Chapter Twenty-Five: Breaking and Entering

By: Wynn

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” Tyler said as he moved into the main room of the dojo. He shifted the dagger in his hand, the fluorescent lights glinting off the curved blade. “Who the hell are you and what the fuck are you doing in here?”

A wicked grin spread across Faith’s face. “Oooh, sweet talk. I bet you drive all the girls wild, don’t you?”

“If you don’t tell me what I want to know-”

“You’ll what? Call the cops? I don’t think so.” Faith shook her head slowly, mock disapproval shining from her dark eyes. “Someone’s been naughty. I doubt you want the boys in blue in here searching through all your shit.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Faith turned and strolled across the room, stopping before the trophy case. She doubted Tyler had confronted Anya and Xander; there hadn’t been any sounds of a struggle, and Faith didn’t think that Tyler could take both of them out without making a sound. Why had he come back to the building? Had he forgotten something? Had they been set up? It didn’t really matter to Faith. She would get what she came for. One way or another. She tilted her head and gazed at the award residing on the top shelf, mere inches from the ceiling. “Nice trophies. Who’s Tony? His name is on all of these awards.”

“Me.”

Looking over her shoulder at Tyler, Faith said, “Funny. Thought your name was Tyler.”

A flicker of panic flitted across Tyler’s face. His eyes darted from Faith to the trophies then back again. “Tyler is my middle name. I won those under my first name, Anthony.”

“Wow… you can’t lie for shit. I hate it when people lie to me. It makes me feel bad… angry. Like I need to hit something hard.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like finding strange broads in my dojo, so I guess we’re both fucked.”

“I guess so.” Turning back to the trophy case, Faith inspected the wood structure, dark eyes traveling from the base to the top and back again. She moved to the edge of the case and kicked the base once, twice, three times, watching with an air of satisfaction as the structure cracked in two, the jagged pieces and multiple awards tumbling to the ground in a resounding crash. Glancing up, she saw the top plaque still perched a few inches away from the ceiling, now hanging by the cord of the delicate camera lodged inside it.

“That was a mistake,” Tyler said as he strode across the room, holding the knife before him.

“But it was fun. Spying on the unsuspecting citizens of Sunnydale. That’s wicked gross.” Faith moved away from the demolished case, keeping her back to the mirrored wall and facing Tyler. Her eyes flickered over the dagger in his hand. “I’d lose the blade if I were you. Unless you feel like getting stabbed with your own weapon.”

A cold smirk twisted Tyler’s lips. “You think you can take it from me?”

“I don’t think. I know.” Faith stepped away from the mirrors and walked towards Tyler. She flipped her black hair over her shoulder as she moved into a fighting stance. “I don’t usually do this but I’m feeling a little sorry for you, so listen up. Drop the knife and leave now. You will lose if we fight and you will lose bad. And fighting a fight I know I’m going to win just isn’t any fun.”

Moving in front of Faith, Tyler glanced down at the dagger in his hand and said, “Coming off a little strong, aren’t you, honey? I mean I’m the one with the kni-”

Faith darted towards him, kicking at his hand holding the knife. Tyler danced away from her, backing up a few steps, before he twisted into her, bringing the dagger high into the air and plunging it towards her chest. Faith ducked, sweeping out with her right leg, knocking Tyler onto the ground. She kicked at his hand again, loosening his grip on the blade and sending it flying across the room. Jumping over his prone form, Faith scrambled for Tyler’s knife and snatched it off the floor. She turned around and faced him, unable to stop the smirk from appearing on her face.

“Isn’t this just amazing? Your knife in my hands… kind of ironic, isn’t it, honey?”

Standing, Tyler said, “Doesn’t matter.”

“You still think you can take me on? Haven’t you learned anything in the past few minutes? I told you to leave or you would regret it.”

Tyler nodded. He lightly rubbed a hand across the back of his head as he said, “Yeah, I remember you saying something like that. But you know what I’ve learned? You’re all talk and no action. ‘Cause you have my knife and haven’t attacked me with it yet.”

“Want me to? Knives are sort of my specialty. I know all sorts of ways to make a man scream by using a blade. Care for a demonstration?”

“More talk. I know who you are. Took me a moment to place you, Faith.” He grinned as a brief flare of surprise flickered across her face. “I got to tell you, from what they told me about you, I expected someone a little more… dangerous. You’re too scared to even stab me with my own knife.”

“I’m not scared.”

“No? Too worried that you’d like it too much, the feel of the knife in your hand as it slices across human skin? That you’d start to lose control and begin to crave it, the smell of blood, the taste of death, the absolute power? That you’ll turn against your friends and kill them before turning to innocent people to unleash the rage inside you? Am I worth going down that path again?” Tyler paused. He began to move towards Faith as he continued, “If you don’t kill me, you know I’ll tell them that you were here looking for the camera, that you know about me and about them. They’ll be forced to kill you, then Buffy and the old guy and the rest of the bunch, saving that sweet, innocent little girl for last. So the question is, do you gut me with my own knife and let loose the darkness inside you, or do you wimp out and let me go, guaranteeing more attacks on you and your friends?” He stopped before her, a smug smile twisting his lips. Bending close to her, Tyler rested his mouth against her ear and whispered, “What’s it going to be, Faith?”
 

* * *

Anya twisted the small brass key, attempting to force it into the lock on the office door. “Come on… fit you stupid key shaped thing,” she muttered as she leaned forward, putting her body weight behind the key. It snapped in half, one part lodged in the lock on the door, the other grasped firmly in her hand, causing Anya to crash into the wall. Wincing slightly, she shoved the broken half of the key in the pocket of her pants and glanced over her shoulder at Xander and Faith, relieved to see that they hadn’t noticed her tumble into the wall. She cursed softly as she saw Xander turn away from Faith and walk towards her. Anya turned back to the door, grabbing the handle and pushing against the wood surface; she felt it begin to crack, the wood splintering as it separated from the metal lock. She gave one final shove, falling into the office as the door swung free, the deadbolt left hanging in the doorframe. Anya jumped to her feet as Xander reached the door, quickly brushing the wood splinters off of her hands and plastering an innocent smile on her face.

“Damn evil people,” she said. “Always booby trapping their doors, ready to catch completely guilt free demons off their guard. We’re lucky the whole place didn’t go up in a big ball of flames and smoke… all ka-bloey.”

Smothering the grin on his face, Xander said, “Right. Those evil people are just so… evil with their wacky doors.”

The office was narrow and crammed with furniture. To the right of the door, in front of the office window, was a small metal desk and grey chair on wheels; a gold lamp on the desk cast a cool glow of pale light into the office. A slim laptop computer sat next to the lamp, amid various stacks of papers and folders. Two bookcases filled with knick-knacks, awards, and trophies lined the right wall. A tall file cabinet, threadbare armchair, and small round table rested against the far wall opposite the door; a grey portable telephone sat on the round table.

“I’ll take the desk,” Anya said. “You can look through the file cabinet or just stand there. Doesn’t matter to me.” She pushed a strand of blonde hair off her face and moved to the desk, making sure to avoid looking at Xander. She could feel him watching her, the office becoming suddenly too small and cramped, the walls closing in on her, making her aware of just how close Xander was to her. Aside from their brief reunion at the Magic Box earlier in the day, she hadn’t seen or talked to Xander in weeks. Not since their fight in the middle of the Espresso Pump. You love me, Xander, but you hate what I am… You wouldn’t be able to comprehend the things I’ve witnessed over the past millennia. The things I’ve done. Anya grimaced as her heated words flashed into her mind. She drew in a deep breath, pushing aside the memories, as Xander moved into the office, shutting the door behind him, and crossed the length of the room to the file cabinet.

“So,” he said, tugging on the handle of the top drawer of the file cabinet. “How have you been?”

Flipping through the papers on the desk, Anya said, “Fine. Great. Wonderful.”

“That’s good. Have you, um, performed any vengeance? Or is it enacted vengeance? Brought forth vengeance?”

“Why do you care? Fishing for information to tell Buffy? ‘The evil demon is wreaking some wrath. Better go kill her before she filets us all.’”

“No. I’m asking you about your life. You are a vengeance demon. I thought you would be knee deep in the vengeance giving by now.” He rifled through the contents of the top drawer, finding nothing but training certificates and insurance forms. Closing the drawer, Xander opened the middle cabinet and said, “I’m just trying to understand what it’s like for you being a vengeance demon. I want to know more about your… job.”

“It’s not a job,” Anya said as she searched the desk drawers. “More like a purpose in life. But one can’t just jump headfirst back into the vengeance fold. It takes a lot of time and preparation, and I haven’t had the time to devote myself fully to avenging wronged women. Too much going on with all the attacks and, um, other important things going on in my life. And there’s nothing worse than half-assed vengeance.”

“What-” A deafening crash from the main room cut off Xander’s reply. Momentarily frozen, he glanced at Anya, who continued searching the desk, nonplussed by the sounds of destruction emanating from the exterior of the building. He moved toward the door, his hand closing on the shredded edge when Anya reached out and pulled him away from the door. “Why-”

“We need to find these tapes now,” Anya said, releasing Xander and continuing her search of the desk. “We need to find something, some clue that’ll point us in the direction of the attackers.”

“But what about Faith?”

“She’s probably indulging in some mindless destruction, which I for one am not going to stop. This ringworm deserves to have his place trashed for taping Buffy. And in the off chance that Faith is fighting someone she said to keep searching. She’ll handle whatever’s out there.”

Nodding, Xander returned to the file cabinet. He tugged on the bottom drawer, his muscles straining to open the locked metal cabinet. Anya sighed and crossed the room, one hand grasping the drawer handle and effortlessly yanking the drawer open. She flashed Xander a bright smile before returning to the desk.

Shaking his head slightly, Xander peeked into the drawer and began to sift through the jumbled contents. Along the edge of the metal cabinet, he found a small tape recorder. He clicked on the play button, and the sound of fabric rustling filled the small office, followed by a door opening and closing.

“Here’s your camera.” A woman’s voice. A bit muffled by the static, but still smooth and confident. “Try to mount it someplace high, preferably near the ceiling. Do you have any questions?”

“No.” A male voice. Arrogant and gravelly. “This chick must have done something real bad to piss you guys off. What did she do? Beat you in the beauty pageant?”

“What she did is not your concern.” A second male voice. Arrogant, cultured, with a British accent. “Just do what we told you and bring us any useful footage. We don’t like to be kept waiting, Tyler, so I advise you to install the camera as soon as possible.”

Xander pressed the stop button. He closed the bottom drawer of the file cabinet and turned to Anya, holding the tape recorder in the air. “Looks like Tyler did a little spying of his own. Got whoever ordered this little excursion into voyeurism on tape.” A faint frown pulled at his features. He glanced at the recorder in his hands. “The guy sounds familiar.”

“Which one?” Anya asked as she dug through the bottom drawer of the desk.

“The second guy. I can’t remember…” Xander shook his head and pocketed the recorder. “I was in England way too long. Too many British voices bouncing around in my head. I can’t tell them all apart.”

Anya slid the desk drawer shut and stood. “No video tapes. I suppose he already gave the footage to the bad guys.”

“At least with this recorder we know someone, a man and a woman, got Tyler to tape Buffy. Maybe the psychotic assassin guy was telling the truth about Lilah ordering the hit on us.” Placing the tape recorder in one pocket of his pants, Xander moved towards the battered door and eased it open again. “I think our job here is done.”

Anya nodded and maneuvered past Xander, stopping right outside the office as she heard a male voice speaking from the main room. Glancing at Xander, the pair moved toward the room, hugging the smooth white wall of the hallway. Anya craned her head around the edge of the wall and peeked into the main room. Faith had her back towards them, a slim knife clutched in her hand, and a tall muscular man with close cropped dark hair stood close to Faith.

“So the question is, do you gut me with my own knife and let loose the darkness inside you, or do you wimp out and let me go, guaranteeing more attacks on you and your friends?” He leaned towards Faith, his mouth close to her ear. “What’s it going to be, Faith?”

This wasn’t good.
 

* * *

Buffy glanced around the dark hallway, taking in the plush carpet, lush abstract paintings, pristine fake plants, and gleaming mahogany desks. Evil spared no expense in office furnishings. Everything was screaming with the fact that it was ridiculously expensive. She rolled her eyes at the décor, mulling over the fact that bypassing Wolfram and Hart’s exterior line of defenses had been as easy as Angel had said it would be. Go up to the front door, pull it open, and walk into the building. The slightly more difficult part had occurred with getting her, Angel, and Spike up the three flights of stairs and into Lilah Morgan’s office unnoticed by the remaining employees.

So far so good.

Slipping out of the stairwell into the third floor hallway, Buffy glanced over her shoulder at Angel and Spike. She nodded slightly, and the two vampires moved into the hall, passing her and continuing down the deserted foyer. She followed silently, watching Angel and Spike. The last time the three of them had been working together had been when Spike had returned to Sunnydale, drunk and delirious, determined to make Drusilla love him again. She and Angel had been ‘not-quite-friends,’ a fact that Spike had smugly pointed out to them as soon as he was sober.

Love isn’t brains, children. It’s blood, blood screaming inside you to work its will.

She couldn’t rationally stop herself from loving Angel then. Her body had called to his, her blood had screamed its will of wanting him and only him. But now… now, she and Spike were ‘not-quite-friends,’ and Angel and Cordelia were ‘more-than-friends,’ a development that was as mind boggling to Buffy as Cordelia the Higher Being. The two brunettes had spent every minute together since Cordelia’s return from the land of Glowy Higher Being people earlier in the day. Buffy grimaced at their mushiness. There were five floors of rooms in the hotel, and they couldn’t find one suitable one for their love fest?

Buffy sighed. She was just jealous of the open, unrestrained, affection Angel and Cordelia had for each other. You could have it, too, the little voice in Buffy’s head whispered. It’s right there in front of you. Her hazel eyes darted to Spike. A small smile appeared on her face as she watched him glance over his shoulder at her and smile.

Mmm… pretty. Eyes widening, Buffy shook her head quickly, attempting to banish the crazy thoughts swirling through her mind about Spike. Rationally, none of this made sense. She shouldn’t want Spike, and he shouldn’t have wanted her. They were supposed to be mortal enemies. And Angel shouldn’t love Cordelia, the Bitch Queen of Sunnydale High. But he did. Even if it was weird.

Angel and Cordelia. Buffy and Spike. It made sense, not in Buffy’s mind, but in her heart and in her gut and in her blood. In her blood that rushed through her veins whenever Spike was near. In her blood that burned whenever she looked into his eyes and saw all that he had done, the bad and the good, and all that he was, the demon and the man. In her blood that pounded through her body, screaming its will, its desire, and its need for Spike.

Love wasn’t brains, all stiff and formal and logical. It was blood, hot and messy and emotional.

And despite all of the logical reasons for her not to, all of the million reasons starting with the fact that she was a Slayer and Spike was a vampire and ending with their tortured, tangled farce of a relationship last year, despite all of her fears and doubts and insecurities and the overwhelming terror that seized her body when she calmly and rationally thought about it, Buffy loved Spike.

Buffy froze in the middle of the third floor hall of Wolfram and Hart as her brain repeated the phrase. She loved Spike. Buffy the Vampire Slayer loved William the Bloody Vampire. Oh god. Her head swam, the room beginning to sway as all of the blood disappeared from her head. She blinked a few times and attempted to suck in a breath but found that her muscles had seized up. Leaning back against the wall, Buffy stuck her head between her knees, forcing her lungs to fill with oxygen and the blood to return to her brain. Perfect timing, brain. Earth shattering revelation while breaking into evil law firm with former and current loves. A half-hysterical, half-elated giggle escaped her lips. Current love.

She was in love with Spike.

But what if he didn’t love her anymore? Sure, he came back to Sunnydale to apologize to her, and Dawn said he was still in love with her, but what if he didn’t? What if all he wanted to be was friends?

Buffy groaned as she felt the room begin to spin again.

“Buffy? Buffy?”

Snapping her head up, Buffy locked eyes with Spike, who stood before her, concern shining from his clear, vivid, vibrant cerulean eyes.

“Are you alright?”

“Huh?” Buffy blinked, tearing her gaze away from Spike, attempting to clear her hormone bombarded head.

“Are you Ok?”

Her eyes darted from Spike to Angel, noticing that the brunette stood at the end of the hall before an open door. He was looking back at them, a slight frown on his face. She looked at Spike again and nodded weakly. “Yeah, I’m Ok. A big bundle of fine is me.” Buffy pushed off the wall and edged past Spike, keeping as close to the wall as possible out of fear of another attack from her overactive libido. She reached Angel and followed him into the massive office. A wide cherry desk sat off to the left, a manila envelope and brass lamp the only items gracing the smooth surface; a plush leather chair resided behind the desk. A few armchairs circled a low coffee table to the right of the door. The rest of the office was open space, the view enhanced by the wall of windows looking out on the nighttime Los Angeles skyline.

“Wow,” Buffy murmured.

“Yeah. Crime certainly does pay,” Spike said as he walked past Buffy, lightly brushing against her and causing her to jump. He tilted his head against the glass, peering through the flawless, smudge free window at the twinkling L.A. skyline.

Buffy forced herself to turn away from Spike and the window. She saw Angel standing next to the desk, the large manila envelope in his hands. Buffy moved towards the desk as she said, “Found something?”

“Maybe. It was sitting on Lilah’s desk. There’s no name on it.” Angel opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of black and white photographs. Another frown crossed his face as he studied the pictures.

“What is it?”

“Pictures of Lilah. Looks like someone was spying on her.”

“Is she in Sunnydale?” Spike asked as he pushed away from the window and walked towards Buffy and Angel.

Angel shrugged. “Maybe. She’s coming out of some building. I don’t recognize it though.” He handed the stack of photographs to Buffy. She looked at the woman in the photograph. Lilah was tall, thin, dressed in a killer suit; she had gorgeous hair and an expensive leather briefcase. She was walking out of a massive brick building. Spike leaned over her shoulder, snorting as he took in the photograph.

“That’s the building I saw your wanker of a boss go into,” Spike said to Buffy, pointing at the building behind Lilah. “The one on Mulholland Drive. Seems like the assassin bloke told the truth.”

Buffy gnawed on her lower lip. “Maybe.”

“What is it?” Spike asked.

“I don’t know. Doesn’t it seem odd that Lilah would have these pictures of her in Sunnydale? And that she would leave them unprotected on her desk, out in the open, where anyone can find them?”

“Maybe someone planted them here,” Angel said. “Expected us to come looking for something to tie Lilah to the attacks in Sunnydale.”

“But that means-” The door to Lilah’s office burst open and five armed guards entered, guns raised and locked on Buffy, Spike, and Angel. They were dressed in black, an odd assortment of weapons, knives, stakes, and other items, strapped to their body. Buffy slid the pictures back into the manila envelope as she said, “That means this is a trap. Great.”
 

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six: Escape

By: Wynn

His breath was hot and moist on her neck. A shiver of disgust ran down her spine. His words echoed in her ears, sparking images of horror and torture to flash into her mind. Faith shivered again. Her body was frozen with indecision. To kill or not to kill? That was the eternal question, the question that haunted her like low-lying fog, slowly sinking through her thoughts, a constant presence in her mind. She didn’t want to once again become the out of control, scared little girl, full of bravado and nothing else. She couldn’t go down that path again. But then what-

Faith started as she felt Tyler’s fingertips brush against her hand, creeping closer to the hilt of the dagger. She blinked once, the doubts and confusion fleeing from her mind, and she smirked, a humorless curving of her full lips. “Nice try.” Faith took a step back, lifted her right leg, and kicked Tyler hard in the chest. He sailed across the room, crashing against the wall, a harsh groan and a spray of blood bursting from his mouth as he collapsed onto the jagged pieces of the broken trophy case.

“Nice. Fucking. Try.” Pacing like a caged animal, dangerous, unpredictable, her dark eyes glittering with fury, Faith said, “Using your Freudian psychobabble shit to fuck with my head while you slip in and steal the knife right from my hands. Real slick of you. Too bad it didn’t work.”

Faith crossed the room and lifted Tyler off the ground, throwing him against the wall with one hand, eliciting another pain filled moan from his bloodied mouth. “You know what I hate worse than liars?” she asked, her voice low and soft and deadly. “People who try to play me. People like you who think I’m dumb enough to fall for your manipulative shit.” A cruel smile twisted her lips as Faith lifted the dagger and drug the tip across Tyler’s face. “It’s been a long, long time since I made a man scream using a knife. But it’s just like riding a bike… you never really forget.”

“Faith, no!”

The next minute was a blur, passing as quickly as lightning, yet lingering as long as eternity in Faith’s mind. As her dark eyes flickered from Tyler to the mirror, locking onto the reflected form of Xander beside the entrance to the main room of the dojo, Faith heard the debris shift from the trophy case and felt Tyler’s hand lock onto the knife. Before the thought that she was seriously in danger completely formed in her mind, Tyler wrenched her arm, snatched the knife, and forced the blade up to her neck. The tip of the dagger dug into her flesh as Tyler stood and pressed himself against her back, his free hand clamping across Faith’s mouth, forcing her to tilt her chin into the air and further expose the smooth expanse of the flesh of her neck.

“Well, well, well,” Tyler murmured, his mouth once more pressed against her ear. “Looky here, sweetheart. My knife in my hand pressed against your throat. Isn’t this an interesting turn of events?” He tilted his head and looked at Xander. “Thanks, man, for the superb distraction. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

The color drained from Xander’s face, his skin becoming pasty white as he stared at Tyler and Faith. “I didn’t-”

“Of course you didn’t,” Tyler said. “And that’s the icing on the cake. Now answer this or hunny here is dead. Are there any other of your little friends hiding around?”

A moment of hesitation hung in the air before Xander opened his mouth and said, “No.”

“Now why don’t I believe you?” Tyler said. “Maybe ‘cause of your not at all subtle hesitation over how to answer my very simple question.”

Faith stiffened as the dagger lightly sliced across the tender skin of her throat and a warm rivulet of blood trailed down her neck. She wanted to slap Xander for his idiocy. Did he really believe she was going to torture Tyler in the middle of his shop while they were breaking, entering, and stealing? Sure, she was angry at being so easily manipulated by his calculating words, but Faith was in control of her anger, able to curb the rage induced need to beat the shit out of Tyler, and use her emotions constructively. She knew no amount of polite discussion would prevent Tyler from telling his bosses about their knowledge of the hidden cameras. Only brute force and physical intimidation would have neutralized him long enough for Faith, Anya, and Xander to transport him to the Summers home for questioning and containment. But that was all shot to hell thanks to Xander and his constant suspicion of Faith.

“Whoever’s hiding better come out in under five seconds,” Tyler said, his gravelly voice echoing throughout the empty dojo, “or she is dead. One-”

Anya appeared directly in front of Faith and Tyler, having teleported into the main room from wherever she had been hiding. Her mouth was a grim, hardened line, and her eyes flashed with rage and worry. “It seems we’re at a bit of an impasse,” she said, her gaze locked on Tyler. “You’re threatening to kill Faith so you can get out of this dojo alive. Yet if you kill Faith in your attempt to escape, you are a dead man because I will hunt you down and kill you. So your only bargaining chip is your death warrant.”

“Looks like.”

“So the question is what are you going to do now? Increase the probability of the continuation of your sorry existence by releasing Faith, or ensure your slow, painful death by using the knife in your hands? It’s your choice.”

A minute passed. The air in the dojo was heavy and still. Mind racing on possible ways of escaping Tyler’s clutches, Faith drew in a deep breath and tensed, preparing to make some sort of move against him. She froze as Tyler increased his hold over her mouth and jaw.

“I like to play the odds,” Tyler said as planted a bloody kiss on Faith’s temple and jerked the dagger across her throat.
 

* * *

“Julia.”

“Reese.”

“Reese? Now way. Definitely Julia.”

Wrinkling her nose, Dawn shook her head at Clem’s choice for movie night. With Buffy and Spike in L.A., Giles with Emilia, Willow thankfully elsewhere, and Anya, Faith, and Xander breaking into Buffy’s creepy boss’s place, Dawn and Clem were home alone, debating which video they would watch. Dawn shifted her sling and pointed to the DVD of Legally Blonde. “Reese. She’s wicked funny and has the best clothes.”

Clem moved over to the TV and grabbed his copy of Pretty Woman. “Julia. She sings Prince and has the best clothes the early 1990’s had to offer. It’s a classic.”

“Exactly. Classic as in old. Outdated. Reese is it.”

Sighing, Clem placed Pretty Woman on the low coffee table. He grabbed a second movie and held it before Dawn. “What about Meg? Sleepless in Seattle?”

Arching one brow, Dawn opened her mouth to reply but was cut off by a knock on the front door. She crossed the living room and peeked through the peep hole. Grabbing the door handle, Dawn pulled open the door and smiled broadly at Giles and Emilia. “Hey Giles.” Dawn reached past Giles and grabbed Emilia’s hand, pulling her through the entrance and into the living room. “I am so glad that you are here. I need some help.”

“What is it Dawn?” Giles asked as he closed the door. “Are you alright? Is something wrong?”

“No… well, maybe if Clem gets his way.” Dawn sat Emilia on the couch and handed her the Legally Blonde DVD. “I’m trying to bring Clem into the modern age of romantic comedies. He’s still stuck in the stone age of the early ‘90’s. Anyway, I vote for Reese for movie night, but Clem insists on Julia or Meg.” Shaking her head in disbelief, Dawn looked at Clem, rolling her eyes in mock irritation as he enthusiastically waved Pretty Woman in the air.

Turning back to Emilia, Dawn said, “So we need another opinion, and the concept of a quality romantic comedy is about as foreign to Giles as leather pants.”

“Actually-”

“Let me live in the safe land of denial, Emilia. Please.” Dawn cast an involuntary sidelong glance at Giles, who coughed slightly as he turned and left the living room. Inwardly grimacing at the mental image of Giles in leather pants, Dawn looked back at Emilia and said, “So… what do you think? Reese or Julia?”

Emilia pursed her lips, her wide violet eyes traveling from Dawn to Clem and back again. “I don’t know. I was quite fond of Audrey Hepburn.”

“Oh, yeah!” Clem moved to the couch and sat next to Emilia as he said, “Breakfast at Tiffany’s is the best.”

A wide grin appeared on Emilia’s face. “Definitely.”

Dawn sighed and slumped into the nearby armchair, blue eyes watching Clem and Emilia discuss the film oeuvre of Audrey Hepburn. Another knock sounded through the house, prompting Dawn to push off the chair and walk to the front door. Her face hardened as she looked through the peep hole. A second knock echoed through the house as Dawn turned away from the door and returned to the living room. Scowling, she plopped into the chair and attempted to cross her arms over her chest, mentally cursing at her stupid sling. Out of the corners of her eyes, Dawn saw Giles move into the room, his gaze flickering from the front door to Dawn.

“Dawn?”

Glancing at Giles, Dawn said, “What?”

“Who is at the door?”

“No one.”

A third knock.

Raising one eyebrow, Giles crossed the room and opened the front door. “Ah. Hello, Willow. How are you?”

Willow smiled at Giles, hesitation and nervousness apparent in her vibrant green eyes. Her glossy red hair hung in two braids down her back, and the color of health and vitality had returned to her cheeks. “Hey, Giles. I’m doing good. Can I, um, come in?”

“Oh! Of course. Come in Willow.”

Smiling her thanks, Willow entered the Summers home, her eyes darting to Dawn before locking onto Giles.

“Is there something in particular you needed, Willow?” Giles asked.

“Actually, yes. I need to talk with Dawn.”
 

* * *

Spike sighed as the five armed guards fanned throughout Lilah’s office, their weapons trained on himself, Buffy, and Angel. He resisted the urge to launch himself over the desk and smack Angel upside the head. It was The Poof’s idea to break into Wolfram and Hart, saying the three of them would be in and out of the law firm in five minutes without being detected. Obviously, Angel’s assessment of his powers of subterfuge was severely lacking in the accuracy department.

One of the guards stepped towards Buffy, raising the gun and aiming it at her face. “Drop the envelope and put your hands above your head.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and dropped the envelope of pictures onto the floor next to Lilah’s desk. Her hazel gaze flickered to Spike then to the desk before locking onto the guard standing in front of her.

Spike blinked once. He looked at Angel, catching the brunette’s attention, and then focused on the guards before them. Out of the corners of his blue eyes, he saw Angel nod imperceptibly.

“Put your hands above your head,” the guard said again, taking another step closer to Buffy.

“I don’t think so,” she said as she grabbed the brass lamp off Lilah’s desk and hurled it at the guard. It smashed against his forehead with a sickening crunch. The guard’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed onto the ground, unconscious, his gun clattering to the ground.

As the unconscious guard tumbled to the floor, Spike and Angel grabbed the oak desk and threw it at three of the guards. The massive desk collided with the three men, knocking them to the ground. Two guards were pinned beneath the heavy desk while the third lay slumped unconscious against the wall. Their weapons had scattered throughout the room upon impact with the desk.

As the desk collided with the three guards, Buffy snatched the weapon out of the last remaining guard’s hands and rammed the butt of the gun into his temple. He swayed for a moment before falling to the floor. Buffy tossed the gun across the room and retrieved the discarded envelope of pictures. “Time to go!” she yelled as she sprinted for the door.

The three raced through the door and into the third floor hallway of Wolfram and Hart, Angel in the lead, Buffy in the middle, and Spike bringing up the rear. They rounded the corner and ran for the stairwell. A door smashed open behind them. Spike glanced over his shoulder, and he saw four guards enter the hallway from a room opposite Lilah’s office and turn towards them. They too had guns and other weapons strapped to their body.

“We got company,” Spike said as Angel burst through the door leading to the stairwell.

“How many?” Angel asked.

“Four.”

“Are they armed?”

“Yeah.”

Spike moved into the stairwell and slammed the door behind him. He twisted the handle, pulling it off in his hands and tossing it to the floor. As he followed Buffy and Angel down the stairs, he heard the four guards slam against the door and attempt to pry it open. Two gunshots rang through the narrow corridor and the third floor door crashed open. Spike reached the first floor as four sets of boots pounded down the metal stairs. He passed through the threshold and closed the door, once again yanking off the handle in an attempt to slow down their pursuers.

The first floor corridor was dark and deserted. The doors lining both sides of the hallway were closed. The front exit lay at the end of the long hall, the night sky visible through the glass panes. “Why do I get the feeling this is where the trap really kicks in?” Spike asked as he moved down the shadowed passage, keeping close to Buffy, his senses searching for any sign of movement and finding none.

Light flooded the corridor as three doors burst open and guards poured into the hall. A steel gate began to descend from the ceiling over the glass front doors, blocking their exit out of Wolfram and Hart. Spike blinked once, clearing his vision, and looked behind him, eyes widening at the amount of armed goons running towards them. “Shit.” He turned and pushed Buffy down the hall. “Go. Now!” He, Buffy, and Angel sprinted for the front doors as the guards behind them opened fire. Chunks of plaster exploded around Spike as bullets slammed into the walls. He saw Angel move into the lobby and reach the set of glass doors, moving underneath the steel gate and halting its descent.

“Come on!” Angel yelled, his muscles straining from the effort to hold up the gate.

Spike sprinted out of the hallway and into the lobby. Buffy ran across the entryway and ducked under the gate, kicking at the glass doors, trying to force them open. The single gunshot blasted through the hall, the echo unnaturally loud in the chaos of their escape from Wolfram and Hart. Spike skidded to a halt as the bullet slammed into his back, between his shoulder blades, and burst through his chest. He glanced down at the widening circle of blood staining his black T-shirt, and he raised one hand and gingerly touched the open wound.

“Spike!”

He looked up at Buffy. She moved away from the doors towards him, eyes wide with shock, fear and worry etched across her face. He fell to his knees as she reached him, blood dripping from the bullet hole on his chest onto the cold tiles of the lobby floor. He met her gaze as he whispered, “Wood… bullet,” and collapsed onto the floor.
 

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Hell Hath No Fury

By: Wynn

It didn’t gush. It seeped slowly down, staining the pale cream of her skin, pooling in the hollow of her throat, creeping into the fibers of her ebony shirt. The blood was beyond red. It was crimson… scarlet… There was so much. Drops fell onto the floor, arcing through the air, a graceful descent followed by the violent collision with the ground.

A faint gurgle jerked Anya out of her stupor. She locked eyes with Faith, the brunette’s dark gaze panicked… afraid, her mouth moving but no words coming forth. Anya looked from Faith to Tyler, pure fury beginning to boil within her at the sight of the sadistic grin on his face. He winked as he shoved Faith into her arms and streaked past them, gunning for the exit. Anya’s hands slipped across Faith’s blood soaked skin, and the two slid to the ground, Faith’s eyes fluttering closed as her head lolled to the side.

“No! Faith!” Anya shook the brunette, one hand clamping over her neck to stave off the blood flow. Trembling, she pried open one of Faith’s eyelids as she yelled, “Faith! Wake up! Faith!” The Slayer jerked her head out from under Anya’s fingers as she reopened her eyes. “You-”

The sounds of a struggle tore Anya’s attention from Faith. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Xander grappling with Tyler, attempting to stop him from escaping as well as evading the maroon tinged dagger held in his hand. Xander grunted as Tyler kicked him in the chest and he tumbled to the ground, the tape recorder found during the office search slipping out of his pocket. Tyler snatched the recorder off the floor, kicked Xander again, and sprinted for the doors, crashing through them, disappearing into the night.

Anya blinked once, the sound of glass and metal clanging closed ringing in her mind, displacing the panic over the condition of her best friend with an undiluted, all consuming, desperate need for retribution. For vengeance. She looked at Faith again. Her golden brown eyes were devoid of any emotion; her hand shook as she smoothed a stray strand of hair off Faith’s face. Standing, Anya turned and walked to Xander, hauling him off of the floor. “Help Faith. Call someone to help her,” she said as she pushed Xander toward the main room and moved toward the exit.

“What-”

“Don’t let her die, Xander. Please. I am trusting you to help her.”

“Where are-”

Anya spun back towards him, her demon visage surging forth as she screamed, “JUST DO IT!” She closed her eyes, forcing the tears back, pushing aside the terror that threatened to seize control of her mind if she dwelled on the fact that death was slowly approaching Faith and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“Anya…” She heard the pleading note in his voice, and she knew that he knew what she was going to do.

“It’s vengeance, Xander,” she said as she opened her eyes and looked at him, breaking at expression upon his face, shattering with the realization that there would be no turning back from this, that what little hope there had been for a reconciliation between her and Xander would vanish if she left to pursue Tyler. “It’s my job. My purpose. Vengeance is what I am.” She drew in a deep breath and teleported out of dojo.
 

* * *

Wood bullet. The concept was unbelievable, an oxymoron in the truest sense of the word. Bullets were metal and wood was wood, and metal was not wood. It was about as far away from wood as a material substance could get. Yet the bullet was wood. It was real. And it was in Spike.

Buffy stared down at Spike, lying facedown on the cold tiled floor, her mind momentarily frozen as she took in his closed eyes and open mouth, his face haggard and covered with pain. Her eyes darted to the pool of blood creeping out from beneath him, and she sprang into action.

“Spike. Spike! Get up! We have to get out of here now.” Buffy hooked her hands underneath Spike’s arms and pulled him to his feet. She threw his arm over her shoulder and began to move towards the still descending steel gate and glass doors. They were halfway across the lobby; the gate was halfway to the ground. She watched Angel readjust his grip on the metal barricade, the envelope of pictures mashed between his hand and the gate, his muscles taut through the effort to halt its descent. Buffy slipped in the pool of blood that lay beneath her feet and fell to the floor, a ragged moan of pain torn from Spike as he collided with the hard ground.

Hazel eyes darting to the hallway, Buffy saw the armed guards charging towards them. There were ten, maybe twelve, fast approaching the foyer. She clamored to her feet and reached for Spike again, grasping his shirt as she said, “Need to move! Now!”

His hands splayed across the bloodied ground, and he pushed himself to his feet. “Moving.” His voice was soft and thin, not even remotely resembling its usual full, rich timbre. A surge of panic coursed through Buffy, and her hands tightened on his shoulders as they crossed the lobby. He will be fine. This is no big. Like a walk through the park, full of puppies and other cute non-deadly things. He will be-

An alarm began to sound through the building as Buffy and Spike neared the front doors, and small holes appeared in the ceiling, along with flashing red lights. Metal spokes poked through the openings, releasing a torrent of water into the entrance hall. Buffy frowned. They had activated the sprinkler system? Why?

A harsh scream rang through the hall. Angel. She looked at the brunette, her eyes widening as the smoke began to billow off the exposed skin of his hands, face, and neck. “Angel?”

“Buffy! It’s holy water!”

Her gaze snapped to Spike and time stopped. It was one of those moments that Buffy knew came along once or twice in a lifetime, a moment where everything got flipped upside down, what was insane became sane, and what was once impossible and inconceivable became truth and reality.

He didn’t burn. The holy water streamed across his bare skin and soaked into the open wounds on his chest and back, and nothing happened. No blistering, no smoking, no anguished cries of pain.

Nothing.

Buffy blinked as bright, white light flooded the lobby, tearing her from her shock. She peered through the glass doors and could see the dim outline of Angel’s car through the glare, Cordelia in the driver’s seat. The guards opened fire behind them again, the bullets whizzing through the air, slamming into glass and steel and tile. Buffy continued half-dragging, half-carrying Spike towards the entrance, wincing as a bullet grazed her thigh. She stumbled for a step, her injured leg sliding across the water slicked ground, but remained upright, and Buffy continued their approach to the twin glass doors.

One of the doors was ripped from its hinges, glass shards and twisted metal falling from the ceiling onto Angel. Connor moved into the lobby and shoved the brunette vampire through the jagged opening into the night, assuming his place beneath the steel gate. He tilted his head towards Spike and Buffy and yelled, “Hurry up!”

Buffy ducked under the barricade, her shoes crunching across the bits of broken glass, carefully avoiding the chunks still dangling from the ceiling. She stepped into the night air, Spike by her side, and scrambled for Angel’s car. Cordelia opened the driver’s door and moved towards them, slipping under Spike’s other arm and helping Buffy move him to the car. The back door opened, and Angel reached out, latching onto to Spike and dragging him into the backseat. Buffy slid into the seat and slammed the door behind her.

“Where’s Connor?” Angel asked as he inspected the wound on Spike’s chest.

“He’s coming,” Cordelia said, resuming her position behind the wheel. “Got anything?”

Angel nodded and tossed the crumpled pack of pictures to Cordelia.

Through the windshield, Buffy say Connor let go of the steel gate and race for the car. The metal barricade completed its descent, locking the guards inside the foyer. Connor wrenched open the passenger door, jumped into the car, and closed it as Cordelia slammed on the gas and rocketed away from Wolfram and Hart.
 

* * *

“What do you want?”

“Um… I wanted to talk to you. That is, if it’s Ok with you.”

“It’s not. I don’t want to talk to you.” Dawn flipped her hair over her shoulder and, glare firmly in place and chin held high in the air, she strode past Willow towards the living room.

“Wait. Please.” Willow maneuvered around Dawn, blocking her path out of the dining room. “I, um, it’s important. It’ll only take a few minutes. I promise.”

Rolling her eyes, Dawn heaved a weary, exasperated sigh and said, “Fine. A few minutes. Meaning no more than three, alright?”

Willow nodded. “Ok.” She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath as Dawn turned and stalked back into the dining room. At least she had agreed to a couple of minutes without Willow having to resort to insane amounts of groveling and pleading. She knew this conversation with Dawn wasn’t going to be the easiest, most pleasant thing in the world Willow had ever experienced, but it was necessary. For her and for Dawn’s sakes. Willow reopened her eyes and walked back into the dining room, sitting across from Dawn.

“So what do you want, Willow? Got the urge to turn me back into a ball of energy? Want to destroy the world again?”

Flinching, Willow sucked in another deep breath and said, “When Tara died, I lost it. I went into autopilot. Nothing made sense in my head. It was all jumbled and noisy, and all I could focus on was her and the look on her face the second before she died and that she was gone and I couldn’t bring her back to me. And I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t deal. And all I knew was that I hurt and I wanted everyone else to hurt too. First Warren and then Jonathan and Andrew and anyone else who got in my way.” Willow paused. She fought back the tears that pricked her eyes and swallowed again, her throat constricted with emotion. “I said some unforgivable things to you Dawn. I said the cruelest things I could think of so you would hurt like I did. And I’m sorry. I know that’s not enough. But it’s true.”

Standing, Willow reached into one pocket of her jeans and pulled out a small ring. The smooth silver band was lined with tiny circular opals. She placed the ring on the table before Dawn as she said, “This was Tara’s. It was her favorite ring. She liked opals better than diamonds or emeralds because they had all of the colors inside them and not just one. She said it was like looking into a rainbow.” A tear slid down her cheek and Willow hastily brushed it away. She cleared her throat and said, “Um, it’s yours, if you want it. She loved you so much Dawn. She planned on giving this to you on your sixteenth birthday, but… Um, I should go now. Thank you, for listening.” Willow moved around the dining room table, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her pants, and approached the front door. The telephone rang in the distance, and she heard Dawn push away from the table.

“Opals were her birthstones, too.”

It was barely a whisper. More of a muttered mumble, nearly inaudible. Willow turned back towards Dawn, tears once more welling within her green eyes, body trembling from hope and relief and sorrow and guilt. Dawn stared down at the ring held in her hands, face stained with tracks of tears.

“Yes, they were,” Willow whispered.

“Maybe sometime we could, you know, go visit her. She’s next to Mom.”

“I would like that.”

Dawn nodded. She wiped her hand across her face, brushing aside the tears, and placed Tara’s ring on her finger.

“I-”

“Willow!”

She started at Giles’ yell. Moving into the living room, Willow saw him grab his jacket off the armchair and throw it on. His expression was unreadable, but the tense posture of his body sent shivers down her spine. “What is it, Giles?”

“That was Xander on the phone. Faith’s been hurt.” He glanced at Dawn. “Stay here with Emilia and Clem.” Giles strode past Willow and opened the front door. As he crossed the threshold, he said, “We need to go. Now.”
 

* * *

She saw Tyler running from her perch on the rooftops. One hand held the bloody dagger while the other clutched the tape recorder. He kept glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the dojo as if he expected her to come charging out of the door, hot on his heels, obvious in her pursuit.

Stupid man.

She teleported to the end of the alley, blocking his escape route to Main Street. His eyes widened when he spotted her, and he skidded to a halt and turned to run in the opposite direction. Anya teleported again, this time reappearing directly in front of him. He slammed into her, falling to the ground. He sprang to his feet and stabbed at her with the knife. It slid into her stomach, passing through her shirt and her skin like she was hot butter. Anya looked at the hilt of the dagger, focusing on the crimson fingerprints covering the smooth surface. She glanced up at him, noticed the smirk on his face, and grasped the handle. She jerked the blade out of her stomach and thrust it into Tyler’s, a cold grin curving her lips at the pain in his eyes, on his face, at the choked cry escaping his lips.

The tape recorder clattered to the ground as she said, “Evidently someone hasn’t studied the proper methods of killing Vengeance Demons. Too busy focusing on how to murder humans, I suppose.” Anya yanked the knife out of his stomach, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from him, and threw the dagger onto the roof of the nearby building. “Knives don’t really affect me. They’re quite annoying and bothersome, and I don’t want anything distracting me from the pleasure of killing you.” She punched him in the face, shattering the cartilage of his nose and sending him sailing down the alley. He crashed onto the concrete, the back of his head smacking against the ground and causing him to groan again.

Moving over to him, Anya lifted him off the ground and sent another punch deep into his stomach. As he doubled over, she brought her knee up and smashed it into his face. His head flew back and he toppled to the ground.

Tyler rolled to his stomach and struggled to his knees. He swayed as he faced Anya. “Why… why don’t you just… kill me now and be… done with it?”

Anya walked around him, her stride slow and steady. “Because you don’t deserve a quick, easy death. And I should know. I spent one thousand years giving men what they deserve, enacting the vengeance wished by women who were too powerless to do it themselves. All they did was say the word and I acted.”

“Pretty sure… Faith isn’t saying… much of anything... right now.”

Anya froze before Tyler, her spine stiff, muscles tense. She murmured, “No, she isn’t.” Anya grabbed Tyler by the neck and tossed him into the brick wall of the closest building. She lifted him again, punching him in the stomach, causing him to double over in gasping pain. “She’s lying there in the middle of your store bleeding to death! She’s dying, and it’s because of you!” Anya took a step back and kicked him in the head, her foot colliding with his temple.

Crumpling to his knees, Tyler said, “Just… doing my job. You know all about that. You do the same thing. Doing vengeance… for someone who can’t do it them-”

“Shut up!” She punched him again, her fist smashing into his face. “That wasn’t vengeance. It was murder.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You’re going to kill me in the name of vengeance. That pretty much… supports my point.” Tyler leaned back against the brick wall. His nose was broken and one of his eyes was swollen shut. Blood streamed from his mouth and temple. “You kill me she’ll kill you. You think that Buffy chick will want an active vengeance demon loose in her town? You think that boy in there will step in on your behalf cause he used to love you? You’re a demon. You’re nothing to them, less than human and expendable. You’re nothing.”

“Maybe,” Anya whispered. Her hand lashed out and wrapped around Tyler’s throat. “I’ll take my chances though. I like to play the odds.” His hands clawed at hers, desperately trying to loosen her grip on his neck. Her mouth crumpled and tears came into her eyes as she watched him struggle, his face contorting, his eyes widening to panic proportions. He deserved it. It was vengeance. And vengeance was what she was, all she had left.

“Anya, let him go.”

Anya shook her head. “Go away, Rupert.”

“Oh my god.”

“Willow, go inside and help Faith. Make sure Xander called an ambulance.”

“Ok, Giles.”

Anya heard Willow walk away as Giles moved towards her. He stepped close to her, calmly watching as she choked the life out of Tyler.

“This will not help Faith,” he said quietly. “I know you’re angry and scared, but killing him is not the answer.”

“He deserves it. She’s lying in there dying and he did it. And it wasn’t vengeance or retribution. He did it because he could. Because he wanted to. Because he’s a sick bastard who would chose to kill a girl when he could have let her go.” Her fingers shook as they dug into his throat. “He chose death.”

“Maybe so,” Giles said quietly. “But you do not have to make the same choice he did. You can choose life over death.”

“He doesn’t deserve life.”

“I wasn’t talking about his life. I was talking about yours.” Giles edged between Tyler and Anya. His face was tense, brows pinched over his pale grey eyes. Eyes that shone with worry and concern and friendship and love. He smoothed a hand over her hair as he said, “He is not worth killing yourself over. And that is what you will do if you continue. The life that you have worked so hard to build here will be nothing if you do this. Let yourself live and let him go. There are other ways to deal with him.”

Anya stared at Giles. Her eyes drifted to the contorted visage of the man she held within her grasp, the broken, bloodied, beaten man, and she felt something loosen within her chest, break through the hard shell of vengeance that had descended upon her when she saw the panicked expression upon Faith’s face. Complete and utter terror that her best friend in the entire world, the only one who didn’t give a fig’s ass what she had done in her past or how she always said the wrong thing at the right time, would leave her, and she would truly be alone. She would be nothing. No one to nobody.

Her hand slipped from his neck as the sobs broke through her, and he crashed to the ground, alive but unconscious, and the tension dissolved from her, leaving terrified tremors in its wake. She leaned into Giles, resting her head on his shoulder as her demon features melted away leaving the frightened young woman in its place. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” he said as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and rested his cheek upon her head.
 

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Good Man

By: Wynn

He slept, lying flat on his back in the middle of the black cotton sheets, one hand curled onto his bare stomach, the other flung over the edge of the bed. The smooth expanse of his chest was marred by scars, thin white strips of hardened flesh scattered around in a random pattern courtesy of the violence in which he lived. His head was tilted to the side, mouth slightly open, shallow breaths passing back and forth between his pale, lush lips. Dark eyelashes fluttered against his skin as he dreamt, obscuring the clear blue eyes that had haunted her dreams, sent tremors of desire shooting down her spine, and melted her heart with the naked, raw emotion contained within them.

Buffy sighed and shifted in her chair. Nearly two days had passed since the escape from Wolfram and Hart. The wood bullet had fragmented upon impact, sending slivers and splinters deep into Spike’s chest. Fred, Gunn, and Lorne had spent six long and tense hours extracting each and every shard, six hours in which Buffy used every ounce of self-control and patience she had accumulated over the years to stop herself from descending into full blown panic mode. Since the trio of make-shift vamp doctors had finished, Spike had slept, waking twice, long enough only to gulp down two mugs of blood before descending into unconsciousness again.

But it was just as well he stay asleep. Too much had happened in the last few days, and Buffy needed time to process everything, to make it make sense in her head before her confusion burst out of her mouth in nonsensical, stilted ramblings to any and all who would listen. A bitter smile crossed her face. Fate, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humor. She finally admits to herself that she loves Spike, and then… bam! Earth shattering revelation Number Two in the middle of the evil law firm. Spike was a vamp but wasn’t. Holy water was no longer a problem for this vampire with a soul. There was too much to think about, how and why the change happened, possible consequences or repercussions, what else was different about him, so Buffy chose not to think.

Instead, she watched him sleep.

He looked peaceful.

She wondered if he knew she was there, if he could sense her like she could him, a slow and steady pull throughout her body whenever he was near, drawing her closer to him, until she could reach out and touch him, reassure herself of his presence. Buffy leaned forward in her chair and brushed the tips of her fingers across the twisted scar near his heart, let them drift over his skin until they rested on his lips.

The door opened and she snatched her hand back. She smoothed the non-existent wrinkles out of her shirt and waited until Angel moved into the room before she casually lifted her head and looked at him. His dark eyes were upon her, and she swallowed. Rising from the chair, she moved towards the door and said, “Hi. Um, what…”

“How is he?” Angel glanced at Spike, the corners of his mouth tilted down in worry and concern. The burns on his hands and face from the exposure to holy water had healed, leaving no evidence of the previously reddened and blistered flesh.

“Sleeping. Some more. No big surprise there considering he’s been sleeping for a while now. Not that he shouldn’t be sleeping ‘cause injury and all, you know, wood bullet in the chest not of the good.” Ramble much, Buff? Why don’t you just staple a sign to your forehead proclaiming your feelings for Spike?

Angel didn’t seem to be bothered by her inability to speak coherently. “No. It’s not usually good.” He looked at her again as he said, “How are you doing?”

Buffy shrugged. “I’m fine. The bullet just grazed my leg. No big. Slayer healing and all.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh.” Here it comes. The questions. The lecture. The overbearing concern for her wellbeing. Her gaze darted to the floor before sliding over to the bed, to Spike. Squaring her shoulders, Buffy turned her head back towards Angel. Times like these called for desperate measures: the lame, obvious change in conversation. “You’re in love with Cordelia.”

Angel stared at her, silent. His mouth curved into a wisp of a smile and he ducked his head, brown eyes now intent upon the plush carpeting.

Buffy blinked. That was a new Angel expression. A kind of goofy, giddy embarrassment. She bent over and twisted her body until she was looking up at his face and into his eyes.

He looked down at her as he said softly, “Yeah, I am. And you’re avoiding.”

She straightened, mouth opened, eyes wide. “I am not avoiding.”

“Yes, you are.”

Buffy crossed her arms across her chest. “So what if I am avoiding, which I am not, but what if I was avoiding whatever it is you think I’m avoiding? You can’t force me not to avoid.”

“It’s Ok.”

“Ok? What’s Ok? Do you know how much I hate cryptic talk?”

“You can talk to me about it if you need to. I understand.”

“That’s good. You understand. Whereas, I haven’t understood one word that has come out of your mouth since you walked in here.”

Angel only smiled at her, a smile full of secret knowledge that made sense only in his head and made her want to hit him really, really hard. He moved around her and approached the bed, standing silently for a few minutes, staring down at Spike. He said softly, “The more things change…” He drifted back into silence.

Buffy sighed. Now there was a deep, philosophical utterance to go along with the cryptic talk. Wonderful. “What are you talking about?”

Angel shook his head and turned back towards Buffy. “I was just thinking about how much he looks like William.” He paused as another small smile appeared on his face. “Has he ever told you about William? What he was like?”

“Sort of. The one and only time Spike talked to me about his life he lied his ass off. Told me he was this badass Victorian rebel.” Buffy rolled her eyes. “He’s a horrible liar.”

“Yeah, he is. William was quiet, sensitive. He wanted to be a poet in the vein of Shelley or Byron. They’re Romantic po-”

“I know who they are.”

Angel blinked. “Oh. Good. So he wanted to be a poet, but he was horrible. Awful. Truly wretched. He-”

“I get it. He sucked. Moving on to the point now?”

“William had the passion for poetry but not the skill. Which was good because there were already too many passionless people in the Victorian Age. Everyone repressing their emotions and desires because of social standards and decorum. But not William. He was different. He wore his heart on his sleeve for the entire world to see, baring his deepest desires and wishes to everyone. And the thing he wanted most in the world wasn’t money or social standing. He wanted love.”

Her body was still, but Buffy’s mind was a flurry of activity, trying to discern why Angel was reminiscing about William. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because one hundred years wasn’t enough for the demon to kill the good man inside him. I know. I tried to break him, to get rid of the last inklings of William that formed the core of Spike, but I never succeeded. And I hated him for it. That is until I got my soul.” Angel turned from the bed and walked to Buffy. “Then I envied him. For his passion. For the good man that was buried deep inside him, hidden by the cocky, pain in the ass demon, but never gone for good. Not like me. Take away the soul and all that’s left is the demon. A sick, sadistic bastard bent on torture and killing.”

“Angel…”

“What did you think I was going to do, Buffy? Tell you that you were wrong to love Spike? That you deserve better than him? You do. Even Spike would tell you that. But I’m not going to condemn you for feeling the way you do because I know what kind of a man Spike is.”

“I…”

Angel reached down and grasped Buffy’s hand. “I want you to be happy, Buffy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. And if what makes you happy is an impulsive, annoying, cocky, exasperating, irritating, good man who happens to be a vampire with a soul… then that makes you officially crazy. Happy, but crazy.”

She knew her mouth was hanging open and her eyes were doing the whole bugging-out-of-their-sockets thing that was always freaky looking, but Buffy couldn’t help it. He knew. Angel knew, and he was Ok with it. The world was officially coming to an end. “Ok… who are you and what have you done with Angel? Because he would have been all brood, brood, brood, hate Spike, protect Buffy, brood some more.”

Angel laughed and drew her into a hug. “Thank you for the astute assessment of my character, Buff.”

“I meant-”

He leaned back and looked down at her. A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I know what you meant.”

She smiled and placed her head on Angel’s chest, her hazel eyes resting on Spike. “Thank you for understanding,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome.” Angel stepped away from her and moved towards the door. He crossed the threshold as he said, “Plus, Spike knows I’ll stake him faster than he can say ‘Bloody hell’ if he so much as lays a finger on you.”

“Hey!”

Angel glanced over his shoulder at Buffy, a wicked, mischievous smirk on his face. He held her gaze for a moment before he pulled the door closed behind him.
 

* * *

He was in hell. His eyelids were stuck together, his mouth was dry, and his tongue was like sandpaper. His mind was a hazy fog, trying to shake off the remaining vestiges of unconsciousness and regretting the action as the first few lances of pain radiated from his chest with the speed and force of a runaway freight train.

“Oh… bloody hell.”

Prying his eyes open, Spike stared at the stucco ceiling, drawing in hisses of breath from between his clenched teeth. His entire chest cavity ached, which was expected since he had had three sets of hands poking and prodding his tender flesh for far, far too long looking for tiny pieces of wood.

“I ever find the bloody bastard that invented sodding wood bullets,” he grumbled as he rolled to his side, “bastard’s a dead man.” Spike pushed himself into a sitting position and placed his feet on the floor. The room was empty and the door was open, but the air was still warm from the presence of Buffy. He shook his head slowly as he stood. Bloody stubborn chit probably hadn’t gotten any sleep in the last couple of days from watching over him. That was going to change now that Spike had rejoined the Land of the Conscious. She was going to rest if he had to drag her kicking and screaming to her bed. Grimacing, he walked over to his bag and pulled out a soft black T-shirt, another bolt of pain shooting throughout his body. So maybe Angel, Gunn, and Connor would drag her kicking and screaming.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting dressed,” he said, pulling the shirt over his head and smoothing it across his chest. “What does it look like?”

He heard Buffy sigh and stalk across the room, latching onto his elbow and forcing him back to the bed. “You’re supposed to be resting. And healing, in case you’ve forgotten about the recent hole put through your chest from the lawyer goons.”

“Haven’t forgotten. Just tired of… sleeping…” Bloody hell...

Her feet were bare, toes painted a shiny cherry red. The black pants riding low on her hips molded to her curves, exposing the smooth expanse of her tanned stomach peeking from beneath the nearly unbuttoned scarlet shirt she wore, the two sections of silk held together by two buttons over the middle of her chest. Her glossy honey hair hung in soft waves, framing the face that left him breathless. Wide hazel eyes with impossibly long lashes and full crimson lips that caused trembles to shoot across his skin. He closed his eyes, sucked in a lungful of air, and nearly moaned at the hint of lavender invading his senses.

“Spike? Spike? Are you alright?”

He jumped at the feel of her hand on his arm, the heat emanating off her body, igniting infernos beneath his skin.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, um, make you uncomfortable. I’ll just go.”

“No!” His eyes flew open, and he reached for her, drawing back as she turned towards him again, confusion and concern swirling within her hazel eyes. “Sorry. It’s not you. I’m still kind of… woozy, you know, from being asleep for so long. I’m fine now. Um, how are you?”

“I’m Ok. Are you sure you’re fine because-”

“I’m alright, Buffy.” My hormones decided to re-enact the Invasion of Normandy on my body, but I’m fine. He flashed a reassuring smile, his blue eyes drifting across her red top, his fingers reaching out to brush against the cool fabric. “Is that… my shirt?”

Her eyes widened and she giggled nervously, a rosy blush tinting her skin. “Um, yeah. It was… uh… Clem, he was, um, there, and he said that… yeah… You weren’t… so I took it to keep. For you. ‘Cause it’s your, um, shirt.”

He couldn’t help the smile from forming on his lips as he listened to her babble, her voice a little breathless, her skin flushed, fingers fidgeting with the tiny black buttons. “Looks better on you, luv.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Thanks, pet.” She blushed again, and he laughed as she swatted him across the arm, a mock frown pulling at her features. “So what’s the occasion for the outfit?”

“I have a date.”

“What?” The grin slipped from his face as he slid onto the bed. His throat constricted and he struggled to force the words out of his mouth. “You have a what?”

“A date. Well, maybe more of an informal business meeting. I don’t really know how to describe it. It’s not everyday a Slayer, half-demon Higher Being Thing, and an ex-other dimension Slave with an eerie Physics aptitude interrogate an evil lawyer who is possibly trying to kill us and, even worse, possibly sleeping with my ex-Watcher.”

Spike blinked. “What?”

Buffy patted Spike on the head, her shoulders shaking with silent giggles. “Brain isn’t fully functioning yet? That’s what thirty-six hours of sleep will do.” A wide grin curved her ruby lips. She sat next to Spike. There were no sounds in the room, save for her quiet breathing. A minute passed. It stretched into two. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath as she murmured, “You almost died.”

Spike tilted his head and looked at her. Her eyes were focused on the wall before them; her entire body was tense. “But I didn’t.”

She sighed, her taut muscles relaxing, and she turned her head towards Spike, glancing at him from beneath her dusky lashes. “I know. Don’t do it again, Ok?”

He searched her hazel eyes and fell into the depths of emotion she hid from the world, from her friends, from him pooling within her green and gold orbs. He felt the room tilt and a soft, insistent tug on his soul, pulling him towards her, drawing him towards her. “I’ll try not to,” he said, his voice low. “Same goes for you.”

Buffy nodded. She leaned towards him and rested her head on his shoulder. He reached up and smoothed a hand on her glossy honey hair.

Same goes for you.
 

* * *

That look. He had never seen it before. Not on her. At least not when she was looking at him. Before the acquisition of his soul, there had been loathing, hate, lust, fear. After the soul, there had been confusion, pity, remorse, heartbreak. But this was new and strange and complicated and confusing.

Sighing, Spike shoved the blanket off his legs and eased off the bed. Buffy had left twenty minutes ago, popping into his room long enough to order him to stay in bed and get more rest before leaving with Cordelia and Fred. He entered the small bathroom, flicked on the lights, and twisted the cold water faucet, splashing the icy liquid on his face. He looked into the mirror and stared at the blurred, hazy reflection. Anya had told him of his newly reflected status after his return to Sunnydale; she had seen it in the kitchen window here in the Hyperion. Spike hadn’t told anyone of the change, planning to research but waylaid by the events of the last few weeks. But now he was immune to holy water and the time for research had arrived.

He left the bathroom and made his way downstairs, pausing on the stairs. Spike raised one eyebrow and looked around the Hyperion’s lobby. Angel sat in his office while Lorne and Gunn stood around the front desk. Connor lay sprawled across the circular sofa in the middle of the room. Four perfectly healthy males of the human and demon variety doing absolutely nothing but standing or sitting or sprawling, twiddling their thumbs.

“Someone want to tell me how we got stuck here while Buffy, Cordelia, and Fred went out to question the lawyer bint?” Spike said as he completed his descent down the stairs.

Angel pushed away from his desk and walked into the lobby, one hand rubbing against the back of his neck. “Buffy was tired of waiting, so she decided tonight was the night to question Lilah about the pictures we found of her in Sunnydale. I didn’t want her going alone, so Cordelia said she would go.”

“This was after you volunteered to go with Buffy,” Lorne said as he turned towards Angel. “But then our delightful Cord reminded you of your vampire status and how Lilah probably wasn’t going to be to keen to invite you into her apartment.”

“So Fred hears that Cordelia and Buffy are going to Lilah’s,” Gunn said, his dark eyes locked on Spike, “and she jumps onto the interrogation bandwagon too. Doesn’t want to be left behind with the guys while Buffy and Cordelia are out having all the fun.”

“Buffy was going to protest Fred’s involvement,” Angel said. “But Lorne here had to point out the Charlie’s Angels vibe going between the three of them. So Fred was in, we were out, and now they’re gone.”

Spike nodded. “So what are you going to do then? Sit around and wait for them to get back?”

Angel shrugged. “We thought we’d go out and kill some things.”

“Good thing about L.A.,” Gunn said as he moved from the front desk to the weapons cabinet. “There’s always some evil nasty lurking around just waiting to be killed.” He pulled a large double-sided ax out of the wood and glass cabinet and twirled the steel weapon in his hand, watching the light glint off the gleaming metal. “You coming?” he asked Spike.

Shaking his head, Spike crossed the lobby and eased onto the stool next to Lorne. “No. Buffy’ll stake me if I leave the hotel. She’s probably going to stake me anyway for leaving the bed and ‘not getting enough rest to heal properly.’ It’s not like I haven’t been unconscious for two sodding days.”

Angel smiled and shook his head as he moved past Spike towards the weapons cabinet.

“What?”

Quickly shaking his head, Angel grabbed a few stakes and placed them in the pocket of his jacket. “Nothing.” Off of Spike’s look, he continued, “It’s nothing, William. Can’t I be happy that my favorite Childe is undead and well?”

“No.”

“Fine. Be a grouch.” Angel walked to the front door where Gunn and Connor were waiting. Over his shoulder, he said, “Lorne, I give you permission to stake him if he bothers you too much.”

“Will do, cupcake,” Lorne said as Angel, Gunn, and Connor disappeared through the twin front doors of the Hyperion.

Spike was silent for a moment, watching the doors slam shut, before he turned towards Lorne. “I have a favor to ask. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, but-”

Lorne waved his hand, cutting off Spike, and slid off the stool. “I know. But if I can help, I’m going to help.”

“Thank you.”

“No problemo, sweet cheeks.”

“So what do I do?”

“You sing a song, I read your aura, and hopefully we find out why you’re holy water immune while our other resident vamp with a soul is not.”
 

* * *

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