and a definitely female body pressed close against his side, when a door creaked open somewhere overhead.

It took him long minutes to recognize both his surroundings and his companion. He was more surprised to find himself in bed with Anya than to find himself sleeping in Buffy’s basement bedroom. Waking up in the basement was at least something he’d become accustomed to in the months Buffy had been gone. More often than not, Spike had trudged in the door with just minutes to spare before the sun rose, having allowed Rupert to get a somewhat comfortable sleep in a borrowed bed.

But he’d never once woken up with someone else snuggled in beside him. It was so unfamiliar, years since he’d had overnight company, that Giles wasn’t exactly sure what the proper etiquette was; not that he was entirely sure what the etiquette was for waking up next to your employee and business partner. Giles untangled himself from Anya as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Rupert? Are you awake?” Wesley’s voice floated down, a sense of urgency threaded through his tones.

“I am. What’s wrong?” He fumbled for his glasses, squinting up at his fellow Englishman.

“Faith’s had a Slayer dream, and she’s got some information.” He’d paused halfway down the stairs, giving the older man some privacy.

“I’ll be right up.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ache in his neck and the grumbling in his belly finally brought Xander to wakefulness. The machines keeping Cordelia’s body functioning whirred and clicked, oblivious to his state and the door swung opened, revealing the blank smile of the Buffybot.

“Good morning Xander.” She chirped happily at him. “You slept for a long time. Are you better now?”

“Better? There wasn’t anything wrong with me.” Xander shook his head, clearing the cobwebs and confusion.

“Humans sleep when they aren’t well. It looked like you were ill.” The Buffybot stepped purposefully over to the window, pulling on the strings for the blinds forcefully, throwing the room into bright sunlight.

“Augh! Give a guy a minute to wake up before you do that!” Xander flung a hand over his eyes, missing the minute flinching of Cordelia’s eyelids.

“Sorry.” The bot adjusted the blinds, leaving them half-opened.

“No problemo. Just gimme a few to wake up.” He headed for the bathroom, ignoring the blinking lights of the neural monitor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh my god. I look like shit. . . . Dark bruises circled round her neck, a second set of smaller round circles – darker than the others, showing up almost black against the lighter purple bruises and pale cream of her normal coloring.

Her hand raised itself to brush across the bruises, almost of its own accord. Dawn flinched at a particularly sore spot, the movement shuddering through her body, eliciting an answering series of sharp flashes of pain in her chest.

Panting heavily, Dawn fought the pain, fought the dizziness and nausea threatening to overwhelm her. Her head dropped and her hands gripped the sides of the sink, knuckles white and bloodless.

C’mon girl, hold it together, you can get through this. Salty tears plopped heavily onto the white porcelain, disappearing against the stark white surface.

The pain has to stop. All this destruction has to stop.

I can’t do this anymore. All this is because of me. . . . All of this.

Glory.

Buffy.

Casey.

Dawn reached into the medicine cabinet, grabbing the bottle of pills the hospital had sent home with them earlier in the morning. Slowly uncapping the bottle Dawn shook out a handful of pills onto her palm.

She stared down at them, her mind blank of everything.

They’re so small.

Chewing them slowly, Dawn stared into the mirror, her own eyes glazed and blank. Is this really me? Nothing’s left. . . .

Very slowly she slid back the mirror on the medicine cabinet.

Finding what she wanted took only a moment and Dawn stared at the small sliver of steel nestled in her hand. Without blinking or further thought, she pressed the cool metal deep, idly watching as the red blood welled up against the thin lines and dark bruises.

Dropping slowly down to her knees, Dawn draped her bleeding wrist over the tub, counting the drops as they splattered wetly.

The thicker, heavier plop of blood droplets countered against the lighter, quicker splat of teardrops, the two mixing together at her fingertips. Dawn gazed steadily as the drops joined with the pitter-patter of tap water as they pooled together before sliding down into the dark drain.

Laying her head down on the edge, Dawn closed her eyes and waited.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Faith was pacing the confines of the small kitchen restlessly banging one fist against the outside of her thigh. Wesley, busying himself with setting up breakfast foods, ignored her pacing as best he could.

“What’s taking him so long?” Faith stared out the back door, her ears attuned to any noise from the basement behind her.

Wesley sighed, growing exasperated with her. “He was barely awake when I went downstairs. Give him a minute.”

Just as she was about to complain further, the basement door opened and Giles stepped into the kitchen. “Good morning.” He paused, peering at the clock, “it is still morning?”

“Barely, but yes.” Wesley handed Giles a coffee cup, then motioned toward the pot.

“So Wesley says you’ve had a Slayer dream.” Giles addressed his comments to Faith as he fixed his coffee.

“Yeah. Listen, Watcher-man, we got more vamps than just Angel, but I’m not sure they’re all buddy-buddy with hm.” Faith relayed her dream, leaving out no detail while both Watchers listened carefully.

When she was done, Giles asked her if she recognized the disembodied voice and when she shook her head negatively, he frowned, trying to make sense of it. His next question caught her attention though and she thought for a moment, then blurted out the one outstanding feature of the other unknown. “The other dude was short, really short, like shorter than Buffy short.”

Giles sipped his coffee, something he normally didn’t drink, and he nodded his head. “I believe I know who you saw.”

He paused once more, thinking over the cryptic words of his Slayer. “As for the other, I believe once we’ve broken the spell, Buffy’s statements will make some sense, or at least more than they do at the moment.”

There was silence in the kitchen, the three of them lost in their own thoughts, all of them, ironically enough, thinking roughly along the same lines. Faith glanced at the two Englishmen, her suspicions about Willow dancing about on the tip of her tongue, but wariness held her back. She was the outsider, the one they’d banished, untrusted and unwanted – okay, so it was my own freakin’ fault – and Willow was the trusted one. Faith seriously doubted if they’d believe her at all.

The matched pair of former watchers also were concentrating on particular parts of Faith’s dream, although each of them focused on a different phrase. Giles kept dwelling on “the hardest thing to face is when your friends betray you”. He had a niggling feeling he knew exactly what this meant, but because of the spell blocking his memories, he couldn’t make sense of it.

Wesley was looking at all of the information Faith had imparted, and was typically analyzing it, turning it over and over, trying to fit it in with the information he already knew. Using his limited knowledge of the facts, he kept returning to “sometimes the monsters are a bit closer, sometimes they don’t wear a different face”. Taken at face value, that statement eliminated Spike, because “wear a different face” meant what Buffy referred to as ‘game face’. Adding up the facts again, Wesley’s conclusion figured on the one person he thought would have been in the thick of things. Willow’s absence was glaring. He was beginning to wonder if it was perhaps by design. . . . which had him seriously contemplating voicing his suspicions, but without any solid evidence, Wesley was convinced none of the others would believe him.

“In the meantime, what do you suggest?” Wesley dumped his cup into the sink, fixing a hard look at Rupert.

“Two things. I believe Faith would appreciate a change of clothes and we need to head for the Magic Box. I need to find Jonathan Levinson’s current whereabouts.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He woke alone, the bright sunlight still shrouded by the dark curtains and for long moments Sam contemplated just why he’d answered his sire’s call. His sire hadn’t acted much like a sire at all, turning him to suit his own purposes, then shoving him out into the cold ocean, without any thought or care for his understanding of the change Angel had inflicted upon him.

In fact, he had learned more in the swim to shore – the long hours spent in the company of Spike, than anything he’d learned from Angel. William had taught him the basics of survival – of the limits of his strength and endurance, and strangely enough, that he could control the thirst.

His first days as a vampire had been chaotic, swimming for his life – abandoned by his sire twenty miles from shore with the threat of daybreak looming. He and Spike had swum side by side, more for the companionship than any real sense of comradery or care for the other’s welfare. And yet, by the end of their trek, Sam had felt closer to Spike then he did to his sire.

To his further surprise, when they reached shore, Spike hadn’t abandoned him right away. They’d crawled ashore on the ass end of Long Island, hiding from the sunlight in a rickety fisherman’s shack, setting out at dusk for the nearest town.

It had taken them almost three days to make it into New York City, another two for Spike to find a ship heading back across the Atlantic for Spain – and not once in that time had Spike thought to ditch him.

No, instead Spike had taught him the finer points of breaking and entering, picking pockets and, most importantly, how to hunt and survive. Sam had realized then there was something refreshingly honest about Spike, finding himself oddly grateful for his tutelage.

Right now, though, he had to admit the real reason he’d answered the sire’s call. Once or twice during their week together, Spike had mentioned Angel; the mentions hadn’t been anything resembling complimentary, but they had indicated a closer connection than Sam had originally thought. The possibility of finding Spike again had been more than enough to tip the scales.

Sam wanted to – needed to understand – why. No answers seemed to be forthcoming from either Angel or Drusilla. Perhaps Spike had some.

With the memory of Drusilla’s cryptic words and actions running through his head, Sam thought it might be time to let Spike know he was around.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anya followed Giles into the store, her lips drawn together in a thin line, lines of fatigue and temper bracketing her mouth. She’d been tight-lipped and silent since they’d woken her, her mind firmly convinced they were going about this all wrongly.

Giles had listened to her objections, which mainly consisted of not trusting Faith and promptly ignored them. When he couldn’t quite explain why he refused to disturb either Buffy or Spike, Anya had thrown up her hands and merely exclaimed, “on your head be it.”

Her disapproval was loud and clear, for all that it remained quiet past that single outburst and Giles was at a loss as to why it affected him so. Anya was generally a cheerful person, rarely allowing her real concerns to shine through, especially whenever Xander was around – why should her disapproval bother him at all?

Forcing aside his confusion about her mood and feelings, Giles focused on what she was saying. He had to admit – Anya did have a point about trusting Faith, but he also knew if they didn’t start somewhere, Faith’s presence would at the least be a distraction.

Sooner or later, if they didn’t trust Faith now, Giles was certain she would betray them. If he’d learned anything from dealing with Spike, he’d learned trust had to start somewhere. It was easier to trust initially and let the other person grow into that trust. Firming his resolve to trust Faith, Giles turned to face Anya and hesitated at the look on her face.

She was grim-faced, her arms crossed, one small foot tapping with barely suppressed temper and he realized, as he gaped open-mouthed at her, he was madly, deeply, irrevocably in love with her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leaving Tara with a kiss, Willow headed down the stairs, thinking of how she could surprise her girlfriend. Breakfast in bed would be a good thing.

Passing by the bathroom, Willow thought she heard a noise, but when she paused and listened, there was no further sound from within. Willow shrugged and kept walking.

There were odd things about, like blankets and pillows on the couch and numerous coffee cups piled in the sink, but Willow couldn’t figure out what any of those things meant, except for one.

The black leather duster draped over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs was a dead give-away for the unwanted presence of a certain vampire. Willow couldn’t make sense of him still being around, since part the spell had been designed specifically to get rid of the vampire. To keep him away from Buffy and the rest of them.

But especially Buffy.

Spike wasn’t a good person, wasn’t even a person. He was an evil soul-less vampire whose continued presence in Sunnydale distracted Buffy and kept her away from her real friends.

Friends like herself and Xander, who’d been with her since Buffy’s arrival in Sunnydale. They’d been the ones to be there for her, done everything they could to help the Slayer with her duty. He’d just been trying to kill her since the first time he’d arrived in Sunnydale. Supposedly he was one of them now, but she knew better – Spike wasn’t a good guy.

And he was still hanging around.

Willow pursed her lips, making a face at the thought of the vampire. What does it take to get rid of him? Am I gonna have to permanently disinvite him from this house?

So caught up in her musings, Willow didn’t notice Tara coming down the stairs until she was practically nose to nose with the redhead. “Hey you. What’re you thinking?”

“Huh?” Willow jumped a bit, then smiled brightly at her girlfriend. “What? Nothing. Was just thinking, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Tara nervously played with her hands, blushing furiously whenever she peaked at Willow. “Can we. . . maybe go out for a while?” For some reason the memory of the conversation with the others during the night kept nagging at her and she suddenly didn’t want anyone else near Willow. And she wasn’t at all sure if it was Willow she wanted to protect.

“Um. Sure. I was gonna fix you breakfast though.” Willow let a little disappointment creep into her voice, moving Tara to hastily add, “how about I take you out instead?”

Tugging Willow by the hand, Tara grabbed her purse and headed for the front door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the cessation of all the noise that finally woke him, the quiet settling over the house alerting his senses all was not right.

He woke, no transition between slumber and wakefulness, every nerve strumming with tension. Buffy was curled in his arms and he was unsurprised to find the sprog nestled in between them.

Untangling his arms and legs from hers, Spike slowly sat up, ears tuned to the silence, focusing on the various heatbeats around him. Buffy’s and the baby’s were strong beside him and two others. . . . one wasn’t as strong as it should be.

Pushing back the covers, Spike grabbed his jeans from the floor, then turned back to look down at Buffy. He didn’t want to wake her until he knew something was wrong, but his intuition was telling him he’d better.

“Kitten? Buffy, c’mon, wake up.” He shook her shoulder, brushing a gentle hand down her side. “Wake up sunshine.”

She grumbled something groggily at him, swiping at his hand ineffectually.

“Buffy wake up. Somethin’s wrong.” His voice was low, laced with concern.

“All right. I’m awake.” She groused at him from behind closed eyes, her voice a bare whisper.

“No. You’re not. C’mon sunshine, open up.” The baby stirred at the sound of their voices, adding his own protest to Buffy’s. “‘m gonna check on the girls.”

“Kay.” Buffy murmured at him, tucking the blankets closer around herself and Connor.

Breathing out a slightly exasperated sigh, Spike got to his feet, intending to head straight for Dawn’s room.

The smell hit him at the door and Spike didn’t hesitate. Whirling back to the bed, he yanked the covers up and off.

“Slayer.” He ground out. “Get up now.”

The urgency of his tone, coupled with his actions, finally reached her and she sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“Blood.”

He waited for her to get up, then lifted the baby from the bed and dumped him in the crib while Buffy grabbed a pair of loose sleep pants from the drawer. “Okay, let’s go.”

Together they walked into the hallway, Spike in the lead by a couple of steps. He paused outside the bathroom door, with a nod to Buffy, he stepped back and pushed heavily on the door.

It was a sight out of his worst imaginings and he knew, at Buffy’s horrified sobbing gasp from behind him, a scene right out of her nightmares.

Dawn was slouched over the tub, water running silently down her arm, mixing with her blood as both flowed steadily from her wrist.

“Fucking Christ.”

“Oh my god.”

She was ghostly pale, her lashes and bruises strikingly dark against her skin.

“Spike?” Buffy was frozen behind him and the fear gripping her transmitted itself to him and he was barely able to choke out, “she’s breathin’.”

Almost mechanically, Spike stepped further into the bathroom, leaned down, turned off the taps, then oh, so softly, he said, “get the bandages, sweetheart.”

She hesitated, unable to move because of the fear clutching at her heart, and he growled out her name. “Buffy. Kit. Now.”

Spike had Dawn cradled in his lap, her head lolling against his shoulder and Buffy couldn’t remember when he’d moved. “Now, Slayer.”

Woodenly she reached under the sink, groping around for the first-aid kit. Vaguely she was aware of his voice, the rough timbre of it soothing her, but part of her was detached from the whole moment, her mind unable to process what was happening.

“Buffy. Buffy, hold it together. You gotta stay with me, sunshine. Open the kit, baby.”

Blankly she stared at him, not hearing his words for long minutes, until he repeated himself more than once. Her fingers fumbled with the catches, finally wrenching the top off, breaking it at the hinges.

Spike was trying to stop the blood, his hands slipping around Dawn’s torso, holding her cool body flush against him. “C’mon Niblet, wake up. Open your eyes for me, baby girl. . . C’mon.”

Dawn was completely unresponsive.

He lifted her still bleeding wrist to his mouth, sealing the cuts closed. Buffy turned, the roll of gauze in her hands and she sobbed, seeing the look on his face. “Spike?”

“Open her eyes. Tell me what you see.”

Buffy pried open Dawn’s eyelid with shaking hands. “She’s. . . she’s blank.”

“Call an ambulance. She’s overdosed too.”

Next