Book two, chapter 6. A charm of powerful trouble

All things truly wicked start from an innocence.
Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast, ch. 17

Dire combustion and confused events
new hatch’d to the woful time
Macbeth, act ii, scene iii





Wesley hadn’t waited for anything. The minute Angel’s . . . . Angelus’ attention had shifted to Cordelia, he backed into the car, placed the baby on the floor of the front seat and drove off.

He had to put as much distance between father and son as humanly possible as quickly as possible before Angelus had time to start tracking.

Buggering hell.

Bloody buggering fucking hell.

Wesley had no idea where to go. It was after midnight and while he was sure he could at least get diapers, he couldn’t risk it while still in LA. Had to get out – find a safe place to . . . Sunnydale.

Cutting across four lanes of traffic, Wesley turned the car south, toward Sunnydale.

Toward the only two people who could possibly protect this baby from his father.


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The gym was barricaded from the inside. He couldn’t get in by conventional methods, not even through a window. . . unless . . . circling around toward the athletic field, Spike slipped into game face, sniffing out the hostage takers.

Fuck.

Humans. Every last fucking one.

No matter. He could probably still get in, get Dawn and the Sprout to safety and let the authorities clean up this one. Opening an unguarded locker room window, Spike let himself in. On silent feet he prowled through the smelly locker room, freezing when one of the hostage-takers came closer. Bloke was doing his own searching, trying to be all stealthy, but Spike could hear his elevated heartbeat and echoing footfalls. Turning a corner, Spike got a look at him, swearing in his head upon his glance.

Buggering hell.

Bloody fucking buggering hell.

Thought we beat the knights who say key. What the fuck are they back here . . . . Dawn. No fucking way in hell.

Without thought of the chip, hoping if he picked them off one by one it would lessen the effects, Spike reached out and snapped the sentinel’s neck. The pain blinded him momentarily and he tried willing it away by breathing deeply.

It took him longer than he was willing to wait for the pain to subside. Fuck it. Not gonna wait.

Pushing away from the lockers, Spike made his way steadily toward the gym, fully prepared now to do whatever necessary to get Dawn out of there and home.

Laid out flat on the floor, Spike pushed open the door, thankful that the woeful knights had kept the dim lighting scheme. Idiot wankers pro’ly can’t find the bloody switches.

Sliding along the floor, Spike got to his feet behind one of the tall speakers, inhaling deeply, he tried to pinpoint how many people were currently in the room. Ten. . . fifteen . . . twenty-two . . yeah, twenty-two people. . . He had no way of knowing how many were the bloody knights.

Dawn was here.

Not more than a dozen steps away.

Surrounded by other heartbeats.

Risking a look, Spike leaned around the amp. The boy, to his credit, had Dawn firmly by the waist, not letting go. Dawn was hanging onto him also, another good sign. Not so good was the group trying to separate the two. There were four of them.

He had one chance.

No more than that. One opportunity to get them out of here.

Thinking quickly, Spike ripped apart the thin fabric covering the amp. Disconnecting wires and quickly threading them together, Spike soon had two garrottes ready for use. Two down. . . he’d leave it to Dawn to take care of one. . . three down. Figuring he could get one good solid kick in while he was choking the other two, Spike had no choice but to go with the makeshift plan. He waited. . . then, when the Sprout elbowed one of their attackers, Spike struck.

“Nice work Sprout. Up for more?”

Slipping one noose over the elbowed knight, Spike yanked, turned, flinched visibly, then slipped the second noose down around a short knight’s neck, he yanked again. Pain blossomed in his head, worsened at Dawn’s ear and glass shattering shriek of his name, which thankfully enabled him to garrotte the second victim, but unfortunately alerted everyone to his presence.

Grunting through the pain, unable to see, Spike ground out, “quiet sweets, gotta get us outta here.”

Dawn kneed her current attacker in the groin while Casey, quickly catching on, sucker punched the fourth knight in the kidney, then when he arched back in pain, slammed his knee up into the man’s balls.

Holding his head and hunched over from his own pain, Spike pushed them toward the locker room, hobbling behind them. His mouth was running, trying to break through to Dawn, who was babbling and crying. “Niblet . . . Dawn. Shut up, listen. Keys in car. Get home. . Get Buffy.”

Two knights grabbed him from behind and ignoring the pain, Spike threw a left at one, striking out with a kick to the other in a follow up motion. Instead of yelling in pain, Spike howled with fury, diving into the fight.

Casey was pulling her toward the door, while Dawn screamed out Spike’s name.

Grabbing a folding chair, Spike slung it at another knight, yelling at Dawn, “get out! Now!”

Somehow Casey understood this was about keeping Dawn safe and he bodily picked her up and ran for the doors.

“No . . . No! They’ll kill him!!” Dawn’s voice was panicked, real fear lacing her tones. “Spike! SPIKE!!”

He was braced at the doorway, doors to the locker room at his back, four knights ranged in front of him. Pain was cresting in waves through his head and Spike knew he had only a few precious seconds of consciousness left, but every second counted, gave the two time to get away, to get home, so that Buffy could at least avenge his dusting. He knew this was it.

The knights knew what he was; each one of them holding a makeshift stake in hand, but Spike was doing his best to avoid that final plunge, holding them off with a folding chair.

Fucking hell.

Did not wanna die at the hands of Society for Creative Anachronism rejects.

Fuck.

The door swung open behind him, and Spike turned to face this threat when they closed in on all sides. Something hard and metallic slammed into his head, then he took another hard blow to his right and he tried fighting back, praying to a god – any god that he could hold out longer, when a tiny blond blur streaked in under an upraised arm. His blurred vision thought it was Buffy but the stance was different, the figure smaller.

Lifting the chair, Spike mentally shrugged, no time to worry about who or what she was, then slammed it into one of the knights. Together he and his unexpected ally fought, but with each blow Spike struck and landed, he weakened. He was faltering and he knew it.

There was another hard blow to his right from a sword, raking down his entire torso, and he felt and heard bones snap and as he was trying to recover, a whoosh sounded past his ear and everything went black.


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Dawn was screaming his name, fighting against Casey’s hold, trying to get back to Spike somehow. “Dawn. . . Dawn. . . stop! He said get your sister. We have to go.”

Casey just kept repeating the words until finally Dawn understood what he was saying. Gulping in a deep breath she said, “I’m okay. . . I’m okay. . . yeah. We gotta go now.”

Taking off her shoes, Dawn grabbed Casey’s hand, heading for the back of the locker room. Spying an open window, Dawn scrambled up and out, spying the DeSoto while Casey escaped from the school behind her.

“Can you drive?” At his answering nod of yes, Dawn said, “good. Let’s go.”


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He should have been back already. Buffy looked at the clock on the wall, then down at her hands. Could just be Dawnie didn’t want to leave the dance or her date. Could be . . . so then how come she was having these little niggling thoughts about . . . something going wrong?

She threw aside the blanket, searching around for her sneakers. Upstairs. The sense of urgency grew, intensifying the longer it took to find her sneakers and get some weapons.

Buffy stood still, her weapons bag at her feet, staring off into nothing. Was she over-reacting? Was this just her over-active imagination?

Was it?

Her slayer sense was telling her something was wrong about tonight. Something gone wrong. Shaking off the inertia, Buffy slipped a stake into the back of her pants, then grabbed a short sword.

She was running down the steps when an upset and crying Dawn burst through the front door, calling her name.

“Buffy! Spike . . . school . . go!!” Doubling over, trying to catch her breath, she blurted out, “knights came. . . Casey drive. . . go! GO! GO!”

“Stay inside Dawnie. Lock the doors. Call Tara. Don’t let anyone in but us.” Buffy was out the door and staring at Casey who was standing at the door of the DeSoto. “Drive now.”


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Wesley checked the speedometer, then flicked a glance at the gas gauge. His eyes drifted toward the sleeping infant on the floor. He needed to get gas, but couldn’t risk leaving the baby in the car all alone.

His mind was completely blank. Having no idea how the others had gotten away, Wesley only hoped everyone survived, at least through the night. He was staggered from the events of the last couple of hours.

Darla had staked herself so the child could live.

Angelus was returned.

Angelus was back.


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Be alive. Not dust. Just be there. Not dust. Not dust. NOT DUST.

Not dust.

The drive felt endless, Casey trying to stay within the speed limit yet drive fast. Buffy was afraid to even open her mouth, for fear of nothing but screams emerging.

Her hands were clenched in an iron grip, jaw tense and frozen. The two thoughts kept repeating over and over, looping in her head. Be there. Not dust. Not dust. Be there.

She was out the door before they hit the parking lot behind the locker rooms, her only words to Casey, “don’t leave” flung over her shoulder as she ran toward the building.

Unknowingly following Spike’s earlier path, Buffy went in, practically diving through the window. The locker room was eerily quiet, not even her footfalls made a sound. Stepping over a corpse, Buffy wasn’t surprised when she saw the tattoo – but grimly thought, good. He got one.

She ran quickly to the gym doors, not caring about stealth anymore.

Swinging open the door, Buffy quickly surveyed the scene before her. A little blond girl was standing over a huddled bloody mass of black . . . oh god. . .

Spike.

That bloodied mass of black was Spike.

Oh god.

Without another thought, Buffy ploughed into the fight raging around the little girl, knocking out one of the knights and hacking at another’s arm. Grim faced, scared and highly pissed, Buffy set about to free Spike from the warriors.

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The band was almost done with the first set when her phone went off. Glancing down at it, Tara thought about ignoring the call, but when the main house number flashed, followed by the number one, Tara quickly changed her mind. Motioning to Oz, she walked toward the bathrooms and flipped open the phone.

Dawn was crying, that much was clear, but nothing else made sense, until Tara filtered away the tears.

“Dawnie. We’ll be right there. Stay put.”

Turning back toward her companion, Tara sent up a quick plea to the heavens to keep everyone safe. Oz raised his eyebrow at her gentle yet urgent touch. “I have to go. Spike’s been hurt and Buffy’s had to go rescue him. Dawn’s alone. . . the knights are back.”

He didn’t say anything, just left his beer on the table and followed her out the door.


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Three more. Only six now surrounding the three of them. Buffy was afraid to look down, afraid to break her concentration. Afraid – because if she looked, she’d break.

Still here. Not dust.

Not dust.

Unaware she was muttering those words out loud, Buffy was surprised when Spike’s rescuer joined in. Flashing the blond girl a look, Buffy was taken aback when teary blue eyes gazed back at her.

Those eyes were kind of familiar, but Buffy had to fend off a blow aimed at the other girl’s head, nearly decapitating the knight. Jumping over Spike’s inert body, Buffy switched off with the girl, idly noting she fought left-handed, something she was used too.

Her world narrowed, all time for thought gone.

Hack. Lunge. Punch. Kick. Not dust. Punch. Slash. Not dust. Punch. Kick. Not. Slash. Dust. Hack. Not. Stab. Dust.

It was done.

The last knight was bleeding out on the floor. Buffy dropped the sword, crumpling to her knees, facing away from where his battered body lay inert. Blood was pooled everywhere, soaking into the knees of her pants. Stifling a sob, Buffy retched onto the floor, adding to the mess.

A hesitant call of her name brought her attention back to the forms behind her. “Buffy?”

She spun around, responding to her name from the unknown girl. “How do you know me?”

“I know lots of things. I’m Kirsten.”

Somehow that wasn’t a surprise.

There was a groan from the bundle of dark clothes, drawing Buffy’s attention away from the girl, kneeling at her side. “Spike . . . “

Scooting over to him, Buffy searched for an unbloody part of him to touch. “Spike. . . . Spike can you hear me?”

His hair was red, there was so much blood on him. His face was barely recognizable, swollen, battered, bruises all ready forming.

“Oh god. Spike.” Her hand covered her mouth, afraid to again to move. His legs were at odd angles, his lower right arm broken through the skin, the bone bare and exposed. . . this was as bad as Glory’s beating.

“Buffy. We need to get him out of here.” From her position on his other side Kirsten wiped away her own tears.

“Blanket . . . something to lift him. . . “ looking around Buffy spied a small gymnastics mat and was up dragging it over before Kirsten could move. “Help me lift him.”

Together they moved him without jolting him too much. Working remarkably well and in relative silence, the two moved toward the door, Spike’s prone body on the mat between them.

Emerging from the gym doors, Buffy was surprised to find Oz waiting for her instead of Casey. At her questioning look, he said, “sent him to your house. Dawn called Tara.”

As if that made sense Buffy just shrugged. Oz hopped up into the back of the van, grabbing one end of the mat, sliding it in. Buffy hopped up beside Spike, while Kirsten closed the doors.

Climbing in beside Oz, Kirsten said, ‘we should be safe at Buffy’s. Tara’s got stronger wards up now.”

Neither one of the adults thought her comment was strange.

Book Two, chapter 7 Fear itself



Fear makes us feel our humanity

Benjamin Disreali



A tragedy need not have blood and death: its enough . . .

that it all be filled with that majestic sadness that is the

pleasure of tragedy.

Jean Racine, Berenice, preface



I will not fear. Fear is the mind killer.

I will face my fear and I will let it pass through me

Frank Herbert, Dune







There was no sound in the van, except for the sounds of three people breathing. Buffy sat in the back, huddled next to Spike’s still form, trying to stop the bleeding. Tears were sliding down her cheeks, dropping onto his bruised face. He hadn’t made a sound since that groan in the gym, and his chest was still. She knew he wasn’t in danger of dying, but it didn’t help the fear gripping her insides, nor the hammering of her heart. Two different Buffy voices in her head were alternately screaming and chanting. Screaming in fear and grief and chanting in prayer and thanks. He’s not gone, still here, not dust and the other just a primal howl of grief echoing in her head, drowning out the soft chant of saner Buffy. Her tears were washing away the blood from his bruised features and she gingerly touched his battered cheek.



One eye flickered open, searching around for her. Settling his gaze on her, his eye closed again, and a soft growl sounding in the air between them. It wasn’t his usual strong, forceful growl, more the whimper of a lion in mortal pain. Closing her own eyes, Buffy reached a decision.



“Oz. Stop by the hospital.”



Without a glance back or any other acknowledgment that he’d heard her demand, Oz changed direction and headed for Sunnydale Memorial. He had a feeling he knew what she was going to the hospital for and he had thought of it himself, but hadn’t wanted to make the suggestion. The little girl sitting next to him jerked to attention, turning around to look at the older girl. “We need to get to safety.”



“He needs blood more. . . And I can’t set his legs or his arm. Someone has to do it.” Buffy wasn’t going to argue with her, not for any reason.



“They’re gonna tell you he’s dead.” Kirsten wouldn’t look away from Buffy.



“I know that. I can’t . . . “ Buffy wiped away some of the tears, smearing Spike’s blood across her cheek. “He needs someone to set his legs. And his arm . . . “



Oz spoke for the first time since getting in the van. “Want me to get one of the docs I know?”



“Yeah. That would be. . . one that knows you’re a werewolf?” Buffy shouldn’t have been surprised by this, but somehow it had never occurred to her that some of the people in Sunnydale had to be aware of what was going on in this town.



“Yup.” Pulling into a deserted part of the hospital, near the morgue entrance, Oz jumped down from his seat. “Right back.”



It wasn’t a long wait, not nearly what she’d expected, but it was long enough. Spike was groaning softly, his left hand clenching and unclenching. Buffy ran her hand over his face, wiping more of the blood away, soft little whimpers of sympathy filling her throat. She was rocking back and forth on her knees, her other fist against her mouth. Buffy was watching his face so closely and so intently that she was unaware of almost anything else. Their faces were inches apart, her breath rushing over his still features, one hand cupping his face. She didn’t feel it at first, the slight tug on her hair, but then it became insistent. Spike’s fingers were entangled in the ends of her hair, holding on tightly.



“Spike” she whispered to his face. “Spike, I need you to be okay. Please be okay.”



The van doors opened revealing Oz and some other guy, and a woman. Turning her blood and tear streaked face toward them, Buffy just looked closely, trying to decide if this was a good idea. The woman was all business, holding out a hand to Buffy, “lets get him out of there and inside.”



It took her a long moment to make a decision. She knew he needed more assistance than she could give him, but she wasn’t sure she trusted this woman. Looking at Oz once, Buffy raised an eyebrow.



Pretty sure he knew what was going on in her head, Oz stepped up into the van beside her. “Its cool. She knows all about this stuff.” When Buffy didn’t move, Oz gestured at her, “she’s my aunt Maureen.”



“Its okay, her son’s the one that bit me.” Buffy focused her attention on the woman, taking in her appearance, really looking at her.



“Must you Daniel?” His aunt made a face, clearly indicating she wasn’t happy with his blunt admission. “Let’s get him inside.”



Buffy held out a hand, to stop Oz, then pointed at the other man. “Who’s that?”



Maureen answered, “that’s Dr. Thomas. Ray Thomas. He’s going to work on your friend.” The doctor smiled, nodding at Buffy.



“He knows?” Buffy looked him up and down, taking his measure. Ray Thomas was fairly tall, with sandy blond hair and non-descript features, but he had a kind face with nice blue eyes that were currently looking at her over wire-thin framed glasses.



“Sure do. Let’s get him inside so I can work on him.”



“What about taking him home?” Buffy wasn’t willing to let him work just yet, still unsure of the strangers. Spike’s fingers tightened on her hair, a sure sign he was listening, or at least she hoped it was.



Doctor Thomas and Oz’ aunt exchanged glances. “He can’t stay here. He’s going to have to go with you when we’re done.”



Giving in, Buffy nodded her head, then moved to help Oz lift the end of the gym mat, while his aunt and the doctor held up their end. Kirsten got out of the front, coming round to help the two normal humans and between them, they got Spike inside the morgue entrance without any mishaps.





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Sometime after one in the morning, and forty-five minutes outside of Los Angeles, Wesley couldn’t go any further without pulling over. The gas gauge was on empty, and had been for close to five minutes, and the baby definitely needed something warmer than Angel’s jacket covering it. The infant was still sleeping, otherwise his already sharp nerves would be cut to the quick. There was a gas station within sight, thankfully one that was open 24-hours and Wesley had to take a chance.



It had to be far enough away from Angelus, though he was sure that one of the first places the vampire would look would be in Sunnydale, at least for the time being. Coasting into the gas station on fumes alone, the car finally came to a stop precisely where he’d aimed it, next to the petrol pumps. Breathing a sigh of relief at one thing going correctly, Wesley contemplated how to get himself and the baby inside without anyone being the wiser - and avoiding the surveillance cameras – which were no doubt monitored by Wolfram & Hart employees.



He believed it would be impossible to disguise his appearance right now, but he had to hide the baby at all costs. Switching off the engine, Wesley leaned over to lift the baby up in his arms. Poor little one, he thought, no parents, no one to love him.



Grabbing the jacket, Wesley discarded his first idea. The baby was small. Small enough to . . Thinking quickly, Wesley unbuttoned his shirt partially, tucking the boy inside, the tiny head resting against his belly. What had Angel said to call him?



Connor.



The baby’s name was Connor. Cradling him close, with his arm along the baby’s body, his hand cupping and supporting the wobbly head, Wesley figured this was the best he could do. Making quick work of re-buttoning his shirt, Wesley half zipped up his jacket. Connor settled in, reacting to the warmth of the body next to him. Gingerly getting out of the car, he made his way toward the mini-mart.



The kid at the counter ignored him as he entered, not even looking up. Walking down the aisles quickly, Wesley spied some necessary supplies. Diapers, formula, a small bottle and nipples, and in a burst of creative thinking, sanitary napkins, tee shirts and a few other things. Laying his purchases on the counter, Wesley said, “and a full tank.”



Just grunting his acknowledgment, the kid rang up the items and held out his hand for the payment. Without exchanging another word, Wesley left the mini-mart.



He filled the tank, his eyes constantly flicking around, watching the dark night for signs of pursuit. The stop hadn’t been more than twenty minutes, but the longer he stayed in one spot the more dangerous it was, at least until he got to Sunnydale. It was imperative he get there before sunrise, without having to stop again, and that was provided the baby cooperated. Wesley figured he’d get to Buffy’s in just over an hour.



More than enough time to ask for sanctuary.



Long enough to batten down the hatches and prepare for Angelus.



Lifting the nozzle back into the holder Wesley secured the gas tank and got into the car.





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Cordelia had run away from Angelus, muttering under her breath the whole time about stupid vampires and shaky souls.



She’d deliberately lagged behind, giving Wesley as much of a chance to escape as she dared. Gunn had grabbed Fred and headed in the opposite direction from her. At one point Lorne had kept up with her, but when they’d thought Angelus was behind them, they’d split up.



Cordelia had no illusions that she wasn’t on Angelus’ list of people to torment. She knew she was. And she knew why. Angel might not be willing to admit to his growing feelings and in light of Darla’s sacrifice leaving Angelus no one else to torture, she was it. He’d come for her first, then go after Buffy.



Creeping her way toward her own car, Cordelia thought about heading back to Sunnydale once she had transportation – figuring Wesley might head there. Cordelia decided it wasn’t a bad plan. Double checking that no one was around, Cordy ran to her car and screamed when big hands closed around her shoulders.





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His clothes had been cut from his body and in deference to Kirsten’s presence and at Buffy’s insistence they’d covered him with a sheet. Oz’ aunt had washed the blood away from his wounds and set up an IV drip of human blood into his left arm.



It was the only part of him that wasn’t in some way injured. The list was frightening in its length, fractured skull, broken jaw, compound fracture of his right arm, one broken femur and two broken shins, in addition to the long slice running the length of his torso from right nipple to hip, and various broken ribs, Spike was lucky he was already dead. As it was his injuries could still take weeks to heal.



But the IV drip was helping, because the smaller wounds were already closing, lighter bruises fading. Buffy stood by the Gurney, her hand clutching his good one, squeezing rhythmically.



There was nothing they could do for the fractured skull, but Dr. Thomas had re-aligned his jaw and then set his broken legs. “No point in proper casts, a couple of splints should keep him contained for the next forty-eight hours.”



Dr. Thomas had taken one look, giving Buffy an explanation of sorts, “once he has enough blood, he’ll start healing. He’ll still be healing faster than a normal human being, which means no casts because the legs weren’t so bad.”



All the while Dr. Thomas was speaking, Buffy stroked his hand, re-assuring herself that he was there, solid beneath her touch. His fingers tangled with hers weakly, tugging her closer. Spike inhaled deeply then, letting her scent wash over him. He couldn’t talk and his eyes were just slits due to all the swelling, but Buffy knew he was in there, knew he could hear her voice. “Spike, I’m here. Not leaving. Please be okay, please.”



She leaned down to say the words in his ear, her hand still holding onto his and when he turned toward her, new tears flooded her eyes. “Spike, I’m here.”



His eyes closed again, pain tightening his features as the doctor pulled the skin around his arm together. Using staples instead of stitches, the doctor made quick work of putting him back together.



A thump sounded by her feet, and Buffy turned to look at what caused the noise. Oz’ aunt had dropped a styrofoam cooler at her feet, packed with blood packages and a bag of bandages was in her outstretched hand. “You’re going to need all this.”



Straightening up, Buffy smiled tearily at the older woman, whispering “thanks.”



Transferring Spike back onto the gym mat, they headed out to the van, carrying him gingerly.





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Despite the lateness of the hour, every light was on at Revello Drive when Wesley pulled up at the curb. The baby had slept the entire trip, and was only stirring now, soft cries sounding in the car. Lifting Connor up to his shoulder, Wesley headed for the door and was surprised into dropping the bag when the door swung open before he got to the steps.



Tara and Dawn were standing at the door, watching him closely, staring intently at the bundle in his arms.



“Wesley?” Tara’s voice was quiet, but he heard her clearly.



“Its me. I need some help.” That was an understatement. He wasn’t quite sure what to do now. He’d gotten a diaper on the baby, and wrapped him in a tee shirt, keeping him warm.



“Is that a baby?” Dawn was staring at him, not taking her eyes off the two approaching.



“Yeah. Its Angel’s son.” Looking down at the baby in his arms, Wesley missed the startled looks the two girls shared.



“What?”



“That’s not possible!”



“Actually it is. Can I bring him in? I need to get him safe and” sniffing the air about the baby, “he needs a change and a bottle and to get warmer.”



Tara looked at him, accurately gauging his awkwardness and taking pity on the helpless Englishman, said, “c’mon in Wes, we’ll get him settled.” Stopping him at the doorway, Tara took the baby from his arms, motioning toward the car. “You might want to hide that in the garage and get his things.”



Dawn was peeking in at the tee shirt that was wrapped around the baby, cooing at him. “Oh he’s gorgeous. Look at him.”



With Dawn trailing behind her, Tara made her way into the kitchen, issuing instructions on the way. “Dawn, run upstairs and get some bath gel and some towels and . . . oh, start a pot of water boiling first.”



“Ahuh. Sure.” But Dawn stayed put while Tara slid the baby out of the tee shirt, watching as he reacted to being cold again. “Dawnie. I need you to do this.”



“Do what?” Wesley’s voice sounded from the hallway, his footsteps sounding loud in the quiet house.



Her gaze still on the wriggling infant in her arms, Tara listed once again the things she needed done before they could settle into explanations. “He’s cold and needs to be washed and fed and I need Dawnie to get me some things.”



“Right then. Do we need . . . what?” He placed the bag of supplies on the counter, a bemused smile settling on his features as he watched the two girls with the baby.



“Boiling water. Towels, some bath wash and dry diapers.”



“I can get the water going but not sure where to . . towels upstairs?” Moving about the kitchen, Wesley got the water going then looked toward Tara to see what else she needed, when it struck him what time it was and why they were all up and awake. “Tara? What’s going on? Where are Buffy and Spike?”



He was taken aback when Dawn looked up with tears in her eyes, and her face crumpled, as she tried to answer him.



“Spike got badly hurt when the knights tried to attack Dawnie. We don’t know . . . when she left him, to come get Buffy, he was still on his feet, but” and Tara stole a glance at the teenager at her side, “she’s been gone over two hours and there’s been no word.”



“Oh dear gods.” He slumped against the refrigerator, his posture defeated. “Oh dear god. Angelus is back.”



“What?” Both girls stared at him, the baby almost forgotten.



“Darla. . . staked herself, so that the baby could be born and Angel. . . I’m not entirely certain what happened, but Angel was holding the baby and . . . suddenly he wasn’t Angel anymore.” Wesley didn’t know what to do. He’d thought by bringing the baby here that there would be some sort of assistance from Buffy and Spike, but now, with their status unknown, “perhaps I should just get him fed and cleaned up and then head someplace safer.”



“Oh no you don’t.” Dawn looked over at him, Summers’ determined look on her suddenly very old features. “Nope. You and he are staying put. We don’t know anything. And Spike,” she fought a tear or two, “he’s tough, he’ll make it.”



Neither one of the adults wanted to contradict her.





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Loading Spike back into the van hadn’t taken long, and just like earlier, the trip was again conducted in silence. Dr. Thomas had given them the strongest drugs he could find, so that Spike wouldn’t move around while his bones were knitting. Buffy was most concerned about his jaw, because he couldn’t bite until it healed and she wasn’t going to wait around for it to heal before letting him drink from her. She’d not said it to anyone else, wouldn’t dream of sharing something like that with virtual strangers, but it was sitting there in her mind.



Oz murmured something that Buffy didn’t hear, wasn’t even paying attention too, but she heard Kirsten’s quiet response. “Your parents know where you are?”



“Um. Yeah. They know.”



In her tired and other-focused mind, Buffy didn’t think anything of Kirsten’s answer, turning back to Spike when a groan emerged from him.



“Right here, Spike, I’m right here.”



The van lurched, then swung around, slowing to a stop. Oz jumped out, his unnecessary announcement of “we’re here” sounding over his shoulder.



Buffy emerged from the van to find Wesley and Oz waiting to help her, with Kirsten and the other two girls hovering in the back behind the men. Tara had an armful of sleeping baby, and Dawn was crying again. None of it made any sense to her, and she wobbled a bit once she got her feet underneath her. Oz and Kirsten hopped up into the van, lifting one end of the mat while Wesley and Buffy handled the other.



She almost dropped her end of the mat, the emotional upheaval finally reaching her, and Buffy burst into fresh tears when Spike groaned at the disturbance. Handing the baby to Dawn, Tara grabbed the mat next to Buffy’s hands and motioned everyone toward the house.



“Let’s get inside. Everything can wait until we’ve all slept.”
 

Book two, chapter 8. Tomorrow’s questions

Dreams are toys.
Yet for this once, yea, superstitiously,
I will be squared by this.
A Winter’s Tale, act iii, scene iii

roving dreams –
over charred fields,
the wind’s sound
Onitsura, untitled haiku




Wesley and Oz had carried Spike upstairs to their bedroom while Buffy followed behind. Everyone was reeling, stunned from both events of the night, not a single one of them had gone unscathed, not even the newest one.

Putting Spike on the bed had taken a bit of skill, but the two men managed without her assistance. Buffy stood at the end of the bed watching him. Maureen Osborne had added morphine to Spike’s IV blood drip and right now he was blissfully numb. There was no guarantee how long that would last. They had no way of knowing how Spike’s body would absorb the painkillers.

In addition to the blood, there were three more IV bags of morphine, plus some medicines Spike could take orally once he was a bit better. All of it was now in the refrigerator, courtesy of Tara.

But Buffy almost didn’t care about that.

Buffy didn’t care why Wesley was here or why he’d brought a baby. She didn’t care how Kirsten had managed to hold off six knights alone, saving Spike or why she wasn’t worried about getting home . . .

She wasn’t concerned about any of it.

Her world had just narrowed. Had just collapsed on itself. Her rock, her strength, her unwavering support was on precarious legs. On broken legs. Her best friend and worst nightmare, her world since coming back was lying on her bed, broken, battered and more than dead.

Buffy didn’t move when Oz and Wesley walked past her, didn’t acknowledge either of them in anyway. Her eyes were fixed on Spike’s still form.

It took her long minutes to realize they were alone. Even longer for her to gather her courage, her wits and approach the bed. On soft feet she moved, slowly going forward. His head rested on his favorite pillow, the hospital sheet wound around him. Both legs were splinted and his right arm was loosely bandaged with a soft cast on it. Kneeling down on her side of the bed, almost bent double, her head resting close to his left shoulder, Buffy let the tears fall freely, her words washing over him.

“Need you so much. Was so scared when Dawnie came home. . . “ her hand brushed over his torso, resting lightly on his belly. “Can’t die on me Spike. I need you.”

Soft sobs whistled through her lips, “can’t do this alone. . . god Spike I need you so much.” Laying her head partially on his shoulder, Buffy whispered, “I want you to . . . need you to know. . . can’t do without you. . . My heart would break. . . be not fixable. . . don’t break me again.”

His left hand moved, inching toward the arm covering him. Holding on, Spike squeezed her wrist, his fingers digging into her skin. She leaned closer, brushing her lips against his shoulder. He swallowed noisily, kind of clearing his throat, then ground out in a bare whisper from behind clenched teeth, “love you. . . not going.”

Smiling through her tears, Buffy half heartedly hushed him. Resting her head against him, she kissed his shoulder again, then stretched out beside him, cuddling close.


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Tara sent the two teenagers to bed after Oz and Wesley came back downstairs, despite their protests otherwise.

The baby was sleeping again, in the middle of her bed surrounded by pillows. The doors between him and the first floor were all open, although Tara had set a simple ward around him to sound his cry louder throughout the house.

Oz was staying the night again, on the couch, while she and Wesley were going to share her bedroom with the baby. They just weren’t going to bed just yet.

Not that Tara didn’t need to sleep. It was closer to four than three and babies were notoriously light sleepers, needing to be fed at short intervals.

That wasn’t why they weren’t going to bed right away. No, not at all. She had to do a disinvite spell just in case – and – she also had to strengthen the wards around the house. And since Wesley was here, he could add his voice and talents to hers. Hell, she was prepared to use Oz – and she still might.

These wards she was about to set had to be the strongest she’d ever done – shields, wards, cloaking, no matter – anything she could think of to keep them all safe, until everyone was healed.

Grabbing her sage and athame, Tara went to get Wesley.


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Spinning around, Cordelia smashed her assailant in the face, realizing too late that it wasn’t Angel.

“Damnit. Look what you made me do.” Shaking her sore hand a few times, Cordelia resorted to kicking Gunn’s shins. “Why’d you do that?”

“I think he was tryin’ to keep a low profile.” Fred spoke up softly from the front of her car.

“Well it was stupid. Should’ve just called my name.”

Gunn had his hand to his nose, trying to stop the bleeding. “Packing a punch there. Don’t think I have to worry about you.”

“Why are you guys back here?”

“Charles thought we should get some supplies before we hide from Angelus. Is it really that bad?”

Huffing a bit, Cordelia fished around her pockets for the keys, “yeah. Its that bad.”

Holding up a hand, she stopped either of them from talking. “If I don’t know he can’t make me tell him. Just go. Keep your cell phones charged. We’ll keep in touch that way.”

Cordelia slid into her car, not watching to see their reactions. “Stay together as long as you can.” Nodding at Gunn, she waved a hand in Fred’s direction, “watch out for her.”

Motioning to the hotel, Cordelia said, “if you go in now, he’s probably not back yet, but be careful in any case.”

“Broke his leg, he ain’t moving anywhere fast. But I hear ya.” Gunn lowered his hand, wiping away the blood.

Exchanging a look with Fred, Cordelia repeated her earlier statement. “Be careful.”

Starting the ignition, Cordelia drove off, watching them in the rearview mirror.


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She hadn’t meant to fall asleep without cleaning up first. The blood on her clothes was mostly dried when she jerked awake, startled by an unfamiliar noise. She didn’t think she’d been asleep all that long, because it was still mostly dark out, and the morning birds hadn’t started singing yet.

Spike groaned, pulling her attention to him. “Uughh. Buffy. . . “

“I’m right here. Right here. . . . “ she brushed a hand over his face and he turned slightly toward her, a pained look on his features. “What do you need?”

A strangled sort of noise came from his throat and Buffy panicked until she realized his head needed elevating. Lifting him up as gently as possible, she arranged the pillows under his head better, getting him more comfortable, all the while muttering under her breath. “Gonna make sure you get better. . . get you back on your feet. Deal with all the other stuff later, when you feel better. Can’t . . not doing this again.”

Searching his face for signs of consciousness, Buffy stared down at his swollen face. “Can you swallow? Don’t have to bite me, but can you? Do you wanna try?”

His eyes opened up slightly, pain-filled and slightly unfocused, but the good sign was he was reacting to her voice and what she was saying. “If you take a little bit whenever you can. . . it should help right?”

She wasn’t pretending that he didn’t need her blood to heal. He needed it desperately. He needed it more than he needed painkillers or needed regular human blood. She couldn’t have him . . . didn’t want him lying flat on his back taking forever to heal because she was too squeamish to bleed for him. And maybe she was being selfish in wanting him back by her side, but she wasn’t ready to do this on her own. Might not ever be again.

Memories of heaven struck her at the oddest moments, no matter where she was or what she was doing, they just surfaced and she couldn’t stop them. Didn’t want to fight the memories. The closest she came to that feeling of safety, completeness and unconditional love were those moments spent in his arms sheltered from the rest of the world. Buffy didn’t want to lose that, didn’t want to trade that for anything. And she wasn’t going to.

Buffy got up from the bed, trying not to jostle him too much and reached down into her weapons bag, looking for one of her smaller knives. Rummaging about, Buffy listened for signs of distress from him giving any indication that he was uncomfortable in any way, but he was silent. His eyes were open though, mere slits in his swollen face, but Buffy could see that he was trying to follow her movements. Keeping up a running monologue about what she was doing, Buffy saw his muscles relax as he heard her voice.

Finding the knife she wanted, Buffy was back on the bed in mere moments, telling him, “gonna do this on my wrist, is that best?” Not waiting for a response that wasn’t going to come, Buffy kept talking, “yeah, this is best, just gonna have to make sure I cut deep enough to do this.”

Taking the knife in her hand, Buffy made a cut on the inside of her wrist, then waited. And waited. Sighing deeply and mentally berating herself, Buffy tried again. This time, she actually put some force behind the cut and managed to really break the skin. Laying her arm against his lips, Buffy snuggled next to Spike, her right arm around his head, her breasts against his ear. “C’mon Spike, swallow. . . c’mon take this.”

Weakly at first, he swallowed, letting too much of it trickle down his cheeks, but eventually after just a few moments, Spike managed to open up his mouth and he latched onto her arm. His left arm came up, his hand gripping her arm to hold her in place, his fingers curling around her wrist. He didn’t drink long, didn’t take much, but it didn’t matter. If he managed to take more every time, she would be able to gauge how well he was healing.

His tongue licked her wound, closing it off as his eyes drifted close. Those deep chest rumbles that she loved so much echoed through him, warming her up from the inside. For long minutes they stayed like that, his hand holding her arm against his mouth and her body almost curled around his head. Spike drifted back into sleep and she knew the moment he surrendered, because his fingers went lax and his head drifted to the side, facing her. Slowly she moved back away from him, reluctant to move to quickly in case her movements caused him discomfort. She needed to get clean. Blood and vomit was all over her and she felt decidedly dirty.

The water was blindingly hot, stinging needles against her battered muscles, soothing and numbing all at once. Buffy rested her head against the cool tile, wishing that it was Spike’s chest. The desperate fears she’d tried so hard to keep at bay were crowding her, swirling about in her head and heart. He’d almost been gone. He’d almost been dust.

She wasn’t ready for him to not be here. She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready for him not to be here. Dropping down to her knees, Buffy rocked herself, the tears falling from her eyes, mixing easily with the shower. Sobs broke through, wracking her, doubling her over in their intensity. God. . . oh god . . I wish he was here. . . he’d know what to do. .. He’d hold me and I wouldn’t feel so .. . lost . . . so alone. Spike. . . need you so much. . . don’t leave me.

She cried for so long that she had no more tears, no more fluid in her body to give toward the grief, and finally just in a moment of pure surrender, raised her head to the water and let it wash over her. His voice, that heady blend of aged whiskey, dark pleasure and pure sex sounded in her head, his words soothing her, his presence in the next room calling to her. “C’mon kitten, be right as rain soon enough, no worries, yeah? Get to your feet and come back to bed, need you.” It was so real in her head that she imagined he was standing behind her, urging her to get up, find her feet and come lay beside him. Obeying his voice in her head, Buffy took a deep breath and did just that.

Buffy barely dried off, wrapped another towel around her head and without getting dressed again, she climbed back into bed beside him. Laying her arm over him, Buffy kissed his shoulder once more then closed her eyes.


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Tara was curled up on one side of her bed, the tiny baby cuddled next to her, with Wesley on the other side of him. She was sleeping lightly, more than aware of the unfamiliar bodies in the bed next to her, unable to get completely comfortable because of it. The baby was on his belly, tucked into her side, her arm resting lightly over him, protecting him from the world. Wesley stirred beside her, his body jerking from tense muscles and over-wrought senses.

She shifted, trying to get more comfortable, the vague sense in the back of her mind that she was going to need this sleep, because come daylight, she was going to have to hold it together for everyone. Especially Buffy.

The look in the slayer’s eyes had been hard to miss, gauging how close she was to breaking down. Wesley’s news wasn’t going to help. Tara shifted once more, brushing a hand over the baby’s head when he also shifted. “Shhhhhh hush now” she murmured whisper soft. “Sleep little one.”

Closing her eyes again, Tara followed her own advice.


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It was raining, the soft sounds of pittering and pattering splatted and splooshed against the sides of the house; against the pavement. She was tired of rain, tired of being cooped up because of . . . rain. Looking out the window she peered down the long rainy street. Strong hands reached out to close the curtains, a low voice sounding against her ear and there was a very solid presence behind her.

“Not time yet, love. Too soon for them.”

“Don’t want to wait. Want them now.”

Those strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her close to the body behind her. Linking fingers together their hands rested just beneath her heart. “Be here soon enough, pet. Then we won’t have time to think.”

“Thinking’s not good.”

He chuckled then, his voice low and seductive in her ear, as he nipped it between each of his words. “Can’t exactly do anythin’ ‘bout that just now. Couple o’ days love, I’ll see to you proper, yeah?”

She smiled then, hugging him tightly to her.

“Promise?”

“Promise kitten.”

“Kay then.” Settling against him, Buffy rested her head on his shoulder, content to stay put.

His voice sounded again, this time clipped and controlled. “Need you to listen now pet. Gotta trust us – what we feel. Stronger together.”

Turning around to face him finally, Buffy was surprised to find him in game face.

“Mine you are as I am yours.” His features faded back to human, his voice continuing, “he’ll come for us – for the sprog. Oxford will help Dawnie, but we’ve gotta help him first.”

A frown appeared on his features then cleared again. “She’s ours too.”

Thunder sounded, crashing loudly all around them. “Shadows fallin’ now pet. Can’t get free. . . we need to stay inside.”

Her hand reached out to touch his face, his hand covering hers. “Gotta watch them. They’ll all be one of a kind.”

Thunder crashed around them, lights went out, flickered on, his face bathed in shadow, here, gone, game faced then not.

“Rest now kitten . . . battles yet ahead . . . Rest. . . rest. First ones ‘ill be here soon.”

He pulled her into his embrace, his arms linking around her, his kiss against her temple. “Yours princess, always.”

Buffy came to slowly, trying to remember all the details of her dream. Reaching for her dream journal, she flicked on the bedside lamp, then gasped when she saw Angel standing beside the bed in game face, his hands dripping blood.

She lunged up, and realized when she woke to half light, that all of it had been a dream – even that last part. Her heart was pounding, racing in her chest and she was gasping harshly for air. Spike groaned beside her, reacting to both her jerked movements and her elevated heart rate.

“Buffy. . . kitten?” His voice was a bare whisper but she reacted to it, turning to face him. His eyes were open, the swelling down visibly and though tired looking and pain-filled, his blue eyes were clear. Reaching out with his left hand, Spike wiped away the tears she wasn’t even aware of shedding. “Tell me.”

“Was a dream” clearing her throat, she continued, “a slayer dream.” Reaching for his face, she ran a gentle finger across his lips. “Give me a minute. I’ll tell you.”

Leaning over him, she kissed his face, saying nothing. She had no words for what she was feeling. Could only show him.

Too soon for his emotional liking she pulled away, but only far enough to get out her journal and pen. Sitting next to him, Buffy narrated the dream as best she could remember as she wrote it down.

When she was finished, the sun was just coming up and he was back asleep. Closing the journal, Buffy curled against him again, wondering if he’d heard the last bit, about Angel standing in their bedroom with blood on his hands.

It was a long time before she fully went back to sleep.

 

Book two, chapter 9. Don’t cry little sister

It is some relief to weep; grief is satisfied and carried off by tears.
Ovid

Tears are the safety valve of the heart when too much pressure is laid on it.
Albert Smith

Grief has limits, whereas apprehension has none.
For we grieve only for what we know has happened,
but we fear all that possibly may happen.
Pliny the Younger



It was ridiculously early to be up when she’d only had a couple hours of sleep, but she couldn’t stay that way. Nightmares kept waking her. Disturbing images of the aftermath of her first real date and Dawn couldn’t shake them. Images of Spike as he’d been when Buffy brought him home, others of Buffy coming home alone – shattered, beyond reaching, grief-stricken and bereft. Dawn remembered all too well what it was like in the days just after Buffy’s jump – could never forget them. The burning aching hole in her belly that got caught in her throat whenever she thought about it, it was back. It was what wouldn’t let her sleep, wasn’t allowing any rest. She wanted to vomit, she wanted to cry. . . . to scream, to yell at someone. . . she wanted to put her head against Spike’s chest and cry. Let him hold her. Tell her he was gonna be okay. That he didn’t blame her.

Not that it would help at all. This was all her fault. If she wasn’t the key, none of this, absofreakinglutely none of this would have happened. Except for Joyce dying and Riley leaving, everything else bad that had happened in the last year had been her fault. Because she was the Key. Not anyone else’s fault. Hers.

It was all her fault. Glory beating on Spike, Tara’s getting her brain sucked, Buffy . . . jumping. And now this. Dawn stared up at her ceiling, Kirsten sleeping quietly beside her and wondered what her purpose was. Am I just gonna destroy everything and everyone . . . . piece by piece, one at a time? Why am I here if that’s all I’m good for?

Tears welled up in her eyes. The house was quiet, too quiet for a house with so many people here at once.

Getting up, Dawn looked at her companion. How she had gotten involved in this Dawn had no idea, but every time something weird or bad happened at school, Kirsten was around. Which kind of set off slayer-type alarms.

I’ll just be Scarlet and think about that tomorrow. One last look at the other girl and then Dawn was out of her room and opening the door to Buffy and Spike’s room before she realized it.

Opening the door to their room just wide enough to slip through, Dawn gently closed the door behind her. Neither of the figures on the bed moved, but then again, she hadn’t expected either of them to. Spike was flat on his back, his right arm resting on a small pillow, his head leaning to his left, close to her sister. Buffy was curled up next to him, wrapped up in a big bath towel and nothing else. Her towel-wrapped head was nearly resting on Spike’s uninjured left shoulder. Their left hands were clasped together, laying across his belly, Buffy’s smaller hand nearly swallowed up under Spike’s larger one.

Just looking at their hands made the lump in her throat travel. She wished she was a little kid, then it wouldn’t be freaky if she climbed into bed with them. Part of her wished the monks had made her smaller – little enough to enjoy being theirs. Climbing into bed would give her some reassurance, something she desperately needed, especially from Spike.

Dawn stood at the foot of the bed, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, uncertain about what to do. Should I go? Leave them alone? Don’t want to do that. Just want to stay. It was only when she shifted that she realized she was crying, probably had been since she’d walked in and seen them both.

Giving in to her sudden need to touch them both, Dawn crept closer to the bed. They looked so . . . . despite the bruises and bandages, they looked cute . . . no. Not cute. Right. They looked right together. And cold.

Taking the light comforter that was folded up at the foot of the bed, Dawn spread it over them. Her hand covered their entwined fingers, nearly jerking away when Spike’s hand twitched. He didn’t wake up, though, which almost disappointed her.

She needed to see his eyes, needed to see that sparkle he had, just to reassure herself he was still with them. Dawn’s hand hovered over theirs. She was torn between touching and not touching. Unable to stand it any longer, Dawn laid her hand gently over theirs. Spike’s usual coolness was replaced with a slight warmth, definitely borrowed from Buffy but instead of bothering her, it gave her some comfort.

Without much conscious thought, Dawn walked around to the opposite side of the bed, coming round to where Buffy was curled up against him. Kneeling beside her, Dawn couldn’t resist any longer. The tears were clogging her nose and streaming down her cheeks. She slipped down behind her sister. Silent sobs wracked her and she curled into Buffy’s smaller body.

It was barely eight in the morning - the sun already begun its ascent into the sky when Dawn laid down beside them and barely a half hour passed before Spike stirred. She wasn’t asleep, was in that sort of in-between state, just sort of numb. His low groan caught her attention and she could feel him shifting and stretching from her position. Buffy automatically adjusted, her answering murmur a soft exhalation of sound. Spike inhaled loudly, Buffy’s name escaping from him. Dawn smiled, listening to the two of them shift and stir, instinctively reaching out for the other. Buffy’s arm moved and she shifted closer to Spike.

Dawn felt like she was . . . not intruding, but getting a glimpse into how things really were between them. Buffy stirred again and Dawn nearly jumped out of her skin when Spike ground out, “mornin’ Niblet. You okay?”

A half sobbing laugh sounded from her throat. “I’m fine. . . you. . how’re you feeling?”

“Truck run over me.”

“Oh god Spike, I was so scared. I thought. . . “

“Not going like that. Not now. Not ever.”

“Dawnie. . . . let him sleep.” Buffy’s sleepy voice sounded between them. Taking away the sting of her words, Buffy disengaged her hand from Spike’s and reached around to touch Dawn. She grabbed her sister’s wrist and with an indrawn breath Buffy pulled away quickly. Dawn grabbed her again, this time lifting her hand up to look at her wrist.

“You should put a band-aid on these.” Then after a second, she asked, “would mine help? Being the Key? Would it be better than regular human?”

Buffy sat up slowly, trying not to jostle Spike who was listening to their quiet conversation. “I don’t know Dawnie. Not sure what your blood would do. We know mine is best.” Now a bit more awake, Buffy unwrapped the towel from her hair, facing her sister. “You aren’t wigged . . . how come?”

“Its not that big a deal is it? Spike needs it. You’ve got it.” Thinking about it Dawn continued, “Xander would wig big time. Tara not so much and Giles?” She shrugged. “Do what you think is best Buffy. Not my decision. But I wanna help.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to just blurt it out and tell them both what she’d found out – but no one knew she even had the journals, much less read them. She couldn’t tell them like this. So she bit the inside of her cheek to remind herself of that.

“Oh Dawnie. . . maybe when he’s a bit. . . “

“No. Not biting you Nib. Not now. No.” Spike wasn’t going to argue it not now, but he’d explain later. . . maybe.

Dawn sat up, insulted and hurt. “Gee Spike make me feel wanted.”

Guessing what was in Spike’s head – about crossing a line with her sister and creating a need for a vampire’s touch within Dawn, Buffy had to agree with him. “Dawnie, let’s talk about this later okay?”

“Love you Nib, don’ wan’ t’ hurt you.” He waited a bit, then repeated himself. “Love you.”

Dawn’s face crumpled, her sobs shaking her shoulders. Buffy looked down at Spike, seeing his barely opened eyes looking back at her, a wealth of understanding in their unspoken communication. Turning to her sister, Buffy pulled her into her arms and let her cry.

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


Dawn was still the only one awake when Giles called to check in and report on his progress or lack thereof. He knew immediately that something was wrong just by the way she’d hesitated before telling him that Buffy was still asleep.

“Tell me Dawn. Don’t leave anything out.”

And she didn’t, spilling it out for him in horrifyingly minute detail without her usual girlish side commentary. Which also told him how bad it truly was.

There was absolute silence when she’d finished, then, “I have to stay at least a few more days Dawn. There are things I must see to. But I won’t waste time. When Buffy wakes tell her I’ll be back as soon as possible. I’ll call back at,” and she could hear him fumbling for a watch, “three your time.”

‘Okay Giles. I’ll make sure she’s awake.”

“Dawn?”

“Yeah?”

“Spike is tough. He’ll pull through this.”

Tears clogged her throat and all she could manage was an “ahuh.”

“Dawn. He’s a vampire. Takes more than what happened to kill him.” Didn’t stop her from feeling guilty about what happened.

She whispered back, “I know.”

“Take care Dawn. Speak with you in a few hours.”

Giles disconnected the call and mentally re-arranged his itinerary and his priorities for the rest of this trip. Changing his mind, Giles tapped on the driver’s shoulder, directing him to the Council’s headquarters instead of going back to his hotel. No time to waste unwinding and spending a lazy Sunday afternoon doing nothing until the morning before resuming his research. He was needed back home.


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


After hanging up with Giles, Dawn grabbed some cereal and headed for the living room – stopping short when she spied Oz’ sleeping form. What, is everyone sleeping here now?

Wrinkling her nose, she turned around and walked right into Wesley. His hands reached out to steady her and Dawn hid the squeal of-my-god-its-him that was threatening, instead she settled for the squeal-of-startled-surprise. “Wes!”

“Sorry Dawn. Phone woke me.” He turned back toward the kitchen. “Need some coffee. Any here?”

“Yeah its all set up. Tara usually does it before she goes to bed.” Flipping the switch, Dawn smiled at him. “How did you sleep?”

Looking at his disheveled state and the two day stubble gracing his features, Dawn figured it was a stupid question, but she couldn’t think of anything smart and intelligent to say to him. He usually did that to her, made her all tongue-tied and feeling very foolish and very, very young.

“Actually, all things considered, I slept fairly well. Just not long enough.” He searched around for a coffee mug, his gaze averted, which gave Dawn ample time to just stare at him, and asked her “and you?”

“Huh? Oh. Um. . . okay I guess. Kinda worried about Spike.” She hid her blush when he turned around to look at her by dipping her head down and focusing on her cereal. But Wesley caught her pink cheeks and ducked his own head. He’d never been the focus of a teenaged crush and he had no idea how to react or even if he should. He liked Dawn, she was a cute little . . . looking at her intently, Wesley realized she wasn’t a little girl anymore, wasn’t nearly the same little girl he falsely remembered from a few years back. She was at that age when men his age got into serious difficulties by looking. And it was worse because Dawn was growing into his type of woman. . . . tall, smart and beautiful. Wesley realized he was going to have to be very careful around Dawn. Very careful indeed. Temptation was not something he wanted right now. And god knows what Spike would do to him if he ever found out.

“He’s going to be fine, Dawnie.” Tara’s voice came from the basement doorway, a mewling baby held in her embrace. “We’re going to make sure he’s fine.”

Turning a grateful glance at the older girl, Dawn motioned for the baby and when she had him in her arms, began cooing at him. “We need to get lots of supplies while the sun is up.”

Wesley looked down at himself, noting his days old clothing and the need to be clean gripped him. “Both the baby and I are going to need things. I don’t know where else to go with him.”

Bottle and formula in hand, Tara stopped what she was doing to look at Wesley. “You did the right thing by coming here. If Angelus is back we have to stay together. All of us.”

Without looking up from the baby, Dawn said, “this time we need to just stake his sorry ass and not worry about re-souling him.”

Neither one of the adults had an argument against that statement.


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


Every inch of him was in pain. He ached all over, with parts that were throbbing in screaming counterpoint. The morphine was wearing off and he was reluctantly waking up. Sleep would be easier. His head was a mass of pain, sharp, spine-bending, ice-hot shards of shrieking pain in his head. Groans of complaint fought for release in his throat and he tried vainly to suppress them. Brief flashes of last night’s events circulated in his head, moments only, mere blurbs, a punch, a kick. No more than that. Later flashes, strange voices, different hands on him and much later, Buffy’s touch, her kisses and the sweet taste of her blood.

A soft groan sounded and she was instantly awake. “Spike?”

Her head lifted away from his shoulder, a light touch against his skin. “Kit . . kitten.”

“Shhhh. I’m right here. Gonna take care of you. Want some pain killers? Need blood?”

He blinked, focusing on her, his eyes shifting to look at her, “yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back with the painkillers.” She slipped on one of his tee shirts, and a pair of shorts, nearly flying out the door.

Spike closed his eyes, straining his ears to hear what was going on. The girl’s voices were easy to pick out, but there was a deeper voice, that he didn’t recognize at first, but then he heard a phrase and knew it was Oxford. Not catching the implications of that, Spike was glad someone else was around to help the girls.

He must have drifted, because Buffy was shaking him awake, a morphine bag and a straw in one hand. “I’m not sure how much to give you. I don’t know how much they gave you last night. I . . “ her voice broke and she wiped away a tear.

His left hand lifted to cup her cheek. “Half” he managed to croak out.

She let her cheek rest there for a bit, just grateful he was awake and still with her. Her eyes watched him, drinking in his presence. Finally she lifted her eyes to meet his, a soft smile on her face. “So glad you’re here.”

His eyes sparked, glittering in their intensity. “Love you.”

As an answer she kissed his palm, then reluctantly broke away from his touch. “So drugs or me first?”

A chest deep growl sounded from him and Buffy suppressed her smile. “Drugs. Best last pet.”

“Thought you would say that.”

Poking a hole in one end of the bag, Buffy stuck the straw into it, offering it to him. Memories of him chained in the bathtub came back to them both, and Buffy giggled, saying ”no teasing this time. I promise.” Then growing serious, “I want you to be able to bite me.”

The look in his eyes spoke volumes and Buffy’s heart beat picked up. When he was better. . . oh yeah. She thought about the two other times he’d bitten her, feeling her whole body flush.

Lost in each other’s eyes, they didn’t realize he’d practically inhaled just under half the bag in record time. “Okay Spike. . . ready for some extra special Buffy goodness?”

His smile was much more of a grimace, but his whispered “please” sent shock waves through her whole body.

Buffy froze for a moment, wishing he could act on the promise implicit in his husky whisper. She needed to show him. . . to prove to him and herself that this wasn’t one sided. . . that she cared about him. . . that he was in her heart.

Resting against him, Buffy kissed his shoulder, her right arm beneath her. Raising her left wrist to his mouth, Buffy asked him, “do you wanna try biting or should I do like earlier?”

“I’ll try.” Opening his mouth, Spike kissed her, at the spots marking where he’d drunk earlier. His tongue came out, little licks running over her skin, just tasting her. Spike closed his eyes, his tongue tip playing over the flesh of her wrist. Buffy’s breath hitched and she fought a tiny gasp as he slowly, gently bit down, pulling at her skin.

Her heartbeat double raced, pounding against her ribs. He tugged on the skin just above her biggest vein as his tongue circled on that tiny bit of flesh. Her blood pulsed beneath the healing cuts, leaping toward his mouth, aching to be part of him.

Buffy’s eyes drifted closed her senses narrowed on that tiny strip of flesh inside his mouth. His left hand dropped, no longer holding her arm against him. He fisted his hand, his knuckle rubbing against her mound. In response she writhed, seeking any contact with his body. His face shifted, his canines elongated once the overpowering scent of her arousal filled him and she lifted her hips, Spike gently, slowly sunk his teeth inside her flesh. Her gasp of pleasure echoed loudly in his ears, “Spike. . . oh. . . “ her breath was hitching, trying to get in enough air to whimper his name.

He drank slowly, not wasting a drop, as she curled closer into his side. The morphine kicked in and his muscles relaxed, his face shifting back to human. Buffy rested her head against the side of his face, brushing small kisses on his skin. Long before she thought he was finished, Spike licked the cuts, closing them off. “Thank you kitten.”

Drawing in a deep breath, he rested his left hand down alongside hers, both of them across his belly. Contented gurgles rumbled in his belly and Spike sighed. Buffy stirred beside him, entwining their fingers together. She whispered something against his bare shoulder, sounding suspiciously like ‘sleep now’ and he drifted off in a jumble of thoughts filled with Buffy and home.


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


The first thing they decided was rather than scramble about for whatever they could remember they needed, was that they needed to be working from a list. Wesley was at a loss about what they needed for a newborn, but Tara proved to be a wealth of information, apparently from first hand expertise. Wesley was acting as scribe, writing down everything Tara said to, while Dawn fed the baby.

When Buffy had come down the stairs earlier to get supplies for Spike, she’d just stared at the baby, muttering “thought I imagined that last night.”

A hasty explanation from Wesley had brought her somewhat up to speed, but Buffy had shaken her head, unable to focus on what might be coming until Spike was at least sitting up. Instead she had gazed up at Wesley, noting his tired eyes and almost defeated stance, saying, “not worried about him right now. Its daylight and he can’t travel between here and there.”

Turning to Tara, Buffy asked, “can you do a disinvite?” Then thinking again, “we’re gonna need weapons from Giles’. Can you guys pick those up also? And anything else we might need from the Magic Box.”

Exchanging looks, Tara and Wesley both answered at the same time, “we can do the disinvite,” then Tara continued, “we’re gong to have to split up. This way we aren’t going to be caught out after dark. Its already after two.”

Buffy looked up at the clock, disbelief on her face. “Is it?”

Dawn picked up her head, looking at her sister for the first time since she came downstairs. It was clear Buffy had been crying and she looked like she hadn’t slept well at all. “Buffy? How is he?”

A deep sigh sounded in the air, and Buffy tried to control the tears that were threatening, saying, “he’s awake and most of the cuts have healed. I’m not sure about anything else. He is talking, so I guess his jaw is healing too. Hard to tell right now.”

Her sister relaxed but not enough, Dawn’s body was still tense, and her worry was clearly evident. “Can I see him again?”

“Maybe later Dawnie, okay?” Buffy grabbed a straw, then headed back toward the stairs, her voice trailing behind her, “let me know when you guys leave.”

Once Buffy was back upstairs, the other three pointed shared looks. Neither of the two adults had said anything about re-doing the disinvite, but then again, Buffy hadn’t waited for a response. Tara was the first to recover, going over the list Wesley had been writing, asking him to add all the things Buffy had mentioned, plus whatever else she was going to need for healing and warding.

Dawn was still cuddling the baby close and as he started falling asleep, she asked, “who’s going to take the baby?”


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


She wasn’t asleep, not really, just in a sort of fugue state, where she wasn’t really awake. Spike was breathing beside her, his chest rising and falling in time with hers, but he was deep asleep. Right after he’d done so, Buffy had checked his right leg, which hadn’t been broken badly, just a fracture and the swelling was all gone, the bruising subsided from the livid dark purple nearly black they had been to a less intense purple-bluish color. It was a good sign.

He’d been able to talk a bit also, another good sign. She was mostly worried about his right arm, since that was the one that had broken through his skin. Right now it was propped up on a pillow, but she was afraid to unwrap the bandages to look at it. It had stopped seeping blood earlier while they slept the first time, and she wasn’t looking forward to changing those bandages. He was mostly clean, though they hadn’t washed his hair, Oz’ aunt Maureen had made sure the blood was cleaned up from his body after the doctor had patched him up. Getting his hair clean would have to wait until he could get into the shower, which wasn’t going to be at least until sometime tomorrow.

Their hands were still entwined, resting across his belly, which was free of bruises now. Buffy was watching the dust motes dance across the room, the late afternoon sunlight hitting her mirror, causing cross beams of indirect light, the only illumination in their room. The idle thought crossed her mind that she was going to have to redecorate, adding dark drapes, so that Spike wouldn’t get hit by stray beams of sunlight. This was their bedroom now, it was only right that he be able to enter it without worrying about bursting into flame issues.

Buffy was mulling over ideas, not really thinking seriously about anything, in a half droused state, when there was a soft knock on the door.

“Buffy?” Tara’s voice sounded from behind the closed wood and at her sleepy muffled answer, the older girl opened the door. “How’s he doing?”

“Sleeping now.” Placing a kiss on his shoulder, Buffy loosened their hands and rolled over to face Tara. “What’s up?”

“Well. . . “ Tara started fiddling with the sleeves of her blouse, a sure sign she was hesitant about what she was about to say. Taking pity on her, Buffy said, “tell me.”

“We can’t take the baby when we go out. He’s got no clothes and we can’t spare the hands.” She wouldn’t look at Buffy’s face, afraid the Slayer would be angry.

Instead, Buffy just sighed, “bring him in here. He can stay with us.”

“You sure?”

“Tara, you guys need to do lots of stuff, having to carry him around is just gonna slow you down. Bring him in here.” Making a face, she continued, “think I can take care of both of them?”

That comment elicited a soft giggle from the taller girl. “Shouldn’t be too hard. He’s sleeping most of the time and we just fed him. He’ll be good for a couple of hours.”

“Okay.” Then she laughed sadly. “Sounds like both of them.”

Spike stirred, a groan passing through his lips and Buffy focused her attention back to him. He didn’t wake, though, and she motioned Tara to go get the baby and bring him back.

 

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