Title: Choices
Author: OneTwoMany
Email: onetwomany@bigpond.com
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A slightly-alternative Chosen.
Questions, comments, complaints: onetwomany@bigpond.com
Spoilers: Chosen
Dedication: Monanotlisa and Scarlettfish, who wanted Spuffy schmoop

First stop is the hospital, the first one they find after a half hour's drive south. It's a chaotic flurry of unloading of the wounded amongst the buzz of medics and interns and some waiting media. Buffy ignores them, hopes the others will too, then witnesses Faith all but carrying Andrew past the line of cameramen and smartly-dressed journalists. Buffy's never appreciated her more.

Standing in the emergency waiting room, she watches as Giles speaks to a nurse, a doctor and then a police officer.

"Landslide of some kind," she can hear Giles saying. "I just appropriated the school bus and got the children out of there."

She wonders offhand how the authorities are explaining this one. Earthquake? Mudslide? Meteorite strike? Really dodgy construction methods? She'd paid no attention to the radio during the trip, tuned out the radio announcements, lost herself in the hypnotic sameness of the passing scenery. Tried not to think too hard about anything

Eventually, the police look satisfied. She gives her name, her address. Former address. Hopes there'll be no more questions, at least not until everyone is cared for. Until they have time to formulate a story. Until her life, and theirs, again becomes a lie.

Once the injured are cared for, Giles uses the hospital phone to try to find them a place to rest. The hospital directs them to nearby colleges, a town hall, some hotels offering cheap rates, but mainly emergency evacuation centers. Kennedy snorts in disgust at the thought of any of them, and Giles announces that he'd much prefer a hotel, whatever the cost.

"I thought Council went kaboom?" Buffy had asked with concern when he'd pulled out a Council credit card.

"Travers and headquarters may be gone, but there are...cells. And the finances are still active. I've seen to that."

"Oh." A beat. "So you get to buy anything now?"

"Anything within reason."

"Neat."

Watching him on the phone now, Buffy supposes it's a good thing Giles has control of their finances and that he's finally in control of the Council too. It should be a real "yay Giles" moment. But she can't really summon that inner cheerleader. Still, she does kind of smile at the realisation that she cared more about the possibility of the card bouncing than about the absence of the Council. Probably not exactly a good thing, but she's saved the world, she's entitled to a small amount of inappropriately callous relief.

Giles, by contrast, is growing increasingly frustrated, his brow and eyebrows knit. Finally, he slams the phone down with barely contained anger.

"Profiteering in a time of emergency. Honestly, some people have no sense of dignity."

Buffy draws a breath, meets his eyes. "Giles, I know where we can go. Angel has a hotel."

"Buffy..."

"I know." Voice firm, decisive. Decision-making Buffy being rational. "I know there are problems, but he would put us up, at least for a little while."

A long pause, and finally Giles nods. "Yes, I imagine he could. And would. But we need someplace close, for tonight anyway. We'll look into it in the morning. But tonight we'll have to make do with a two star motel at five star rates."

It's a good point, and actually something of a relief. She shrugs and glances at her blackened fingernails and bloodied clothing.

"Well, as long as it's got a bath and hot water, I'm good."

It's a clever creature, cunning and ruthless, but deprived of language. It thinks in pictures and emotions, dreams only of violence and blood. Still, it had understood all too well the sensation of burning, of being consumed by some artificial sun. It remembers screaming as it clutched the burning, shiny amulet that had seared itself into the skin of its hand, as the world twisted and glowed around it and it dissolved into ashes and cinder.

Dying, the part of its mind that had contemplated the future had expected to wake to more heat, back in the fires of the world from which it came. But it begins to realise now that it was probably mistaken. The surface beneath its hands is cool where it should be hot, hard, and shiny instead of loose and rough. The light bright and white. Too bright. But it burns only the eyes, and it clenches its eyes shut in response.

A fighter, its first instinct is to fight, to stand and roar and search for something to kill. But instinct tells it, just this once, to lie still. It closes one hand into a fist. Everything is working; everything feels good. It feels good.

Good, except for the sudden, stinging pain in its flank.

Trembling, growling, it feels the tingle of numbness spread from the wound. Can smell, now, the intoxicating scent of approaching humans, rough on its newly awakened senses.

It realises it's hungry.

A hunter, it waits until they are close enough, then moves too fast to see.

A few moments later, and the pristine Wolfram & Hart White Room is no longer quite so white.

"Check it out! Tack-o-rama," Xander whistles, as Giles finally pulls the bus to a halt in the garage of the only available accommodation that wasn't an emergency shelter.

It's not the most attractive building. Pastel blue paint chipping off railings, concrete cracked. Its flashing sign advertising "cable television" and little else is dwarfed beneath the shadow of the neighboring fast food chain logo, which teeters on a towering pole and is likely visible for miles around. Giles still finds such constant advertising disconcerting, if slightly exotic. Could always tell American towns by the fast food signs and England by the steeples.

"Could be worse," Vi says from somewhere behind him. "I don't see any "by-the-hour" rate signs."

Giles decides not to dwell too long on the obvious disappointment in the girl's voice.

Faith snorts as only Faith can. "Probably only 'cause it takes two hours to drive here. May as well pay for the whole night after that."

Funny how the conversation is easier now that the bus is emptier, filled only with those whom he hadn't been able to convince the hospital to take: Buffy, Dawn and Willow, who are all holding up surprisingly well given the circumstances. Xander is talking again with a manic energy that speaks of over-compensation. Grief was funny like that, and Giles knows the boy will fall hard soon. Then Andrew, who has seemingly sunk into a state of disturbing, if blessedly quiet, shock and Kennedy, Vi, Chao-Ahn and a handful of others whose names escape him.

And, of course, Spike.

Spike, whose ridiculously garish amulet had apparently saved them all. Who had, according to Buffy, been willing to die himself should the occasion have called for it. Who now sits quietly in the back as the others file off the bus, trapped by exhaustion and lack of a security blanket. Despite everything, it's gratifying. The Watcher in him appreciates it when the vamp is contained. Imprisoned. Safe.

But after a moment, Giles is compelled to play nice.

"I'll send someone for you when we organise some rooms."

"Yeah, whatever," Spike shrugs. And then, "But make sure I get one to myself. Not sharing with the whelp or Andrea there. Probably wets the bed."

All Giles can think to do is roll his eyes.

Truth is, he's still not fully sure how much of Buffy's story he's ready to accept, or how much more of the story he really wants to know. They're safe, the world is still spinning, and he and he hadn't even been knocked unconscious. A satisfactory result all around. At least, accept for the lingering sense of loss, the memory of a flashing smile and tinkering coinage, abrupt speech and a ludicrous fear of rabbits. It's easily suppressed, stored someplace safe until he can spare a bottle of whiskey and a couple of good hours of blissful unconsciousness.

A sigh, and Giles pushes himself out of the driver's seat and off the bus. The air outside is vaguely dusty. The cars in the parking lot are laden with possessions. Suitcases, furniture, whatever. Relics of lives abandoned.

He pays the elderly clerk using credit, notices that Buffy shuffles nervously as the clerk slides his Visa through the machine. Probably still expecting it to bounce. He's tried to explain to her that her money issues are over, but she doesn't quite believe him, is probably hesitant to start accepting Council cash anyway.

"And then they'll own me," she'd concluded, when he'd offered to try and negotiate a salary.

That they would have. Before. But no longer. Giles, directionless for so long, now has real plans for the future - to build a new Council, one with significantly less emphasis on byzantine relations and over-catered afternoons teas. He'd already mentally drawn up plans to start paying the Slayers, Buffy and Faith. That'll take some reconsideration now.

"So, how we gonna do this?" Dawn asks as Giles collects the keys. Cards, of course. He knows it's old-fashioned, but every so often he misses the metal ones.

He holds the cards out, and his gaze lingers on the girl where she stands next to her sister. Taller than Buffy already and proving herself quick and clever. No doubt she'll be college-bound in a couple of years. He's determined to find some money for Dawn too, even if he has to rationalize it on the basis that Buffy will tear herself to shreds if she can't pay for Brown.

"I think the girls are old enough to sort themselves out. Three or four to a room." It's probably a somewhat optimistic assumption, but given they had just saved the whole world, a positive outlook is probably acceptable.

Willow snatches the cards easily. "It'll be kind of like summer camp, only, well, democratic."

Buffy raises an eyebrow. "You never went to summer camp, Will."

"I've seen all the movies!"

"What about Xander?" Dawn interrupts softly, her eyes slightly watery. "I don't think he should be alone...and Andrew..."

Giles follows her gaze to where Xander leans against the side of the bus. He apparently feels their gaze on him, smiles and waves. Begins a jaunty walk toward where the others are gathered, probably ready to throw a few quips at Andrew or Kennedy. Typically Xander, or it would have been four years ago. But in comparison to the man Giles has known these last few years, the over-compensation is obvious.

"He can stay with me," Giles answers. Sharing isn't his first choice, but Dawn's right. Xander and alone at this time would probably result in an empty mini-bar and a morning of the man being unable to do anything but vomit his guts up in an unsanitary bathroom.

"No," Willow shakes her head. "I know...I know what he's going through. I can look after him."

Giles is tempted to breathe a sigh of relief. Instead, he gives a slight nod, as does Buffy, and Willow hands Dawn a card and heads off toward the girls.

Giles watches as Dawn shuffles her feet for a moment, too, caught between Willow and Buffy. Then, suddenly, she gives her sister her card.

"No offence, Buff, but I'm too jazzed to sleep tonight, and you're so gonna just go to bed and yell at me for having the TV on. I'm gonna go stay with Rona and Vi."

Buffy looks stunned. "Huh?"

Dawn grins at Buffy. It's a look that roundly says she thinks her big sister is a total idiot.

"Look after Spike," she whispers in a hushed voice that Giles is obviously not meant to hear.

He barely manages to refrain from rolling his eyes as Dawn winks, then chases after Willow, long legs covering the distance in seconds, loose brown hair trailing behind her. Honestly, he sometimes wonders if everyone under twenty assumes that middle age equals deafness and blindness.

There's silence now, as Buffy fingers the card absently. Giles ponders what to say, pinches the bridge of his nose, and realizes his reading glasses are still sitting in a hotel room in Sunnydale. Or, more likely, crushed to smithereens in the remains of one. It's a frightfully annoying nervous habit, but he really wishes he had something to clean.

"Buffy, we need to talk," he says finally.

She nods, eyes on the card in her fingers as she turns it over distractedly. "I know."

"I mean it, Buffy. I need to know what happened. What happened to Spike and the amulet, and I'm sorry, but 'it turned to glowy yellow light' doesn't help much."

"I don't know what else I can tell you."

"Buffy..."

She raises her eyes at the tone of his voice, fixes him with the Slayer glare that's been missing these past couple of hours. "I know, Giles. And I'll talk to you soon, I will. But now...now I'm going to go see how Xander is and make some phone calls. I need to..." She shakes her head, takes a breath. "I need to let Angel know we're okay. And call Dad. Organize stuff. So, not now. But soon."

She's businesslike, voice emotionless. But as she speaks, her gaze wanders to the bus before she drags it back again. Giles watches in discomfort.

It's always about Spike, these days. In one way or another. He'd wormed himself into their group, their side, even Buffy's heart. Now apparently he's even saved the world. Again. It's almost too much, and Giles is sure if he thinks about it any longer he'll feel the need to smash his head against something hard and coma-inducing.

Finally Giles sighs, considers for a moment, makes a decision. Reaching out, he takes hold of her hand and exchanges the keys.

"Go and make some calls in my room. It'll be quiet. I'll be there in a little while." Buffy begins to protest, but he cuts her off, holds the key to her room up. "I'll have someone give this to Spike."

He hopes she understands his concession and what it's cost him. The flash of appreciation, the even light in her eyes tells him she has.

"Thank you," she says with a smile.

Giles nods. Good to see her smile, a consolation of sorts. But what price, he wonders, can be put on happiness?

"What the fuck is that?"

Suavely dressed or not, Gunn still has that down-to-earth talent for getting straight to the point. It's something Wes appreciates about the man, even if his tendency to take things on face value occasionally drives the former Watcher to distraction.

"It's a Turok Han," Wes explains.

Gunn shoots him a puzzled look, reflected off the glass. "A what now?"

"A primal vampire, the demon in its purest form. A very dangerous creature indeed."

"And it's here because?"

Well, that's the question, isn't it?

Wes had been pondering that most of the morning, and he's sure another half a dozen employees in various other recesses of the company office are doing the same. How gratifying and irritating to be in charge again; gratifying to have the resources, irritating because he has to rely on the likely evil employees of a definitely evil law firm to use them.

"I have no idea. It simply appeared in the White Room, clutching some kind of amulet. I've sent it down to the lab to be analysed. The amulet, that is. Meanwhile, we have this amazing creature to observe."

"Yeah." Gunn sounds less than impressed.

Behind the glass, the Turok Han paces slowly within its confines, meticulously examining the room. It has learned with surprising speed that snarling and clawing at the door would get it nowhere.

"I ever told you how much you really need a life, man?"

"Many times. It's hardly necessary that I answer. "

Gunn shifts beside him, maybe nerves, but more likely sheer boredom. "So, you called me up here to look at Encino Man, here?"

"Well, actually, yes."

Just once, Wes would like someone at Angel Investigations to share his fascination for the unusual. Well, someone who wasn't Fred, because even now, too much contact with her was somewhat uncomfortable.

"Right. Well, I've looked. Thanks. I'm off to kick at something that can fight back..."

Gunn turns to leave, but Wes places a firm hand on the sleeve of his suit. Expensive suit, well-tailored, and soft beneath his hand. Just like Gunn seems to prefer these days. The thought causes another little wave of concern to ripple down Wes' spine, but he ignores it. There are bigger concerns now than Gunn's apparent seduction by the temptations of consumer therapy.

"Gunn, this creature killed three contractors from Special Projects and four Feral security guards before being subdued..." Wes voice fades out slowly, and he shakes his head. "If it had gotten loose, imagine what would have happened."

"The Beast, Mark II?"

"Maybe. Yes. And if we don't find out why it's here, then we may well be looking at something even worse."

They are off the bus and out the door in seconds. Even Buffy flashes him only a brief smile before rushing after Giles. Not that he can blame them. The bus stinks of sweat and blood and unwashed masses.

Alone at last, Spike gingerly touches the fabric of his shirt where the amulet had lain against his chest. The material is crinkled, whatever it was having melted into something that vaguely resembles the texture of cardboard. Lovely. It comes away from his skin with only a slight stinging pull, and he lifts the hem up to reveal raw, red skin.

Not too bad. Could be worse. That twinkety-thing could have burnt him right up, and wouldn't that have been an embarrassing end? Death by fashion excess. Can't rightly recall now what he'd been thinking at the time, except that suddenly the idea of a romantic death had seemed attractive. Necessary. The right thing to do. Been ready to die for love, go out fighting, save the world...

Except he was still alive, wasn't he? Or close to it. And the world was still going round, and Buffy was smiling at him and letting him touch her. So why the strange feeling of loss and disappointment?

Sometimes he thinks the soul really is more trouble than it's worth.

He notices that the skin on his hands is blistered and flaming, much worse than that on his chest. Buggering sun. He hopes the next Hellmouth is someplace a little cloudier.

And then it hits him that Sunnydale's gone. Disintegrated. Crumbled into pieces and sunk into the depths of hell. The Summers' house, crypt, Willy's, the goddamn mansion and everything else with it.

Spike examines his feelings. Can't decide how he feels, or even what he should feel. Be right to be upset, wouldn't it? Home sweet home, or the closest he's come to it in quite a while. Maybe the closest to home since they'd left Romania to follow Darla half way across the world. He thinks he'd probably been happy before that, snacking on dark-haired beauties, living in a land drenched with magic and danger. Fighting, fucking, feeding. An easy life - fuck, buggering lot of good it's doing havin' thoughts like that.

Sighing, Spike leans his head back against the wall of the bus. It's still almost cool, despite the stuffy conditions. He tries to block out the memories of his past, concentrates on the chatter of the girls outside. They're dividing into groups, something about rooms and showers and Giles paying with the Council's expense account. Fabulous. He wonders whether he'll be rooming with someone or camping on the bus. Would rather fancy a shower, although he's not all that fussed. Not when the scent of Buffy's blood is still clinging to him. Strong and rich, but no longer unique.

The air is heavy with the power of slayers tonight. Gonna take getting use to, that.

"Hey, Evil-and-Unfortunately-Not-Properly Dead."

Spike jumps slightly at the voice, looks up to see Kennedy climb onto the bus. Annoying bint, and he sometimes wonders how she ended up with Red. Tempted to think it's 'cause she's easy on the eyes. Or maybe it's got something to do with the tongue ring. That's just full of possibilities.

"Catch." She throws him a blanket and then a plastic card, and it gives him a warm inner glow of pure glee that she looks impressed at the ease of his catch. "Courtesy of Giles, who still thinks you're useful. Room thirty-five. I'm sure you can find it without burning to a cinder."

"Thanks for your concern."

"Whatever."

From his seated position, he flashes her a charming smile he knows will only piss her off, then watches with amusement as she turns tail and leaves. Probably rushing back to her little redhead matchstick.

Whatever, indeed.

A sigh, and Spike pulls himself to his feet, then throws the blanket over his head. Face down, he makes a dash for the hotel, blinking furiously in the bright light. Disturbingly familiar, this, a vivid reminder of the days when he used to make mid-day dashes from sewer grate to Summers' doorstep, hoping to catch a few minutes with Buffy. Or a few hours. He'd known he'd looked bloody ridiculous at the time, probably been laughs a plenty at Willy's 'cause the whole thing was absurd. But then, he'd never had a whole lot of dignity where women were concerned.

Outside, the scent of Sunnydale everywhere, and the glare of the Californian sunset is a little foggy, like a picture through an unfocused camera. A hint at an end of the world that didn't quite come to pass.

A kid grins and giggles at him from the door to one of the rooms as he passes. He can't help but flash a little fang. The resulting screech is deeply satisfying. Still got it. Just choosing to stop at the bark.

Spike find his room without much trouble, slides the key through the lock, and enters with a relief that even the nauseating pastel color scheme doesn't undermine. A moment's glance at the bed, and he carelessly begins to undress. A bath, warm water, and absolutely no underaged-slayers. Maybe he really is in heaven.