Title: Enemy Incognito

Author: Wynn

E-mail: effulgent_sun@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel. They are owned by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Twentieth Century Fox, UPN, the WB, etc.

AN: This chapter’s a bit shorter than usual, but its action packed. I hope everyone enjoys. Feedback is a wonderful thing, so please leave some.

Chapter Thirty-Six: When It Rains, It Pours

By: Wynn

The clang of the steel bars echoed through the empty, antiseptic tinged house, ringing in Willow’s ears with a finality that sent shivers of foreboding along her spine. The air surrounding the bars and the house tingled with traces of magic. They were trapped, both physically and magically. Wesley was telling the truth in that Lilah and the rest had been waiting for them to arrive. But it hadn’t been to keep them out of the house and to keep them away from any potentially incriminating evidence. It had been to lock them in their own personal prison and then kill them.

“Shit.” Buffy moved over to the bar covered window, peeking through the steel, wood, and dirty glass at Mulholland Drive. “We’ve got company.”

“How many?” Spike asked.

“I can’t tell. It’s too dark. Fifteen, twenty. Maybe more.” She swore again, pushing away from the window to pace the front foyer of the house. “We’re just sitting ducks in here. Spike, Giles, find the others. See if there’s a way out of this place.”

Spike nodded, blue eyes locked on Buffy. “Stay safe.”

“I will.”

He nodded again, gaze darting briefly to Willow before he turned and walked down the hall with Giles. Willow watched the two disappear around the corner. Turning to Buffy, she said, “They used magic on the house. On the bars. I think I can break it and get us out of here.”

Buffy remained silent as she stared at Willow, teeth gently worrying her bottom lip. She glanced at the bars then back at Willow and said, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s a pretty powerful spell, but I think I can get around it.”

“We could wait. See if there’s another way out-”

Sounds of fighting cut off Buffy’s hesitant reply. Willow turned towards the back half of the house, her eyes widening as Spike and an unknown man came crashing down the hall. As he jumped to his feet, Spike dodged a blow from the man and said, “They’re coming in from the back, luv. Trying to pin us in one corner of the house. Make us easy pickings.”

Willow took a step towards Buffy and laid a hand on her arm. “I can do this, Buffy.”

A few seconds passed as Buffy gazed at Willow, hazel eyes searching her face. Sighing softly, Buffy nodded and said, “Go work your mojo.” She squeezed Willow’s hand before moving down the hall to join the fight.

Willow drew in a deep breath and faced the steel covered front door. “Work my mojo,” she said softly as she closed her eyes, opening her consciousness to the primal energy suffusing the world. Her breathing increased as the magic flowed through her, lighting her from within with an ancient, feral fire. She reached out with her hand, palm tingling from the energy waves enveloping the front door. The magic pushed against her, and she trembled as she drew strength from the earth, focusing it through her veins, muscles, and bones, and directing it at the door. Her physical senses deadened, the sounds of combat, of raised voices and dull blows, vanishing from her awareness, as her mind opened to higher planes of existence. Body trembling, Willow’s eyes flew open, revealing inky black irises. Her hand latched onto one of the bars, and the house shook from the battle of magicks. A raw scream was torn from her throat as the front wall exploded out, ripping away from her hand and the brick house, sending loose plaster, wood, and bricks tumbling down onto her.
 

* * *

They came in from the back, striking the same time the house flooded with brilliant white light. Before anyone could attack, they threw Xander against the wall, his head connecting roughly with the concrete and plaster, body crumpling into unconsciousness. Dark eyes narrowing at the trickle of blood sliding across Xander’s forehead, Faith turned towards the men and launched into battle.

From the corners of her eyes, she could see Angel and Cordelia fighting, barely holding their own against the ever increasing forces. Faith grunted as her opponent’s fist smashed into her stomach, followed by a blow to her temple. She reeled back, slamming against the wall and bouncing off the pristine plaster. She aimed a kick for the burly man’s head, and her boot connected with his face, sending him stumbling back against another man. As the two fell to the floor, Faith spun and blocked a kick from a third man, latching onto his foot and throwing him across the room, where he landed before Spike and Giles.

“Where’s B?”

Giles dodged a punch from the third man, who stumbled into Spike, sending both sailing down the hallway towards the front of the house. “With Willow trying to create a way out.”

“We trapped in here?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so.”

As Giles fought against another attacker, Faith spun and faced the two men who had untangled themselves and stood from the floor. The one on the right was tall, stretching over six feet, with broad shoulders and thick biceps. The second was shorter and stockier with a bruise decorating his face from her kick. They glanced at each other and then at Faith. Her eyes darted between the two men as she shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for them to make their move against her. The tall one charged, catching Faith around the middle. She groaned as she collided with the wall, the back of her head smacking against the concrete, bursts of black coloring her vision. Large calloused hands pinned her against the wall, bruising strength digging into her arms, and she panicked as memories from her past came rushing back to her. Reacting on instinct, Faith screamed and kicked again, her foot slamming into her attacker’s stomach. He flew across the room and crashed into a steel covered window, falling to the floor. Breathing erratic, Faith blinked a few times, trying to clear her cloudy vision. She stiffened as she felt the cold steel of a gun pressed against her temple. Out of the corners of her eyes, she saw the short, stocky man standing beside her, gun grasped tightly in his hand.

“Time’s up, Slayer.”

Faith winced as the click of the hammer echoed in her ears. So this was it. Taken out by a thug with a gun. The end of Faith contained in one tiny metal bullet. Wesley must have been real serious about wanting that celebratory bottle of champagne if he allowed the use of firearms in this game he was playing. She couldn’t blame him though, not after all she had done to him.

She jumped as a dark blur streaked past her, tackling the stocky man, sending his gunshot high above her head. Plaster rained down on Faith as she turned and looked at her savior.

It was Wesley.

She struggled to her feet as the two men grappled on the floor. Wesley ripped the gun out of the man’s hands and smashed the butt against his temple twice, knocking him unconscious. Shoving the gun into the waistband of his jeans, Wesley stood and walked over to Faith, tilting her chin in the air as he inspected her face. His fingers traveled to the back of her head, and she winced as they brushed against the knot formed by her close encounter with the wall.

“Quite a knot there,” he murmured, azure eyes intent on her face. “I suspect you’ll have a concussion. How-”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Faith asked as she jerked her head out of his hands.

“Saving your ass apparently.”

“I-” The house shook, windows and steel rattling against each other. The floorboards shifted and Faith stumbled as the world swayed around her. Wesley reached out, his hands grasping her arms, holding her upright as the tremors died around them. His hands were warm on her arms; his palms were rough with scars and calluses. Faith broke contact between them and took a few steps backward, her dark eyes large and wary and locked on Wesley. “What are you doing here?” she asked her voice hard in her mind but soft in her mouth.

“Saving you,” he said. Wesley opened his mouth to speak again but was cut off as he was slammed against the wall by Angel. Wrapping one of his hands around Wesley’s throat, Angel said, “Wesley. So nice of you to show. I think I’ll kill you now.”
 

* * *

Stepping around the broken glass, Connor moved over to Dawn. Blood oozed down her face from a gash across her cheek, and shallow cuts lined her bare arms from the explosion of the dining room windows.

“Are you alright?”

Blue eyes wide with fear and shock, Dawn nodded. She sucked in a shaky breath, and her gaze flickered over his shoulder. Connor spun and punched the man behind him. As he sunk to the floor, Connor looked at the smashed front door; more men streamed into the house, half of them entering the living room, fighting against Gunn, Lorne, Fred, and Clem, while the other half moved into the dining room, eyes trained on himself and Dawn. Connor eased Dawn behind him, backing her in one corner of room, as he faced off against the four men spreading throughout the room.

Four on one. Connor smirked. They really had no clue who they were dealing with. If they had, they would have sent more men.

Connor shot forward, grabbing one of the chairs circling the oak dining table and hurling it towards the man on his right. The chair collided with the man, eliciting a harsh moan and causing him to stagger into the wall. Connor stepped back as a second man moved forward, his attention drawn to the advancing attacker. He hissed in pain as the oak table slammed into him, forcing him to his knees as the wood collapsed around him. Connor heard Dawn scream again as he shoved the table pieces off him, and he jumped to his feet as a bruised and bloodied man with shackles attached to his wrists punched Dawn in the face. As she crumpled onto the floor, Connor felt a slight prick in his neck. He swung his arm, knocking one of the four men to the ground, the hypodermic needle sticking in his neck clattering to the floor.

“Good work, boys,” the beaten man said. As the room began to spin around him, Connor recalled what the others had said this man’s name was. Tyler. He fell to his knees again as the man continued, “Grab the girl and the kid and get them out of here. Boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” That was the last Connor heard before he slipped into unconsciousness.
 

* * *

“Willow!” Buffy sprinted down the hall, boots skidding along the dirty floor as she slid to a stop beside the rubble covering Willow. Her gaze briefly flickered to the missing wall and she shook her head before she re-focused on Willow. It had been too much too soon. No one knew what Willow was capable of, if she could control her power or if the magic still controlled her. One simple healing spell did not signify a complete recovery from the misuse of magic. Buffy shouldn’t have let her try to break the spell. They would have found another way out of the house.

Heart racing, Buffy clawed at the rubble, pushing it off the prone form of her best friend. Willow coughed as billowing clouds of dirt and dust formed in the air, and she shook her head to clear off the fine layer of paint and plaster that clung to her skin. She looked at the jagged edges of the ceiling that formerly attached the front wall to the house, and a faint smile tugged at her lips as she said, “Willow, one. House, nothing.”

Giggling in relief, Buffy said, “Mere steel and bricks are no match for the mighty Willow.”

“No, but I think the dust is.” Coughing again, Willow stood, leaning on Buffy as the rubble shifted beneath her feet. “Killer dust clouds are more evil than pollen. But at least we have a way out.”

“Yes. We do have a way out.” Buffy glanced out of the house towards Mulholland Drive. A man was sprinting up the gravel path stretching from the sidewalk to the area formerly known as the porch, and Buffy’s eyes widened as she recognized the rapidly approaching figure. Tall, burly, long red hair. Charles. Emilia’s business partner and co-owner of the Bronze.

Opening her mouth to speak, Buffy froze as she saw the gun clutched in his hand. He lifted his arm and pointed the gun at her and Willow.

“Get down,” he said, his voice rough and husky.

Grabbing Willow, Buffy dove to the side as the gunshot exploded through the air. Sliding across the ground, Buffy rolled to her feet, eyes darting between Charles and the prone figure of the man who had been silently approaching her and Willow. A curved dagger lay beside his slack hand. She hadn’t sensed him. If Charles hadn’t been there, the man could have killed her. But why was he here?

Turning to Charles, Buffy said, “Who are you?”

Climbing into the house, he extended a hand down to Willow, helping her to her feet once more. He glanced at Buffy, the timbre of his voice changing from a low huskiness to a softer refined British accent as he said, “My name is Samuel. Charles Samuel.”
 

* * *

“What did you do?” Anya grabbed Emilia and shoved her against the refrigerator. Fighting raged in the other rooms of the Summers house, but none of the action had extended back into the kitchen. Anya knew the fighting was associated with the moving shadows she had seen through the kitchen window, and she knew all of this was connected in some way to Emilia and her mysterious phone conversation. Body tense with anger, Anya leaned into Emilia, her golden brown eyes hard and shining with rage. “Who did you call?”

Violet eyes wide, Emilia swallowed. She looked from Anya to the closed kitchen door. Her body shook with soft trembles. “I…”

“What did you do?!” Anya slammed her hand against the refrigerator, inches away from Emilia’s head. They had trusted her. Giles had trusted her. And she betrayed them. Voice steely, Anya said, “I heard you on your phone. Talking about how Faith and Giles and Buffy left twenty minutes ago. Who were you talking to?”

“I…”

“Answer me!”

Her lavender eyes locked on the kitchen door, the color drained from Emilia’s face as she whispered, “Get out of the house.”

“No. Not until you tell me what-”

‘Get out of the house! NOW!’

Anya cringed at Emilia’s psychic cry, pain shooting through her as the Elf’s voice pierced her mind. Locking eyes with the other woman, she gasped as Emilia slumped against the refrigerator, her eyes rolling back into her head as she lost consciousness. Grasping her underneath her arms, Anya drug Emilia towards the back door, kicking it open and stumbling into the backyard. Halfway across the yard, her strength gave way, and both Anya and Emilia fell to the ground as the Summers’ house exploded into a ball of crackling orange and red flames.
 

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Revelations

By: Wynn

He didn’t notice the fighting stop around him. He didn’t notice the gunshot from the front of the house, or the tense quiet that descended upon the building, or the stares from the other people in the room. All Angel noticed was the man before him, held against the wall by one hand, calmly staring back at him, blue eyes absent of fear.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Wesley,” Angel said, his voice light, contradicting the dark expression upon his face. “You know we’re coming here tonight, you know we know you’re involved in all of the attacks, yet you still come here. That has to be the second stupidest thing you’ve ever done, right after kidnapping my son.”

“I was-”

“Shut up.” He tightened his grip on Wesley’s throat, cutting off his reply, as he said, “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. You fucked up when you decided to come after Buffy and Faith. It’ll be the last mistake you ever make.”

“Let him go, Angel.”

“Stay out of this, Faith. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Um… hello. You just said Wes fucked up when he came after me and B. I think this concerns me a lot.” Angel heard her move across the room. She leaned against the wall next to Wesley, crossed her arms over her chest, and stared at him, her face impassive, eyes dark and deep with unknown emotions. “Let him go, Angel.”

“No.”

“Let him go or I’ll make you let him go.”

Eyes flickering to Faith, Angel said, “Look, Faith, I know you think he’s on our side, secretly helping us fight against Lilah and the rest. He’s not. He’s playing you, trying to gain your confidence by giving you a so-called warning about an ambush he probably planned. He’s going to use you to get what he wants and then drop you, if he just doesn’t decide to kill you.”

Faith shook her head. “You’re wrong about this.”

“Why would he come to you and give you this information? You tortured him. He hates you.”

“No doubt about that. But that doesn’t mean he’s working with Lilah and Tyler. And if I’m wrong, if Wesley’s playing us and really wants us all dead, then you can kill him. Hell, I’ll probably help you. But we need to find out for sure, and we can’t do that if you crush his windpipe.”

A few moments passed and then Angel slowly removed his hand from Wesley’s neck. He took a few steps back as Wesley sucked in air and rubbed a hand across his reddened throat.

“You Ok?” Faith asked.

Wincing in pain, Wesley nodded. “Yes. Thank-”

Faith held up her hand. “Don’t thank me,” she said, moving away from Angel and Wesley and walking towards the front of the house. “Just tell the truth. I’m tired of all the lies.”

Angel watched her disappear down the hallway connecting the front and back halves of the house. He turned back to Wesley and found the other man staring at the hall Faith had walked in. Folding his arms across his chest, Angel said, “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Wes, but stay away from Faith. She doesn’t need your lies and manipulations.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on Wesley’s face as he looked at Angel. “Contrary to your poor opinion of me, Angel, I am not out to ‘get’ anybody, especially Faith.”

“Really? The last time you saw Faith you said she was a rabid animal and a murderer. Now, you’re having secret conversations with her and saving her from being killed. You want to tell me what caused this change in attitude?”

“Not really. You just tried to kill me. For the second time, I might add. I don’t feel up to sharing anything with you right now.” Wesley pushed off the wall and walked around Angel. He moved into the hallway and followed Faith towards the front of the house.
 

* * *

Being the Slayer meant dealing directly with phenomena like fate and destiny every single day. Everything, from the smallest of details in life to the most massive of apocalypses, was planned, prophesized, or predicted by somebody somewhere. There were still times, however, when life shocked the hell out of Buffy Summers. This was about to become one of them.

“You’re who?” she asked, confusion pulling her brows together.

“Charles Samuel.”

“Samuel,” Willow said slowly. “As in the Samuel working with Lilah, Wesley, and Tyler trying to kill us all?”

“Yes.”

Nodding softly, Buffy said, “Of course. Massive murderous conspiracies always need people with false identities, so why should this one be any different?” Sighing, she rubbed a hand across her face, stifling the half-maniacal giggle that threatened to burst from her lips. This was making all kinds of sense. The man she had on cassette tape plotting against her and her friends was the man who had just saved her life. Of course the sense it was making was perfectly senseless, but she expected nothing else to occur in her life.

She turned as Spike and Giles entered the room. Spike took a few steps towards her and stopped, glancing at Charles then at the dead man with the curved knife before locking eyes with Buffy. Raising one eyebrow, he said, “Did anyone else notice how all the fighting just stopped? And what the hell is he doing here?”

Buffy shrugged. “I don’t know why the fighting stopped. But it probably has something to do with head cheese over here.” Off of Spike and Giles’ confused looks, she pointed to Charles and said, “Guys, meet Charles Samuel. As in the Samuel we have on cassette tape hiring Tyler to spy on us.”

Giles blinked once at Buffy’s declaration. He looked at Charles, confusion, anger, and wariness all fighting for dominance on his face. “You were the unknown man on the tape? I didn’t recognize your voice.”

“I doubt you would have,” Charles said as he tucked his gun into his shoulder holster. “It’s been twenty years since we last spoke. And back then I spoke with a rougher accent than the one you no doubt heard on this tape of yours.” Glancing over Giles’ shoulder, he spoke again. “Wesley. Is everything clear back there?”

Buffy spun towards the hallway and she watched Wesley and Faith enter the room, followed by Cordelia and Angel, who carried an unconscious Xander.

“Xander!” Willow ran over to Angel, looking down at Xander as she said, “What happened?”

Cordelia answered her. “He got up close and personal with the wall courtesy of the goon squad that just stopped attacking us. He’ll be fine. He’ll just have the mother of all headaches when he wakes up.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Buffy turned to Wesley. She arched an eyebrow at the redness coloring his throat before she said, “So you’ve decided to join the party, too. Is Lilah in the back somewhere, ready to burst out and yell surprise, or has she decided to skip the fraternizing with your enemy shindig?”

“Lilah will not be coming here. We’ve had a… difference of opinion.”

“Concerning what exactly?”

Blue eyes examining the destroyed front wall, Wesley said, “Maybe we should continue this discussion at a safer location. I don’t know exactly what they have planned, and I’d rather not be here in case they come back.”

“What who have planned?” Giles asked.

Wesley looked at Charles, who shook his head and pointed a finger in his direction. Sighing, Wesley ran a hand over his disheveled hair and said, “What Lilah Morgan and Quentin Travers have planned.”
 

* * *

She was in pain. Massive amounts of pain. Her fractured wrist throbbed with pain from where she had fallen upon it as she collapsed onto the floor in unconsciousness, and the entire left side of her head buzzed with pain thanks to Tyler and his wicked right hook. Her left eye was swollen shut and congealed blood was caked across her cheek. She was blood-soaked, pain-filled, and pissed off. Someone was going to die.

Cracking open her right eye, Dawn looked at her surroundings, heart beating faster as she realized she was seated in an airplane. A flying airplane. An airplane taking her somewhere other than Sunnydale. Crap. The seat opposite her was occupied, and she groaned as she recognized the pompous air, balding head, and tweed suit of Quentin Travers, the bane of her sister’s existence.

“I’m pleased you’re awake,” Travers said when he noticed her staring at him. “I was afraid Tyler had been too rough with you.”

“Bite me.” A tight smile appeared on his face at her colorful language, and Dawn cheered at his irritation. The man had a superiority complex so thoroughly developed he thought he was supreme lord of the world, reigning from his stuffed tweed chair in jolly old England, sipping tea and eating crumpets as he directed his Watcher minions around to protect the world from the evils of musty, old books. Straightening in her chair, Dawn pushed her shoulders back and lifted her chin in the air. “Buffy will come for me. It doesn’t matter where you take me. She’ll find me.”

His irritation melted away, replaced by a chilling smile that sent shivers of fear down Dawn’s spine. “That’s the idea, Ms. Summers. That’s the idea.”
 

* * *

Faith laughed. She couldn’t help it. Maybe it was a byproduct of the swollen knot on the back of her head, of the concussion Wesley proclaimed her to have, but she figured her laughter was mostly due to the shocked expressions upon everyone’s faces from the revelation that Quentin Travers was the man behind the plan. So the Watcher’s Council was trying to kill her again. Figured.

“Something funny, Faith?” Buffy asked, her mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes flashing with frustration and anger.

“Not really, B. But that’s what makes it so damn funny.” She shook her head as she composed herself, her laughter dying away into an exhausted sigh. “As if our lives aren’t dangerous enough being Slayers, constantly fighting demons and other uglies, and now we got to worry about Head Jeeves wanting our heads on a silver platter. He’s supposed to help us fight the good fight and all that shit. Guess he got tired of the good fight.”

“That’s not true,” Wesley said from behind her.

Turning to face him, she said, “No? Then what is the truth, Watcher man?”

“Travers wants to fight the good fight, as you put it. However, he doesn’t want you or Buffy or anyone else working with you to fight it with him.”

“What?”

Buffy snorted in disbelief. “What he means is Travers wants replacement Slayers. Isn’t that right, Wesley?”

“Yes.” The house rumbled in its foundation and chunks of plaster, slabs of wood, and sections of concrete tumbled loose from the jagged outline of the front wall. As the tremors faded, Wesley said, “We should continue this discussion in a safer location.”

Buffy nodded. “I agree.” Turning to Giles, she said, “Can you head to the house and make sure everyone made it to Spike’s safely? I-”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, B,” Faith said as she ran out of the crumbling house. At the edge of the gravel path stood Anya, covered with ash and soot and dirt. Through the black smudges streaked across her face, Faith saw the pale pallor of Anya’s skin and her shell shocked golden eyes. “What happened?”

“Where’s Buffy? I need to… talk to her.”

Faith glanced over her shoulder, dark eyes locking on Buffy as she approached the two women. Hazel gaze flickering to Faith and then Anya, Buffy said, “Anya, what happened?”

Anya sucked in a shaky breath before she spoke, “We were… attacked at the house. They took Dawn. And Connor, too. Tyler’s escaped. He left with the men who took Dawn and Connor. Emilia’s a traitor.” She paused and drew in another breath. “And your house… it’s gone.”

“What? What do you mean gone?”

“Gone. They blew it up. It’s a big ball of orange flames right now. Everything you own is burning to a crisp.”

“Oh.” Buffy nodded slowly. She moved away from Anya and Faith, stumbling over a pile of debris from the displaced front wall and nearly falling to the ground; she was caught at the last moment by Spike who gently helped her regain her footing. Looking up at him, her hazel eyes wide with confusion, Buffy said, “He blew up my house.”

Faith felt the rage begin to course through her veins as she watched Buffy and Anya, the two strongest women she knew, shake and shiver from shock. Eyes locked onto her clenched fists, she asked Anya, “Was anyone hurt?”

“Emilia got everyone out. She used her psychic abilities and emitted a mental emergency call in all of our heads. She’s still unconscious though. Fred and Gunn were taken to the hospital. The force of the explosion knocked them across the yard and Fred broke her arm. Gunn suffered some burns and fractured his hand.”

“What about Lorne and Clem?”

“They have some burns and bruises. Nothing too serious though. They took Emilia to Spike’s house.”

Silent, Faith turned, her dark eyes slowly scanning the faces of the front yard, gaze narrowing as she spotted Wesley. She stalked across the yard, shoving Charles out of her way, and she kicked Wesley’s legs out from under him, knocking him to the ground. “Did you know about this?” she asked as he struggled to his feet. Faith kicked him in the chest and he fell to the ground again. “Did you know what Travers was going to do?”

Wesley stared up at her, his calm demeanor making her blood boil in irritation. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “I would have stopped Travers if I had known about this. I had nothing to do with taking Dawn and Connor or destroying Buffy’s home. Neither did Charles.” He pushed off the ground and slowly stood, eyes watching Faith, waiting for her to attack him again. “I will explain everything but not here. We need to get someplace safe.”

“Fine.” She grabbed Wesley by his shirt and shoved him down the gravel path. Walking behind him, keeping him within her sights at all times, Faith said to the group, “We’re moving to Spike’s house. Now. I want to know what the hell is going on.”
 

* * *

Red and white emergency lights flashed, casting an eerie glow upon the suburban houses lining Revello Drive. A blackened charred husk was all that remained of the Summers home, and a jolt of undiluted fury swept through Spike at the sight of the obliterated building. Nothing was salvageable. Everything was a pile of smoking ashes, a lifetime’s worth of memories now dust in the wind.

He found Buffy a block from her house, hazel eyes dull as she stared at the firefighters, policeman, and bystanders gawking at what was left of 1630 Revello Drive. As the group had filed into his house, she had turned and jumped off the porch, streaking across the cemetery in the direction of Revello. She didn’t acknowledge his approach and continued staring at the burnt shell of her home.

“He took her away from me,” she said, voice low and hollow. “Took away all I had left of her. There’s nothing…”

Spike slid his hand into the pocket of his black jacket and removed a small photograph. He gazed down at the three women in the picture, each one tearing down all that was wrong about him and rebuilding it with their strength and love and sheer determination to turn him into something better than what fate wanted him to be. He passed the picture to Buffy and said, “Nibblet gave it to me summer you were gone. She didn’t want me to be all alone in my crypt, so she put it in a frame, gave it to me as a present. First time anyone had given me a gift since I became a vampire. I still have the frame if you want it. I just always carried the photo around with me. Didn’t need the frame so much.”

She brushed her finger against the smiling image of Joyce, the photograph shaking in her trembling hands. Crystalline drops of tears fell onto the picture as her thumb skated across the smirking figure of Dawn. Spike moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pressing his cheek to the top of her head. She leaned against him for a moment before turning in his arms and resting her head on his chest, her hot tears soaking into his black cotton t-shirt.

“He took her away from me,” Buffy said again, and Spike didn’t know whether she meant Joyce or Dawn, whether she knew if she meant Joyce or Dawn or both women. She pulled away from him, linking one of her hands with his as she turned and looked at the remnants of her home, the red and white of the emergency lights flashing upon her skin. “He took her away. That was a mistake.”
 

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Nothing but the Truth

By: Wynn

Despite the peeling paint, dirt encrusted windows, and gloomy locale of the surrounding cemetery and forest, Spike’s house was surprisingly neat and comfortable. Although Wesley shouldn’t have been surprised at the neatness; Angel had mastered the art of obsessively compulsive cleanliness, so it shouldn’t have been much of a stretch to think the second vampire with a soul in existence would have a penchant for the neat and tidy too.

A massive marble fireplace dominated the living room, shedding a cozy orange glow upon the hardwood floor and the sparse furniture, which included two faded armchairs, a low glass coffee table, and a thin gold floor lamp. Opposite the fireplace resided a tall oak bookcase, half filled with books on witchcraft, demons, and other otherworldly subjects, dotted occasionally with a few volumes of poetry and literature. Wesley raised an eyebrow as his eyes searched the spines, tracing over works by Milton, Dickens, Tennyson, and Shakespeare, among others.

“Not quite what you expected?”

Glancing at Spike, Wesley shook his head. “No. First editions of Dickens and Tennyson are rare.”

Smirking, Spike said, “Not if you happened to be around at the time of their publication. I used to have more, but I lost them. Or destroyed them. Carting around volumes of literature tends to interfere in one hundred years of mayhem and slaughter.”

“Yes, I imagine it would.” Glancing around the living room, Wesley said, “Your house… It’s… nice.”

Spike shrugged. “It’s a start. Haven’t had much time to decorate the place. Been too busy dealing with attempted slayings and the like.”

“Not too busy, I should think.”

“What do you mean by that?”

It was Wesley’s turn to shrug. “The forces sent after you were by no means the strongest any of you have faced.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Spike said, “So you’re saying you and Head Tweed didn’t want us dead?”

“He did. And he still does, which is probably why he’s taken Dawn and Connor.”

“But-” Whatever question lay poised on Spike’s lips remained dormant as Buffy strode into the living room, followed by Giles, Faith, Angel, Cordelia, Anya, Willow, and Charles. Approaching Wesley, Buffy pointed to one of the armchairs and said, “Sit.” He didn’t move, remaining where he stood by the bookcase and calmly gazing back at Buffy. She placed her hands on her hips as she said, “Are you waiting for me to say please?”

“No.”

“Then sit down. I want to know how you got involved with Quentin, and I want to know now.”

Stifling a sigh, Wesley moved to the armchair and sat down. He felt as though he were set up before a firing squad with twitchy trigger fingers. One wrong word, one wrong movement, and he would be a dead man. He brushed away the thoughts of his imminent demise; dwelling on his potential death would do him no good in this volatile situation.

“Any day now, Wesley.”

His gaze slid over to Faith, who stood before the fireplace off to his right. Her dark hair gleamed in the amber glow, auburn highlights illuminated by the flames; her ruby lips, curved into a feral smile, shone from the light shed by the crackling blaze. “What would you like to know first?” he asked her.

“How about why Travers wants us dead.”

Wesley nodded, drew in a deep breath, and began his tale of secrets and lies. “Buffy was correct when she stated Travers wants replacement Slayers. He feels that Buffy has lapsed in her duties as a Slayer and is no longer a fit guardian for the Hellmouth. And he’s always wanted Faith dead, ever since her alliance with The Mayor of Sunnydale. ”

“Travers thinks I’ve lapsed in my duties?” Buffy snorted as she shook her head in disbelief. “Does he know how many times I’ve saved this world from complete destruction?”

“Yes, he does. And he also knows that the last threat to this world did not come from a vampire or demon or any other demonic force.” Wesley looked at Willow as he said, “The threat came from within those assigned to protect it.” Turning his attention back to Buffy, he continued, “You spent a great deal of last year fighting against each other and dealing with your own traumas instead of protecting the Hellmouth. According to Travers, you’ve lost your focus as a Slayer and therefore you’ve lost your usefulness to him. He thinks you and your friends have become a liability to the fight against evil and are inadequate protectors of the Hellmouth.”

Giles spoke up. “And how exactly does Travers know what occurred last year? I thought after his last visit to impart information about Glory he decreased his attention on the Hellmouth.”

Shaking his head, Wesley said, “He never lessened his attention on the Hellmouth. If anything, after Glory’s appearance he increased his informational sources here in Sunnydale. He just chose not to inform you or Buffy of his monitoring.”

“What do you mean by informational sources?” Anya asked.

Wesley glanced at Charles. Moving into the center of the room, Charles said, “Sources like me.”

“And who are you?”

A sardonic grin crossed Charles’ face. “I’m a Watcher.”

“Excuse me? You’re a what?”

Charles turned towards Buffy and repeated his identification as a Watcher. A beat passed. A dark chuckle escaped Buffy’s lips and she ran her hands through her golden hair. She said to Charles, “How long have you been in Sunnydale… watching us… reporting back to him?”

“Three years, close to four. Travers assigned me to the Hellmouth after you quit the Council during the fight against the Mayor.”

“Are you the only Watcher here in town or are there more hiding underneath the woodwork, ready to tattletale on us at a moment’s notice?”

“No,” Wesley said. “Charles is the only Watcher in Sunnydale. Besides Giles and myself, of course. The rest of the information Travers has gleaned came from informal sources.”

“Such as…”

Rubbing a hand over his dark hair, Wesley racked his brain for a few moments before replying, “Well, the witches employed by the Council detected the massive magical disturbance generated by Willow when she attempted to destroy the world. Travers gleaned the specifics of that situation from two young men, one named Jonathan and the other Andrew. One of Travers’ lackeys in Los Angeles encountered them, and they told him what they knew, in return for safe passage to Mexico.” He paused for a moment before he continued. “He learned of Anya and Xander’s interrupted nuptials from a few of the demon guests at the wedding. They’re Council informants here on the Hellmouth. They’re kept in specialized apartments somewhere on Main Street. Dawn’s bout of kleptomania was reported by the shopkeepers she stole from and Buffy’s financial situation from her former employer. The Council has contacts in virtually ever business in Sunnydale. A lot of money goes a long way in gathering intel.” Another pause. The room was silent, deathly so, as Wesley revealed the intricate web of information Travers had spun over Sunnydale. “And Buffy’s relationship with Spike…”

“Was told to Travers by me,” Charles finished. “After a few… interludes… you two had at the Bronze.”

Face flushing scarlet, Buffy cast a sidelong glance at Spike, who kept his gaze firmly pinned to the floor as he developed a sudden coughing fit.

“Ok,” Faith said, interrupting the uncomfortable moment stretching between the Scoobies. Her dark eyes locked on Wesley. “So Travers is more diabolical than we thought. No big shocker there. Guy seemed like the type to crave massive power trips. But none of this explains how you or elf chick or big red here came to work together.”

Wesley smirked. “No, it doesn’t.”

“So why don’t you tell us, Wesley,” Angel said slowly, his voice tight with tension.

Wesley spared a glance at Angel as he said, “Alright. I will. Travers went to Lilah first. He needed someone close to Sunnydale and L.A. who would assess the current situation in both locations and report back to him.”

“Why would he go to Lilah?” Cordelia asked. “She’s not exactly one to walk the straight and narrow. Especially not since she works for Hell’s personal law firm.”

“He went to Lilah to get to me. The Council has a few connections at Wolfram and Hart. It was through them he had learned of my… dismissal… from Angel Investigations, and he thought I would be interested in taking revenge on them, as well as the people who had cared nothing for me in Sunnydale, while at the same time properly fight the good fight by taking over the Hellmouth and protecting it with a new Slayer and Council resources. Travers went to Lilah to seduce me to his side.”

“And she agreed,” Giles said.

“Yes. She would get free range access to the Hellmouth, as long as she did nothing to bring about an apocalypse or imbalance of the forces of good and evil. Basically, whatever she wanted to do she could do. Access to the demon black market, the opportunity to send her enemies to Sunnydale to be disposed of… anything.” A wry grin twisted Wesley’s lips. “Naturally, her bosses at Wolfram and Hart know nothing about this arrangement.”

“And what would you get, Wesley?” Buffy asked as she folded her arms across her chest. “What did Travers promise you for working with him?”

“Reinstatement as an official Watcher and control over the planned Sunnydale branch of the Watcher’s Council.”

“What about you, Charles?” Giles asked.

A dark look passed across Charles’ face. He glanced at the ceiling, towards the room in which Emilia lay, still unconscious from her psychic exertions. “If I worked with Travers, he wouldn’t kill Emilia.”

Giles blinked. Removing his glasses, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Quietly, with a hint of Ripper lying beneath the soft cadences composing his voice, he said, “Why would Travers want to kill Emilia?”

“I don’t know. But he didn’t need a reason when he killed her sister… my wife.”
 

* * *

He moved slowly into the kitchen, his grey eyes locked upon her as he slid into one of the white chairs circling the small round table. Emilia breathed a sigh of relief at Giles’ acquiescence to her request for him to sit down and listen to her story. He was willing to listen to her, for a while at least. It meant she had a chance.

“Are you sure you don’t want any tea?” she asked, suddenly nervous, her slim fingers dancing across the fine porcelain of her cup. He quirked an eyebrow and shook his head, obviously baffled by her rapid change in demeanor. Emilia rolled her eyes and laughed; she smoothed a stray hair away from her face and said, “Sorry. I wasn’t sure whether or not you would actually sit down. I’ve never told anyone this before.”

“You don’t have to-”

“No. No, I want to.” She flashed a smile, hoping for confidence but attaining a barely disguised nervousness. Giles stared back at her, the wary, suspicious expression upon his face softening a bit by her nervousness. He reached out and grasped the mug of tea she had fixed for him, lifted it, and took an experimental sip, smiling as the multitude of flavors cascaded over his tongue.

Relaxing at his gesture of cordiality, Emilia sucked in a deep breath and said, “Ok. There was this boy. There’s always a boy in these types of stories, isn’t there? His name was Michael. I met him at a pub about three years ago. He saved me from the pathetic pick up lines from a bunch of drunk and horny rugby players.” She smiled at the memory. “Naturally, I was smitten. My own personal knight in shining armor. We spent the rest of the night together under the pretense of protecting me from the rugbies. By the end of the night, I was in love. He was… perfect. He could hold conversations about something other than football or liquor or other guy related things. And he had the most wicked sense of humor, absolutely naughty at times. And he loved me.”

Her hands began to tremble and she felt hot tears prick her eyes. Gaze focused on her cup of tea, Emilia continued, “A year passed and we were still together. I thought he was the one, that one magical person that you’re supposed to find in life. The one that completes you, fills in your empty places, smoothes over your rough edges, while still loving you for all of your faults and quirks. I thought we were to get married, so I told him who I was… what I am. That I wasn’t altogether human. That I could see his soul and read his mind.”

Emilia’s grip tightened on her cup. Her violet eyes dropped to the table. “He left. Called me a freak, screamed at me for lying to me, for tricking him into loving me. He left and he never came back. Never phoned. Never wrote. Nothing.” A ghost of a smile curved her lips. “Needless to say, I didn’t take his leaving very well. I drank so much I thought I would turn into a bottle of liquor. I did anything I could to try to forget. Forget him. Forget his hatred of me when I told him I was an Elf. I ended up in a pub one night. Real shitty place, like the one I found you in. I got completely pissed, much to the enjoyment of the regular Joes there for the night. I wanted to forget, so I picked a man out of the bunch and tried to forget. The rest of his mates wanted to help me forget too.”

She dropped the cup onto its saucer, the sharp clack of porcelain on porcelain like a gunshot in the kitchen. “They had me outside in the alley, pushed up against the wall when he found me.”

“Who?”

Emilia looked at Giles. Lost in her memories, she had nearly forgotten he was sitting across from her. His grey eyes were soft and warm, a steely gleam beneath the compassion, and she felt like crying at his kindness and his anger at her past and her pain. “Charles. He’s a Watcher, like you. Like you will be. He was out roaming around the alleyways looking for vampires, and he stumbled upon a soulless evil of the human variety. He saved me. Completely beat the shit out of those blokes. He took me home, and he and my sister nursed me back to health.”

“Your sister?”

“Ariana. Older sister and very protective of me.” Another smile appeared on her face. “When she opened the door to me and Charles, she helped him place me on the couch and then proceeded to lay into him for my less than savory appearance. It truly is a thing to behold when my sister gets angry. She’s like a force of nature. Charles didn’t know what hit him.”

“Did, um, your sister do something to this Charles bloke?”

Emilia giggled. “She did something alright. I think he fell in love with her right then and there while she was screaming at the top of her lungs at him because of me.” Composing herself, Emilia looked at Rupert and said, “They both helped me recover, from the alcohol, from the attempted attack, from Michael. Helped me reclaim my life, my lust for life, if you will.”

Leaning back in his chair, Giles gazed at Emilia for a few moments. One corner of his mouth quirked up as he said, “And you mean to do the same to me. Save me from myself and make me want to live again?”

“Something like that. I can never repay Charles or Ariana for what they did for me. But I saw you two nights ago, and I knew you. You were me. Trying to drink your life away. And I wanted to help you like they helped me.” Placing her elbow on the table, Emilia cradled her chin in her hand and locked eyes with Giles. She smiled, a slow smile, a slightly naughty smile, and said, “So Rupert Giles, do you want me to save you?”

He laughed at her impishness. Grey eyes twinkling with sparks of life, he said, “Yes. I believe I rather would.”
 

* * *

He felt lightheaded, disconnected, unable to process what Charles had said. Slowly, Giles lifted his gaze from the floor and he looked at Charles. “Ariana is dead? How long…”

Hands tightening into fists, Charles replied, “About a year and a half.”

“And Quentin?”

Charles’ voice was flat and emotionless as he said, “I don’t know for sure whether Travers ordered the hit on Ariana. Supposedly, the Watcher who killed her didn’t know who she was, that she was married to me. His little demon detector said she was non-human, so he killed her. Said it was a misunderstanding, thought she was about to hurt this random bloke who conveniently ran away without identifying himself to the Watcher or corroborating his story.” His face was grim as he gazed at Giles. “But Travers had to have been involved in some way. It’s just too convenient that she died a few weeks after I put in for a transfer back to England.”

“He… he killed her?” Willow asked, eyes wide with sympathy and shock. “He killed her just because you wanted to go home?”

“Quentin Travers is a ruthless bastard that’ll use any means necessary to get what he wants. He’s plotted this attack on you for years, ever since Faith went rogue and Buffy quit the Council. He perceived both actions as personal attacks against him and his organization, and Buffy’s subsequent power play during the fight against Glory incensed him further.” Charles paused and looked around the room, holding each person’s gaze for a moment before moving on to the next. “Travers will stop at nothing to have you all dead. He knows you, your strengths, your weaknesses, everything, and he’s not afraid to use them against you.”

“And now he has Dawn and Connor,” Buffy said. She gnawed on her lower lip as she began pacing the living room. Glancing at Giles she said, “He plans on us to go after him and rescue them.”

Giles nodded. “Lure us away from Sunnydale, where we have the advantage.”

“And then he can slip in here and have his lackeys take control of the Hellmouth while he kills us on his home turf.” She shook her head as she continued, “He can try to kill us. He thinks he knows us. He thinks he knows what we’re capable of.” Buffy smiled, a cold, hard grin twisting her lips. “He has no idea.”
 

* * *

AN: Please read! The third section in this chapter deals with child abuse. It occurs in a flashback and is designated by (( italics)). The focus is on the feelings and aftermath of abuse, not a direct depiction of it. This story has an R rating, and I feel the mentioned abuse does not violate the rating. Still, please skip the section if you are uncomfortable reading about this.
I apologize for the delay in this chapter. Two horrendous weeks of finals completely wiped me out, and this chapter required a lot of time and energy to write, so I had to put it off for a while. But here it is. As always, feedback is a wonderful thing. Chapter title from Corners of My Mind by Nikka Costa.

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Corners of My Mind

By: Wynn

They whispered in her mind. Quiet, angry, frightened, and nervous. Betrayed, exhausted, hurt, and tense. All thoughts jumbled together in a jarring cacophony that made Emilia wince. She measured her breathing, taking in slow, steady, deep breaths, and carefully, cautiously rebuilt the mental barriers she had ripped down during her mental 9-1-1 call. Reading one person's mind was a piece of cake; a little nudge here, a tiny push there, and she was inside his or her mind thinking their thoughts right along with them. But forcing her thoughts into not one, but five people's brains took a hell of a lot more effort and usually resulted in unconsciousness followed by massive migraines, pain, and an inability to filter out other's wandering thoughts.

"How are you feeling?"

Violet eyes fluttering open, Emilia rolled onto her side and focused on Giles. The bedroom was dark; a plush quilt covered her body. A wan smile appeared on her face as she said, "Wonderful. My brain's been stretched over the entire state of California, but other than that…"

Giles nodded, an absentminded shake of his head that set Emilia on edge. She closed her eyes against the roiling onslaught of emotions swirling within his aura. Something was bothering him, enough that his usual cool, calm, and collected exterior was getting quite a workout in attempting to stifle his anger and frustration. "Where am I?" she asked quietly.

"Spike's."

"Is everyone-"

"Fine."

A jolt of anger coursed through her at his flat tone. Opening her eyes again, she said, "If you have something to say to me, Rupert, just bloody well say it. I'm not in the mood to deal with you sidestepping whatever issue's got you good and brassed off."

His gaze flickered to her as he said in a deathly calm voice, "You lied to me."

She closed her eyes again and leaned back against her pillow. So that was it. The truth had finally come out. In a way she was relieved. Lying never came easy to Emilia; her tendency to blurt out whatever was on her mind, regardless of the consequences, usually thwarted any attempts at deception. But the stakes had been too high this time to allow for deficiencies in control of one's characteristics. Or of one's emotions. "Yes," she said.

"You didn't see fit to tell me my own Slayer was being targeted-"

"I couldn't. Charles and Wesley asked me not to."

"Why?"

"Taking down Quentin Travers is going to take more than just brute force," Emilia said as she turned towards him again. "He has the power of the Council behind him. We had to wait until he did something foolish, something that couldn't be explained off as testing or training until we made any kind of move against him. If you had known of his involvement, it could have manifested itself in some way he could have noticed, and we would have lost our opportunity to take him out."

Giles' voice was tight with anger as he said, "And you didn't think I could have acted right along with the rest of you, put a blind eye towards Quentin while helping you work against him. I am not a child Emilia-"

"I know you're not a child! Don't you dare presume to think that I think of you that way or that any of this has been easy for me. It hasn't been."

"Yet you still lied to me."

Stifling a sigh, Emilia turned her weary gaze on Giles and said, "Yes, I did. And can you honestly tell me that you wouldn't have done the same thing if you had been in my position? If Quentin had killed Buffy for no reason other than he could, you're telling me you wouldn't have done anything in your power to see justice done? To make sure he could never hurt anyone like that again?"

"Is that what this is?" Giles asked, blue eyes tired, bowed down with the weight of betrayal. "Justice?"

"Yes. He used his power to murder my sister. He's using it to try to kill you and Buffy and her friends. He needs to be stopped." She paused and drew in another deep breath, closing her eyes in a vain attempt to block out the rage of thoughts that were careening through Giles' mind. Visions of a dark haired gypsy forced their way into her consciousness. Images of another betrayal done in the name of so-called justice. "I'm not like her. I didn't lie to you because of a centuries old grievance against a threat that was no longer there. Travers is real and he is dangerous."

"Don't you dare bring Jenny into this."

"I didn't. You did." She shook her head slowly and turned away from Giles, burying her head within the soft confines of her pillow. "I am sorry I hurt you. I never wanted to do so. I only did what I thought was necessary to see that this tyrant be stopped. He's killed once, and he won't hesitate in doing so again." Emilia paused. She drew in a deep breath as memories of her sister Ariana careened through her mind. "He needs to be stopped," she said again. "By any means necessary."

"I-"

"Rupert, I need you to leave. Please. I can't… do this right now."

She felt him behind her, felt his need to continue railing against her, to vent all of his anger and frustration built up over the past few days. He sighed and moved toward the door. Emilia heard the door open and close as cool tears slid down her face, soaking into the depths of her feather soft pillow.
 

* * *

Smooth and cool under his palm, Spike twisted the doorknob and eased his bedroom door open. Sliding into the room, he gently pushed the door closed then turned and faced Buffy. She sat on his bed, golden hair still damp and tangled from her shower, body drowning in a pair of Cordelia's pajamas. Fred's blue comb lay in her hand, unused and apparently forgotten. Her hazel eyes stared unseeing into space, lost in memories conjured by her restless mind.

Moving into the room, Spike said quietly, "Everyone's settled downstairs. Anya and Charles brought training mats from The Magic Box for everyone to sleep on, and Willow and Cordelia got blankets and pillows from Harris' flat. Red'll try the locator spell again in the morning. More than likely Travers'll be wherever he's heading by then and she can get a fix on them. Wesley and Charles think he's probably heading back to England though, back to the Wanker's Council."

She didn't respond to his soft statements. Spike ran a hand through his short brown and blonde hair as he walked aimlessly around the bedroom, unsure of whether to keep babbling nonsense or to leave the room. Not that there was anywhere else for him to sleep. Although he could probably knock Angel unconscious and push the big lug out of the bed down the hall if he had to. Clearing his throat, he continued, "Buffy-"

"Don't leave."

"Alright." He took a cautious step towards her and the bed, blue eyes locked upon her face. Something was wrong. Spike knew that. He felt the tension and sorrow vibrating off Buffy with the strength and force of a hurricane. Whether she would tell him what was wrong was another thing entirely. "Wasn't really planning on it," he said, his voice light and flippant, the jovial tone betrayed by the seriousness in his eyes. "Don't fancy sleeping next to Peaches. He has a tendency to snore. Loud. Like a bleeding buzz saw."

Shaking her head, Buffy turned towards him. Her hazel eyes were large and luminous in the light of the lamp. "I… didn't mean it like that. I… You can't let him make you leave… make you leave me." She tore her eyes from him and glanced down at her hands. Drawing in a shaky breath, Buffy looked at him again as she said, "I couldn't- I don't know what I'd do if you… if you were…"

Sitting beside her, Spike grasped one of Buffy's hands and threaded his fingers through hers. "I'm not going anywhere, luv. Never again."

A ghost of a smile crossed her face as she sighed. "I know. I know. I'm just… scared. My whole family was taken from me in one night by an evil troll man who's wanted me dead for years. A man who was supposed to be helping me fight evil, in his own stuffed British way." She swallowed hard. Her thumb caressed the side of his palm as her fingers gripped his hand tighter in hers. "I'm just scared he'll take you too. In the permanent, dusty way. And I don't think I'd be able to handle that."

Spike saw the tears swimming within her hazel eyes. He felt the slight tremor coursing through her body. Shifting on the bed, he lifted a hand to the side of her face, fingertips trailing across her skin, palm cupping her chin in a gentle embrace. "I can't make any promises that I'll never die. Because someday I will. But it will not be at the hands of wanker Quentin Travers. He's just a scared little man who doesn't have a clue about anything, much less what a Slayer is or how she works." He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "We will get Dawn back. We'll even get Angel's spawn, too. And then we'll kick Tweed's ass so hard he'll never even think about coming after us again."

Winding her arms around him, Buffy leaned into Spike and laid her head against his chest. "I love you."

He couldn't stop the smile from forming on his face at her words of love. They were still too new, too precious to hear. Smoothing a hand across her head, Spike said, "I love you. Always."

"Show me." She pulled away from him a bit and tilted her chin in the air, locking her gaze with his. She whispered, "Show me you love me." Moving up his body, Buffy brushed her lips against his as she said, "Let me show you that I love you. That I want you and I need you. Please."

He answered her with a kiss. Soul searing, the flames that rose within him from her touch burned away all the doubts and fears and worries lingering in his mind, saying she shouldn't love him, that he wasn't worthy of her or her love, not after all he had done, and it left in its wake a clarity of vision and of love he had never felt before. It was like a phoenix reborn from the ashes, new and different, yet with an aura of ancient, primal energy, of hundreds of thousands of lives lived and breathed and died, only to be reborn again into something greater than its previous self. He loved her, with everything that was in him, the soul, the man, and the demon. And he knew she loved him, with everything that was in her, the soul, the woman, and the Slayer. That's just the way it was. The way it is. The way it would be. Forever.
 

* * *

She knew he was behind her, watching her, following her, but fuck if she cared. Let Wesley do whatever the hell he wanted as long as he stayed out of her way. Faith strode through the cemetery, dark eyes roving across the tombstones, mortuaries, and crypts. She twirled her stake in her hands, manic energy rolling off her in waves. She wanted to kill something… needed to kill something. Now.

A feral smirk curved her lips as she spotted the pack of vampires strolling through the graves. Faith slipped behind a large crypt, moving into the shadows as she circled around the demons, keeping to the black shade as they walked in the white moonlight. She often wondered why vampires kept to cemeteries. Everyone who was there was either dead and buried, dead and walking, or Death herself. She supposed it was easier for the vamps to remain in the graveyard; too many complications arose when one tried to acclimate to the land of the living. Too much pain, too much hate, too much sickness in the human world. Best to stick to the simple, final, unavoidable realm of death.

She leapt from the shadows right into the center of the pack. The five vampires froze in mid-conversation, yellow eyes locked on her, her black leather clad body, and her wooden stake. A moment passed in which time froze and the hunters became the hunted.

Then, they pounced.

Faith punched and kicked and clawed and staked, the battlefield becoming a frenzied cloud of dust, dirt, and destruction. The power flowed through her, fusing into her bones, sparking within her like an internal combustion engine. Violent. Fiery. Explosive. The power flamed within her, turning her into ashes from the inside, burning away the lonely feelings of a lost little girl she didn't want to acknowledge let alone feel.

Rough hands bruised her skin, shoving her back against the concrete wall. Panic set in on Faith, erupting out of her in a scream and a violent kick to the man's gut. The crash of flesh on steel echoed in her ears as a rough voice spoke, "Time's up, Slayer."

((Rough hands bruised her skin, shoving her back against the rock hard bed. "You tell anyone, you know I'll kill you. Ain't no one gonna believe a whore like you anyway." Sweat and booze coated her tongue from the hand pressed over her mouth, silencing her silent cries. "That's my good Faith. Nice and quiet. Ain't no one gonna save you, girl. No one cares a lick about you. Never have, never will."))

Red, ripe rage swelled within her. Her eyes locked onto the one remaining vampire; her nerves smoldered with memories of helplessness and hopelessness. Of weakness and desperation. Of wanting to die to escape the horrors of life but being too scared to go through with any plan a scared little girl could think up. And it had all come flooding back when rough hands pinned her against the wall in Mulholland Drive, making her feel weak and desperate. But this time she had the power to fight back.

Faith gripped the stake tighter, the rough wood grain slicing into her hand as she moved towards the vampire. He turned to run but exploded into dust before he could flee Faith and her stake. Blinking away the red haze of anger clouding her vision, Faith peered through the falling dust. Her mouth hardened as she saw Wesley replace his stake in the pocket of his brown jacket.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked through gritted teeth.

Arching a brow at her tight tone, Wesley said, "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Getting in my way."

"Funny. I thought it was more like staking a vampire. My mistake."

"Don't you have anything better to do, Wesley, than follow me around? 'Cause I'm getting a little tired of the stalker routine."

"I was concerned."

Faith snorted. Pocketing her stake, she stalked towards Wesley, stopping a few inches in front of him. Hands on her hips, she said, "About me? How touching. Now get the fuck over it and leave me the hell alone."

He stared at her for a few moments, blue eyes assessing her frazzled form with a measured calm Faith found disconcerting. Wesley tilted his head to the side and said, "Does it surprise you that someone could be concerned about you? Or is it just that that someone is me that is so bothersome?"

Ignoring his questions, Faith brushed by Wesley and said, "Just leave me alone. I don't need your concern." She folded her arms across her black leather halter and walked through the headstones, pushing Wesley and everything else that had been stirred up inside her over the past few days back down into her subconscious. Before she turned to walk out the cemetery, his voice drifted towards her, blowing away all efforts to submerge her feelings in a sea of brashness and bravado.

"But you want it."

Faith hadn't realized she had stopped until he was in front of her, all mussed hair and soft eyes, and it made her want to knock him down, punch the concern from his face so she wouldn't have to deal with him or with herself. Gazing at Wesley with hard eyes, she said, "You don't know what I want. You don't know anything about me, so stop trying to act like you have great insight into the private world of Faith because you don't."

"Would it be so horrible if I did? If I had that great insight into the private world of Faith? If I knew you, the real you, instead of this brazen leather clad exterior you wear as a shield?"

"Why would you want that?" she asked softly.

"Because you're worth knowing." He smoothed a hand across the dark stubble upon his chin. Glancing at Faith, Wesley said, "I saw you the day you were released from prison. I watched you walk through the steel doors and take in the world. And your face… you smiled. I'd never seen you smile before. Not a real one. And I knew there was more I had never seen… that I wanted to see." A wry grin crossed his face as he continued, "And I know you think I'm crazy seeing as how I've just admitted to more stalker tendencies, but I-"

"Shut up, Wesley," Faith said. Her hands latched onto the collar of his jacket and she drew him towards her, stepping into him and pressing against the hard length of his body. "You want to get to know me?" she asked as she stared up into his eyes. Moving closer to him, she ran her tongue along the bottom edge of his lips and said, "Less talk. More action." And then she kissed him, hard, bruising, pouring all of her rage and pain through her lips into his, opening the hidden corners of her mind and releasing the pent up heartaches and betrayals, slights and sins, grief and misery she had caused and felt since she was a lost little girl. Pulling back, lips swollen from kisses, dark eyes glittering with unshed tears stored up over a lifetime, she said, "This is me. This is me."

His blue eyes moved across her face, taking in every line and curve before returning to her dark gaze. A moment passed and a line was crossed and Wesley nodded, dipped his head down, and captured her lips once more with his.
 

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