![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hobgoblinnTitle: Summer 1/9 – Where do we go from here?
Author: hobgoblin (see note below)
Contact: hobgoblin_sp@yahoo.com, http://hobgoblinn.livejournal.com/
Rating: FRT for character death and its aftermath.
Genfic. Canon relationships.
DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Sandollar Productions, Kuzui Enterprises, 20th Century Fox Television, the WB Television Network, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I do not mean to infringe upon any copyrights.
Note: this was originally posted under a name far too close to my RL moniker. So if you think you recognise this story, you have indeed seen it before. I promise I am still me, and that this fic is entirely my own work. Thanks to all who provided feedback and encouragement.
hob
***
As soon as he had seen the portal open above them, Rupert Giles had known it, with a sickening certainty. Both his Slayer and her younger sister were dead. A detached, very remote part of him, was astonished that he still was not. But as he gazed down now at the lifeless form of the young woman before him, he could not muster the ability to feel anything. Some part of his mind registered that Buffy had saved them all. Again. Another felt a sick self loathing, that he had no right to be alive while she lay there, so still. So peaceful. As if asleep. He absently marveled that the fall from so great a height had left no mark on her. He found himself holding a breath, expecting her to draw one herself, any second now. To come back to them.
But she did not, and as he drew a ragged breath himself, a pain more intense than any he had ever known washed through him. Brought him back to himself. Or perhaps it was the small hand he suddenly found grasping his own. Willow. Struggling not to cry, to be strong.
“She’s still up there, Giles,” Willow breathed, and Giles followed her gaze up the tower. His expression grew puzzled, but he could not process anything he was seeing–the movement of one figure up the structure, meeting a second one near the bottom, then of two returning. It wasn’t until Tara and Dawn reached the ground, and his eyes focused enough to recognize them, that he realized, Buffy really Had saved them all. Including the one person who meant more to her than any other in the world. He released Willow’s hand as Dawn buried her face in his chest, and he automatically wrapped his arms around her. The pain, the relief, the myriad conflicting emotions within him threatened to overload his senses. For a moment, if he had not been holding Dawn, he might have collapsed. Instead, all was replaced by a cold, deadly calm. Willow again brought him back.
“Giles, we have to do something,” she was saying. She was in shock, too, he noted, distantly. When he didn’t immediately reply, she turned to Tara. “What should we do?”
Tara winced as Willow shifted in her embrace, and her crushed hand moved, no longer protected by her cast. She saw the unfocused stare of Anya’s eyes as her head lolled against Xander’s shoulder, and the still fresh cuts though Dawn’s blood-stained gown, and the blood seeping from Giles’ side, through his shirt and bandages. Take care of the living first, she thought. “Hospital, Honey. We need to get Dawnie to a hospital.”
Willow nodded, grateful to have a direction-- any direction. But she looked back at her friend’s still body. “But.. but, I can’t….. Buffy….”
Giles roused himself. “No, Tara’s right,” he rasped. He saw, too, that Dawn was not the only one who needed medical attention. Dawn pulled away from him, glared at him through her tears. “We Can’t Just Leave her here,” she began, stressing each word in a low, dangerous voice.
Giles shook his head gently. “No, we can’t.” He looked over her shoulder, his gaze finding Spike in time to see Willow kneel beside him, crumpled to the ground in his grief.
Willow reached out, put a hand on Spike’s shoulder. Spike pulled away violently, tried to turn away, but his body was still too damaged from the fall, and he slumped back. He refused to meet her gaze.
“It’s getting light,” Willow said, quietly.
Spike saw that it was true, felt in his bones the same sick dread that he had felt in the pre-dawn of each new day since he had been turned. Better than an alarm clock, the early warning instinct. It would continue to build until he was frantic, forced to seek a shelter from the approaching sunlight. He already should be feeling it, but his loss and pain were too deep for anything else. Willow’s reminder gave him a fatalistic burst of hope. His world was ashes now–why not stay out here, greet the sunrise? He didn’t reply, but he did look Willow directly in the eyes now, and managed, despite his mangled face, the ghost of a maniacal grin.
Willow saw his thought–didn’t even need to reach out with her mind to also hear it, though she easily could have. “She still needs you Spike,” she began, but his high, somewhat hysterical giggle stopped her.
“Needs me, Red? To do what? Kill her deader?” The laugh turned to racking sobs he could not control. Someone pulled him close, and he began to shove violently away, only to stop when Dawn’s voice sounded in his ear.
“You have to live. For me,” she whispered through her tears. “That’s what Buffy said. Don’t you dare quit on us now.”
Willow watched as Spike’s eyes traveled to each of them in turn, lingering on Buffy, and last resting on her. She knew now with a calm clarity what must be done. “Someone has to ... get her home… without anyone seeing.” Her eyes widened for emphasis as she spoke the last words, and understanding washed over Spike’s features. If anyone knew that the Slayer was gone….
He gave a quick nod and pulled himself together. Something he could do. Even if it hurt like hell, he could carry her. “I know someone,” he said. “We can get her home, do whatever….” He couldn’t think about it, looked away a moment. “Right, then.” He tried to rise, let Dawn and Willow help him unsteadily to his feet. His entire right side felt like it had crushed glass ground into it, and when he tried to move, the pain was more terrible still. Good. With a grim smile he turned to where Buffy lay. Saw the first rays of morning light blazing in her hair. Found Giles’ eyes. “You’ll have to bring her to me, Mate.”
Giles simply nodded. As from a great distance he heard Xander’s protest, Willow’s quiet explanation, Dawn’s soothing assurances. But mostly, he saw Buffy, dearer to him than any child. Remembered their first meeting. Her irrepressible zest for life. Her smile. Her fear. And her courage. He knelt beside her.
“Oh, God, Buffy, “ he breathed. He slid his hand under her shoulders, lifted her to lean against his chest. He worked his other arm under to support her legs and felt the stitches in his side–the few that were still holding after all this time–give way as he rose with his precious burden.
Spike stood at the edge of the shadow, where a nearby building blocked the sun’s deadly rays. The two men’s eyes met, and after a moment, Spike gave a slight nod. Acknowledgment, maybe, or respect. He gently took the body into his arms. “Go take care of yourself, Watcher.” He looked around, at these people who had been Buffy’s family–still were. “All of you.” Then he turned, his gait steady, betraying none of the pain and weakness he felt, as he made his way into the deeper shadows of the nearby alley.
Giles watched as Spike disappeared. Willow was once more at his side, with Dawn, who touched his ribs where the blood was soaking through. “Right, then,” he said. “We should….” He looked to Willow, suddenly lost.
“Hospital,” she said firmly, pulling his arm around her to support him, as Tara took Dawn’s hand in her good one. Xander followed, cradling Anya, who was now unconscious in his arms.
***
As they reached the street, they saw the flashing lights, heard the sirens. Sunnydale’s finest, as usual arriving too late for what they were not remotely equipped to handle. Xander remembered a time when he had wanted to be a fireman. Now he felt a tired resentment towards the men and women piling out the emergency vehicles. But one paramedic stopped him, looked at Anya, and asked “What happened?” as he helped lower her to the ground and began checking her pulse, her pupils. Xander could only stare wordlessly, unable to respond.
Another paramedic was leading Giles and Dawn to the back of an ambulance, asking the same question. Giles looked again to Willow, who was now close behind with Tara, before vaguely offering, “Um… gas leak.” He refused to submit to an examination until the young man had checked both Dawn’s injuries and Tara’s hand. It wasn’t until he sank back on the gurney, and the medic slid the IV needle into his vein, that he realized how much blood he had lost. He felt dizzy, somewhat nauseated for a moment, before he slipped into unconsciousness.
The paramedics lifted the stretcher into the ambulance, then helped first Dawn, then Tara inside as well. They settled themselves together on the low bench next to Giles. Willow shook her head when the young man looked questioningly at her.
“Uh, no,” she said, catching sight of Xander helping with Anya not far away. “I should….” She looked back at Tara then, remembering how she had felt, only a few hours ago, that if she could just have Tara back as she was before, she would never leave her side again. Tara gave her a sad smile that spoke more than any words could, and Willow realized she had projected her thoughts unconsciously. She felt, rather than heard, Tara say, “We’ll be fine. Take care of them.” The other ambulance attendant motioned her to stand clear while they shut the doors and started to pull away. Willow made her way over to Xander.
She saw the aimless wandering of the scores of the mentally ill, their minds first violated by Glory and then called to construct that obscenity of cable and steel towering over them. She reached Xander’s side in time to hear him say, “But is she going to be all right?”
The paramedic replied, “She has a concussion. We’ll know more when we can get her back to the hospital.” He finished cinching the straps securing Anya to the gurney and motioned his partner to help him lift it into the ambulance. “Are you family?” he asked, including both Willow and Xander in the question.
Willow responded without hesitation, “Yes, we are,” and Xander looked at her gratefully. The attendant offered them space in the back of the ambulance. Xander put his arm around Willow, and she felt him trying to be strong for her, and barely hanging on. “She’ll be all right,” Willow assured him, but she knew as they climbed up that they were both thinking of the one who would not be all right, ever again. The doors slammed and the siren began to wail as they pulled away from the curb.
***
As soon as Spike reached the entrance to the tunnels that ran underneath the streets of Sunnydale, he slowed up. He had expended nearly all his energy to mask his weakness in front of the others, but now he realized if he continued at that pace, he would collapse. He stood blinking in the cool darkness, trying to figure out which way he should go.
He had been lying–he didn’t know anybody he would trust to help him, and even the thought of killing them afterward could bring him no comfort. “Stay out of sight,” he thought, though most of the demonic population of Sunnydale had scattered to the winds, sensing the rising power was not anything they wanted to tangle with, and that the further they were from the storm when it broke, the more likely they might find a way to weather it.
He knew a roundabout way to the Slayer’s house, and as he started down a side tunnel, he reckoned it might take him much of the day to make it there, given his injuries. He felt his rib bones grind together with each step, and some bone fragments drifting loose in his shattered knee pierce the surrounding flesh. Unlike the injury some years ago, though, he had enough working parts that he could walk–also, unlike when he had been paralyzed, it hurt like hell. But that suited him. It was the least he could do. Since he had failed to keep his promise to the lady.
***
Willow paced an all too familiar waiting area, glancing occasionally at Tara, who was stroking the hair of a sleeping, exhausted Dawn. Both of them had been “treated and released,” and one of the interns, whom she vaguely recognized as a friend of Ben’s, had scrounged up a set of aqua scrubs so that Dawn could remove the hated, blood soaked dress. Tara looked drowsy as well. Willow wanted to go to her, but she continued to pace, focusing her mind on the sequence of things that they must do next, running through the myriad “what ifs” that would need to be taken care of in the coming days. She remembered how she had been when Joyce had died, unable to make even the simplest decisions about what to wear, even with Tara’s steadying influence. But now, as she glanced back at them, she felt a strange resolve. She was going to take care of them. She had to.
She went back to her mental checklists. They were safe and comforting, like a computer program–something she could understand and control. She needed that just now. She had watched Giles handle things for Buffy, with her mom, but she knew, remembering the glazed, stricken look in his eyes, that even if his injuries turned out to be relatively minor, this wasn’t something he could do. Not this time. The loss was too great, too near.
She saw Xander approaching and moved to intercept him in the hall, motioning with a finger to her lips and a glance at Dawn and Tara, now both asleep, that they should be quiet. “How’s Anya?” she asked, stepping back to discourage the hug. She couldn’t go there right now, and he saw it in her downcast eyes. That if she hugged him now, she would fall apart.
So he replied, relief evident on his haunted face, “She’s a tough girl, my Anya. Mild concussion, some bruises.” He drew a deep breath, blew it out again. “She’s going to be fine. She’s just waiting for a doctor to sign her out. She said she’d meet us here. What about Giles?”
Willow shook her head. “Still in surgery. But,” she continued hopefully, “he’s been so much worse, you know. Like that time when Angel… a-and….” She trailed off, and Xander reached out to grip her shoulder comfortingly. He felt her trembling, the effort it was costing her to be strong. “My brave little toaster,” he thought, with a sad, fond smile.
Aloud, he cleared his throat, suddenly constricted with unshed tears, and said, “Why don’t you sit down, Will? Take a break.” He gave her a small grin. “I can pace for you.”
She smiled back and nodded, but as she turned she saw the surgeon approaching. So she waited until he reached them. “You’re the family of Rupert Giles?” Willow and Xander nodded apprehensively.
The surgeon continued, “Well, he came through the surgery fine, but he has lost a lot of blood. We’d like to keep him, at least overnight, for observation.” Willow rearranged her mental priorities as the doctor paused, frowning back through the chart. “Maybe longer–wasn’t he in here just yesterday?”
“Yeah, he, uh, he got mugged,” Xander offered.
“By a gang on PCP,” Willow added.
“And then there was that explosion last night, as we were driving him home….” Xander trailed off.
The doctor eyed them dubiously. “Well, whatever happened, he needs rest and lots of it now. When I do release him, you have to promise me you’ll see that he stays off his feet for a while. I don’t want to see him again anytime soon. Understood?” The short, balding surgeon suddenly reminded Xander of Principal Snyder, as he fixed them with a piercing gaze. They both nodded.
Then, Willow found her voice. “When can we see him?” She was not deterred by the flash in the doctor’s eyes. “He–he lost someone very close to him tonight. I don’t think he should be alone when he wakes up. Not if you want him to stay quiet.”
The surgeon considered a moment, then nodded. “I’ll let one of you sit with him, if you like. He’s in recovery now. We actually could use another pair of eyes in there.” He paused and took in the unusually chaotic scene around him. “Lots of casualties from that gas leak.”
Willow turned to Xander, took his hand and squeezed it. “Can you stay with them?” she asked, motioning towards Tara and Dawn. Xander nodded and moved into the waiting area, to take her place pacing one end of the room, if only he had known it.
Willow turned back to the doctor. “Lead on,” she said.
***
When Spike got to the tunnel exit nearest the Summers residence, it was still late afternoon, but it was also quite overcast, and just now, raining pretty steadily. If he kept to the shade of the trees, and he knew from long practice just what path he would need to take for that, he should be safe enough. Though he still didn’t much care, for himself, he was damned if he would fail in this task, after everything.
He chuckled bitterly at the thought. He was damn right he was damned–wasn’t that the whole bloody point of being a demon? He laid his burden down for a moment to remove his leather duster, place it over her to shield her from the rain, then lifted her gently again into his arms. Eternally damned. No smell of a soul on him anywhere, the demon Doc had said. So why did he hurt so damned much?
He shook off the thought as he traced the well known path to Buffy’s door, knowing that she had not locked it the previous night when they had left. He had looked askance at her at the time, but her expression had kept him silent, and he realized now why she had not bothered. If they died, stolen possessions would be the least of their problems. And if they lived–well, she’d been right. Someone might need to get in in a hurry, without a key. He shifted her limp body in his arms as he turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Inside, he paused for a moment, then took the stairs up to Buffy’s room. The irony of his being alone in there now, with her, was not lost on him. But again, he pushed the thought aside as he laid her gently on the white bedspread, pulled his jacket from her face, and smoothed her hair with his hands. Crossed her arms on her breast. Cocked his head at her, in that quizzical expression he sometimes got, when the human condition mystified him. He was a demon who had inflicted painful, brutal, sadistic death on thousands, including two slayers. But now, as he gazed down at her, this eternal sleep made no sense to him at all. No more than his feelings about it did. He pulled the desk chair up beside the bed, and crossed his arms over the back of it, resting his head for a moment against the cool wood, before sitting up straighter to keep vigil.
***
It was odd. When Willow had first joined Giles in the recovery area, she had been relieved to see how much stronger he looked than she had feared he would. But now, as she approached him, lying in the bed he had just been moved to in his own room, a cold fear gripped her heart.
Willow dragged a heavy wooden chair up next to Giles’ bed and sank wearily into it. She looked over the bed rail at her mentor, her friend, noted how old he looked, and how fragile. They had always teased him about being old, of course, but now–he reminded her, painfully, of her grandfather, those last few days before he’d died, when she was ten. Around her, the sounds of the busy hospital faded to a deafening silence. She reached out and laid her hand on his and bowed her head.
She gradually noticed that her head was aching-- a side effect of doing magicks well beyond her normal abilities. She had mustered the strength to do what needed to be done, and she had restored her beloved to herself, but now she felt very clearly the cost. She bore it for a few minutes, then remembered a relatively simple spell–one that might alleviate the pain. Looking at Giles, she suddenly remembered the page in the book–one of many she had pored over after Tara’s injury–and she had a flash of insight–that if she modified it just slightly, she might be able to speed Giles’ healing as well as her own.
She focused her mind, became very aware of the blood coursing through her veins, and the weak but steady beating of her friend’s heart. She murmured the words of the simple incantation, and the pain in her head instantly lifted. She began to concentrate more on Giles, felt with some fear just how damaged he was, body and soul. She squeezed his hand gently and brought it to her lips as she continued to chant quietly. She felt his body begin to knit itself back together, and, as he gained strength, she felt him begin to move towards consciousness. She faltered then.
“Oh, no, Giles,” she breathed. She couldn’t let bear to him face the pain and grief that would be waiting for him, not just now. She called another spell to mind, one that would keep him unconscious until she lifted it. She worked this one more easily than the last, and though a slight ache came back to her head as she finished, she thought it was well worth the price. He needed to rest. As she opened her eyes again and looked at him, she noted with satisfaction how the lines in his face had eased somewhat, and how his breathing seemed deeper, less labored. She looked up as Xander peered around the door.
“Hey witchy woman,” he said quietly. “We’re all ready to go now. Want us to wait up for you?”
She shook her head. “I think we can leave him for a bit now,” she said. At Xander’s puzzled look, she quickly added, “The, um, the doctor just gave him something–should keep him out until at least tomorrow. What time is it?”
Xander glanced down at his watch and grimaced. “I’m guessing not 1:00 a.m.,” he said, shaking it. He glanced back to the clock in the hallway. “Coming up on 6:00, actually,” he said.
Willow nodded, gave Giles’ hand a last squeeze and gently laid it on his chest. “Let’s get everyone home,” she said.
***
Xander and Anya dropped off Willow, Tara and Dawn at the Summers residence. Xander offered to see them in, but Willow insisted he get Anya home. “If you need anything, give me a call,” he said, as he hugged Willow close to him.
Willow gave him a sad smile. “We’ll be fine tonight,” she said. She watched until his car turned the corner down the street, then followed Tara and Dawn into the house.
Dawn looked absolutely dead on her feet, even after her nap in the waiting room. It was to be expected, Willow mused. Too many sorrows in one so young; they were bound to catch up with her sooner or later. “Want a snack?” she heard Tara ask kindly, brushing Dawn’s hair out of her eyes. Dawn shook her head, paused for a moment, then said, “S-some water, maybe.” They detoured towards the kitchen while Willow made her way upstairs.
At the top of the stairs, she saw the open door to Buffy’s room, and the vampire rising to meet her at the doorway. “Everyone all right?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, her eyes moving past him to the still form on the bed. She found her voice. “No trouble getting here?”
She thought she saw a ghost of a smile, but it faded too quickly for her to be sure. “No,” he answered. “And,” he added, before she could ask, “nobody saw us.” He looked down, caught in his earlier lie, but she simply nodded, then looked at his torn cheekbone and his stiff movements as he joined her in the hallway.
“You’re hurt,” she said, reaching up to touch the cut over his eye. He caught her hand.
“I’ll heal,” he replied grimly, refusing to meet her eyes.
She shook her head. “We’ve got lots of bandages and stuff–you’ll heal faster if we get your injuries cleaned up and bandaged right.”
He shook his head, seeming a little embarrassed at the attention. “I think….” He paused, then continued, “I think I want to be alone for a bit, just now.” He was grateful when she didn’t point out he’d been alone all day.
“Ok,” she agreed, gently. They walked back downstairs. At the door, they heard Dawn and Tara in the kitchen, both crying softly. A look of pain crossed Spike’s face, and he looked for a second like he might go to them, but then he sighed and turned back to Willow.
“What’s the plan now, Red?” he asked.
She looked towards the kitchen, then back at him. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll make the arrangements for….” Her voice trailed off.
He nodded. “Please, let me know,” he said. “I… I’ll do anything I can for you. You know that, don’t you?”
Willow looked at him in surprise, partly from his gentle words, and partly because she suddenly had an urge to hug him, to comfort him, as if he were human, and their friend. He saw the look, and the walls snapped back up. “Right, then,” he said briskly. “I’ll just be off. Need a smoke somethin’ terrible.” With that, he turned and vanished into the twilight.
***
Spike wandered aimlessly, but he wasn’t surprised when he looked up to see the tower above him once again. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, took a deep drag on it. He stayed there a long while, looking down at the spot where Buffy had fallen, lost in thought.
“Returned to the scene of the crime, eh Spike?”
Spike started, then cursed inwardly. He composed himself, flicked his cigarette butt away into the darkness, following the glowing ember with his eyes. Then he pulled out another cigarette. “Sod off, Harris,” he replied, as he lit it.
Xander took him by the shoulders and swung him around. Spike just looked at him, unconcerned, as he pulled the cigarette from his lips. He made no move to defend himself as Xander’s fist connected with his jaw. The blow spun him halfway around, and Spike thought, not for the first time, that people really did underestimate this boy. He pulled himself back upright and gazed at the frustration and fury in those haunted eyes. He took another pull on the cigarette. “Shouldn’t you be home with your lady?” Spike asked conversationally, for all the world as though they were discussing the weather.
For a moment, he thought Xander might strike him again, but then the fist dropped slowly to his side. “She’s asleep. I just….” He trailed off helplessly.
Spike nodded, “Yeah.” They stood together in silence, hands thrust in their pockets, looking up at the tower.
“Doesn’t seem real,” Xander said, after a time.
“No,” Spike agreed, and began walking towards the broken wall near the back of the yard. Xander fell into step beside him. Spike indicated the hole in the wall as they approached. “Your handiwork?” he asked.
Xander grinned slightly. “Those under-rated bowling skills,” he acknowledged. Spike could see the wrecking ball through the hole, and he nodded approvingly, kicking at some of the rubble around their feet.
“Never played,” he admitted. “Used to be fair at darts.” He didn’t add that had been after he’d become a vampire, nor that the game had involved some damage to his human opponents not intended by the game’s creators. He did notice that the pleasure he had once taken in the memory of his former evil was entirely absent, and in its place was something very like–shame? Regret? He shook off the feeling, took another drag on his cigarette.
“Hey, what’s that, over there?” Xander pointed to what looked like an arm sticking out from behind the rubble. The ground was uneven here, where the portal’s energy discharges had left some fissures in the pavement. They made their way carefully around, until they stood over what appeared to be a headless body, wearing a familiar black leather jacket.
“The robot,” Xander breathed, as he realized what he was seeing. Spike was at a loss for a moment, then thought of something himself.
“We should get it back to Willow,” Spike said, not immediately noticing the murderous fury that blazed up in his companion’s eyes.
“Why, Spike? If you’re horny, why not just take her right here?”
Spike snapped his head around, his eyes unusually bright, unable to hide his pain and revulsion. Xander faltered in his self righteous anger. Spike waited a moment, choosing and discarding several replies before settling on simply, “If Willow can fix it, it’ll be easier to keep up the pretense that the Slayer is still here.” He sighed and continued somewhat unsteadily, “I think she would want that,” and they both knew he was no longer referring to Willow.
Xander ducked his head and then nodded. “My car’s parked on the street.” He bent down to lift the robot’s shoulders as Spike got its feet. They carried it in silence back to the car and placed it in the trunk. Then they stood around for a minute, neither of them looking forward to the next task.
“Right,” Spike said. “It’s not much good without….” He couldn’t finish.
Xander nodded. “We should spread out. It’s got to be….”
Spike nodded quickly. “Right, then.” They branched out, coming at the place where they had found the robot’s body from different directions, scanning the ground carefully for its head. Xander was the unlucky one to spy it first.
Spike knew the boy had found it when he heard a hoarse cry, then what sounded like vomiting. He ran over to Xander, saw what had caused the reaction, lying on the ground, staring sightlessly up at them. Xander was hunched over, on his knees, a few feet away. Spike sniffed hard, fighting back his own reaction. He was not a weak mortal, for hell’s sake. He reached down and squeezed the lad’s shoulder. “Easy, Harris. It’s all right.”
Xander replied thickly, “Sod off, William.”
Spike grinned at his spirit, but it faded almost as soon as it crossed his lips. He was silent a moment, then took a deep shuddering breath. “Yeah. Listen, give me your keys. I can take care of it.” Xander fished in his pocket without argument, slapped the keys over into Spike’s outstretched hand, trying to get control over his own breathing again. Spike turned back to the object lying in the dirt at their feet. “Uh, take your time,” he said quietly, no trace of his habitual condescending sneer. With a shudder, he lifted the robot’s head and gazed into its grit-specked eyes. His boots crunched through the gravel in the yard as he made his way back to the car. After a few moments, Xander rose unsteadily to his feet and followed.
***
Giles had read about alien abduction experiences, but this was the first time he had experienced anything like it himself. Not actual aliens, of course. Just the numbing terror that came from being totally awake, but unable to move or rouse himself. He was completely aware of his body--every itch, every breath, the discomfort of the heart sensors pulling at his chest hair, the bruising around his IV needle, where they had pierced him several times before actually hitting his collapsed vein-- but he could do nothing.
He struggled for a time against the weight smothering him. There was something very important, something he couldn’t quite remember, but it was absolutely vital. But try as he might, he was unable to get it. He cursed his weakness, his stupidity. He was unable to weep, but he desperately wanted to, without knowing why.
He finally sank back, inside himself, exhausted, and as deeper sleep claimed him again, he mentally uttered a prayer from his childhood that he had not thought of in years, one invoked to protect loved ones in time of danger and death. He knew no reason why he should be repeating it now, but it seemed dreadfully important. And unaccountably hopeless. He drifted off, wondering why he felt so desolate, so alone.
***
Dawn had said she didn’t think she could sleep alone, not tonight, and Tara and Willow had both agreed quickly that she wouldn’t have to. Now, as Willow gazed down on both of them sleeping peacefully beside her, she smiled sadly. She feared her restlessness would wake them and moved to rise. Tara’s arm curled protectively around Dawn, as around a precious daughter, and Willow laid a kiss on both their exhausted brows before pulling on her robe and making her way downstairs, where her laptop sat on the kitchen table, right where she had left it the day before.
She flipped it open and began to hack first into the coroner’s office, adding another death from the ubiquitous “gas leak”, complete with examination reports and death certificates, for one Anne Summerville, aged 20 years. Then she searched around until she found a casket company with laughably insecure web security, and created a purchase order for a mahogany casket, for the same Anne Summerville, to be picked up tomorrow afternoon. Xander could probably get a truck of some kind, and maybe get a couple of guys from the construction gang to help him.
She then thought about hacking into the computers of one of Sunnydale’s many funeral homes to add Anne Summerville to their list of incoming clients, but something in her could not bear to let anyone else touch the body of her friend. She didn’t think she could do it, herself-- but letting a stranger–that was even worse, she shuddered. And she remembered, Tara had told her quietly, while Dawn had been brushing her teeth in the bathroom, “I come from people who take care of their dead themselves. I know how to do… what needs doing.” Willow had smiled at her with a mixture of love and amazement, that Tara, having just come back to herself after weeks alone in some dark hell, would see just what was bothering her, and offer such comfort.
The thought of Tara, and whatever hell she had been in, brought her back to Buffy. Where was she, Willow wondered. Her religious tradition, about which she had been fairly serious as a child, had only Sheol–not Hell exactly, but just the place where the dead went, where they slept, unable to worship the Creator or care about anything or anyone. Of course, her religious tradition didn’t have much to say about Hell Gods, vampires, Slayers, dimensional portals, or magicks–not to mention why crosses and holy water, not Stars of David, had such a detrimental effect on the undead.
She had a sudden, horrible thought. What if Buffy had ended up in one of the many hell dimensions Anya was always going on about? A germ of a plan began to form in her mind. She would have to do something. Buffy was her best friend. Buffy had believed in her power, and she had come through during the fight. She knew without doubt that she could do so again. She began wondering how to get the information she needed from Anya and Giles, and perhaps Spike, without their figuring out why she wanted to know. She rested her head on the cool tabletop for just a moment….
She was brought back to herself, drooling a little, with her head sunk in exhaustion on the table beside her laptop, by a knock on the door. She rose groggily and went to open it.
Spike and Xander stood together on the doorstep, both with haunted looks in their eyes. “Hey, Willow,” Xander smiled wanly, while Spike nodded in acknowledgment behind him. Willow looked from one to the other, the last two people she had expected to see tonight, much less together.
“We, uh, we found something, back at the tower,” Xander began. He gestured with his head. “It’s in the trunk. We thought we should get it here now, while it was still dark,” he continued apologetically. “I’m glad you were still up.” Glad, but she could tell from his tone, not terribly surprised. Looking at the two of them, she wondered if either of them planned on sleeping ever again.
She was about to ask what they had found, but they were already moving back to the trunk of the Xandermobile, Xander fumbling with his keys, then handing them over to Spike with an irritated gesture at his murmured suggestion. Spike unlocked the trunk and placed a smaller round object on top of the larger one they both were lifting. They came back and Willow caught sight of the dismembered body of what looked like her best friend. It took her a few moments to realize it was the Buffy-bot, the head resting precariously on the stomach of the body as they passed through the open doorway and she stood back to give them room. Xander asked over his shoulder, “Where do you want it?” even as he moved to the couch.
Willow thought the couch was probably one of the worst places for the robot she could think of, especially if Dawn was the first up in the morning, but she didn’t bother to correct them. “There’s fine,” she nodded, and the two lowered it to the couch, Spike’s lightning reflexes catching the head before it tumbled to the floor, and placing it on the couch where a real head would have been, had it been attached. He turned it so the face was towards the back of the couch, and averted his gaze, unable to even look on the likeness of the woman he had been so obsessed about only a few weeks–or was it days?–ago.
“Uh, thanks, guys,” Willow said. She stood then, at a loss for what else to say, or do. Spike smiled first as he came up to her, drew his face down to bring his eyes level with hers.
“You should get to bed,” he said sternly, but not unkindly. Willow once again found herself touched by his humanity, even as she knew he possessed none, and would have been offended at the suggestion.
After a moment, she replied, “So should you. Both of you,” she continued, turning to Xander. He was still staring at the robot, trying not to cry.
Spike said quietly, “Harris.” The name, and the tone, were enough for Xander to look up at him. “She’s upstairs, lad. Maybe you should take some time, say your good-byes properly, to the real one.” Xander looked lost for a minute, then met Willow’s eyes and nodded. He made his way upstairs, and they heard the door click shut quietly behind him when he reached Buffy’s room.
Spike looked around the room, at the floor, anywhere but toward Willow on the one hand, and the robot on the other. “Maybe we should cover it?” he asked, after a few moments, obviously having thought of Dawn’s reaction when she awoke the next morning.
Willow shook her head. “Basement might be a better place for it.” She picked up the head, keeping its face averted from them both. “Can you carry the rest of it?” Spike only nodded and followed her to the kitchen, and the basement door. They found a suitable space between the washing machine and the wall, and laid the robot in it. Willow found a blanket on a nearby shelf and covered it, with Spike’s help. They stood for a moment, assessing their handiwork.
“Good idea,” Willow finally said, “bringing it here. I should have remembered it,” she added, ruefully.
Spike nodded, but didn’t reply. After a few moments, she moved back towards the stairs and he followed her. As they reached the front door, he paused. “Someone should be with Anya,” he said. “I can’t go in, uh course, but… I could hear if she calls out for him. If she does, I can knock, tell her what’s going on.”
Willow glanced upstairs for a long moment. “That’s a good idea,” she said, finally. She looked at him, trying to read his expression. “But, Spike…. Why?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He sounded genuinely puzzled. Then he shrugged, turned to the door, pausing as he opened it. “Just, uh… ask him not to slay me, if he comes on me outside his doorway.” He grinned weakly. “I’m not sure how much longer I can stay awake.”
Willow nodded, closed the door quietly behind him. But she continued staring at the door for some time, after the vampire had departed.
***
It was nearly dawn when Xander came back down the stairs. Willow was sitting on the couch with a steaming mug, looking thoughtful. Her weary eyes brightened a little as he came into view. His eyes were red, but he looked more at peace, and Willow was glad.
"Hey," he breathed, as she rose to give him a hug. He rested his chin on the top of her head.
"Feelin' better?" she asked gently.
"Yeah." He hugged her closer for a second, then released her. "You're up late," he observed.
"Or early," she corrected.
He grinned a little. "Or early," he conceded. "Whatcha been up to?"
"Oh, you know. This and that." He waited, just watching her, until he broke down and admitted, "Ok, hacking into official computer systems, falsifying records-- the usual." She paused for a moment, then said more seriously, "I'm gonna have a couple of jobs for you later. Think you can make me some time?"
"Sure," he replied. "I got no plans today. I cleared my calendar for that apocalypse…." He trailed off, the humor falling flat. "What did you have in mind?"
"Well," Willow began, "We need to go pick up Giles from the hospital this morning…."
"Think he'll be ready to leave so soon? He was in pretty bad shape yesterday, wasn't he?"
Willow avoided his eyes. "Oh, yeah, well, we should at least visit. But when, uh, If he gets cut loose, we should be there for him…." She lapsed into silence, and Xander knew she was talking about more than transportation. He nodded.
"Yeah, absolutely. We can do that." He gave her a reassuring smile and took her hand as they sat down on the couch. "Where will he go? I don't like the idea of him being all alone in that dark apartment of his."
Willow nodded. "I think here, for the moment."
"He'll be stubborn," Xander warned.
"Well yes, there is that," Willow agreed. "But he knows my Resolve Face." She tried to demonstrate, but she was less than convincing and broke into a grin after only a few moments. She was glad to see that it at least brought a small chuckle to her friend.
"Don't worry. We'll back you up." He glanced up, suddenly aware of the sunlight streaming through the curtains of the window behind them. He sprang up with a muttered curse.
"Oh boy–I forgot all about Anya! I bet she's worried sick. I didn't think to leave a note…."
Willow stood and placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "Relax. Spike went over there. If she wakes up, he'll knock and tell her you're ok." Xander looked at her like she had lost her mind.
"He what? Not making me feel any better, here, Will."
Willow shook her head. "No, really, it'll be all right, I think. Something's up with him, but…." She met his eyes seriously. "We're going to need him."
Xander pursed his lips and blew out a deep breath, then nodded. "Doomed vampire obsession. Great." He squeezed her hand, gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek. "I still better get going. Call me when you're ready to go over, or if you need anything, ok?"
"Sure thing."
***
Xander found Spike sitting with his back to the door, his legs stretched out straight, taking up most of the width of the darkened hallway. The vampire rose and dusted himself off as Xander joined him.
"Not to worry, lad," he said by way of greeting. "She hasn't so much as stirred." He cocked his head for a moment, as if listening, then added, "Gettin' restless, though. Got back just in time, I'd say." He looked around and rubbed his hands together. "Well, I'll just be off, then. Where's the basement in this place? Any good sewer access?"
Xander stood there for a moment, keys in hand, regarding him with a look of utter disgust. Then, as he turned and unlocked the door, he heard himself say, "Come in, Spike."
Spike's eyes widened in mild surprise. "No really, that's all right," he began, but Xander cut him off.
"Just get in here, ok? And keep it down. We'll be heading to the hospital pretty soon anyway. You can–I don't know–sleep in a dark corner until we get back." He looked over the boyish vampire, noticing his tattered clothing and ugly wounds in the brighter light of the coming day. "You could get cleaned up, too.” He paused, then, “After Anya showers," he amended quickly. "You have not seen true fury, until you see an ex-vengeance demon run out of hot water."
Summer 2 - Preparations and Farewells
Author: hobgoblin (see note below)
Contact: hobgoblin_sp@yahoo.com, http://hobgoblinn.livejournal.com/
Rating: FRT for character death and its aftermath.
Genfic. Canon relationships.
DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Sandollar Productions, Kuzui Enterprises, 20th Century Fox Television, the WB Television Network, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I do not mean to infringe upon any copyrights.
Note: this was originally posted under a name far too close to my RL moniker. So if you think you recognise this story, you have indeed seen it before. I promise I am still me, and that this fic is entirely my own work. Thanks to all who provided feedback and encouragement.
hob
***
As soon as he had seen the portal open above them, Rupert Giles had known it, with a sickening certainty. Both his Slayer and her younger sister were dead. A detached, very remote part of him, was astonished that he still was not. But as he gazed down now at the lifeless form of the young woman before him, he could not muster the ability to feel anything. Some part of his mind registered that Buffy had saved them all. Again. Another felt a sick self loathing, that he had no right to be alive while she lay there, so still. So peaceful. As if asleep. He absently marveled that the fall from so great a height had left no mark on her. He found himself holding a breath, expecting her to draw one herself, any second now. To come back to them.
But she did not, and as he drew a ragged breath himself, a pain more intense than any he had ever known washed through him. Brought him back to himself. Or perhaps it was the small hand he suddenly found grasping his own. Willow. Struggling not to cry, to be strong.
“She’s still up there, Giles,” Willow breathed, and Giles followed her gaze up the tower. His expression grew puzzled, but he could not process anything he was seeing–the movement of one figure up the structure, meeting a second one near the bottom, then of two returning. It wasn’t until Tara and Dawn reached the ground, and his eyes focused enough to recognize them, that he realized, Buffy really Had saved them all. Including the one person who meant more to her than any other in the world. He released Willow’s hand as Dawn buried her face in his chest, and he automatically wrapped his arms around her. The pain, the relief, the myriad conflicting emotions within him threatened to overload his senses. For a moment, if he had not been holding Dawn, he might have collapsed. Instead, all was replaced by a cold, deadly calm. Willow again brought him back.
“Giles, we have to do something,” she was saying. She was in shock, too, he noted, distantly. When he didn’t immediately reply, she turned to Tara. “What should we do?”
Tara winced as Willow shifted in her embrace, and her crushed hand moved, no longer protected by her cast. She saw the unfocused stare of Anya’s eyes as her head lolled against Xander’s shoulder, and the still fresh cuts though Dawn’s blood-stained gown, and the blood seeping from Giles’ side, through his shirt and bandages. Take care of the living first, she thought. “Hospital, Honey. We need to get Dawnie to a hospital.”
Willow nodded, grateful to have a direction-- any direction. But she looked back at her friend’s still body. “But.. but, I can’t….. Buffy….”
Giles roused himself. “No, Tara’s right,” he rasped. He saw, too, that Dawn was not the only one who needed medical attention. Dawn pulled away from him, glared at him through her tears. “We Can’t Just Leave her here,” she began, stressing each word in a low, dangerous voice.
Giles shook his head gently. “No, we can’t.” He looked over her shoulder, his gaze finding Spike in time to see Willow kneel beside him, crumpled to the ground in his grief.
Willow reached out, put a hand on Spike’s shoulder. Spike pulled away violently, tried to turn away, but his body was still too damaged from the fall, and he slumped back. He refused to meet her gaze.
“It’s getting light,” Willow said, quietly.
Spike saw that it was true, felt in his bones the same sick dread that he had felt in the pre-dawn of each new day since he had been turned. Better than an alarm clock, the early warning instinct. It would continue to build until he was frantic, forced to seek a shelter from the approaching sunlight. He already should be feeling it, but his loss and pain were too deep for anything else. Willow’s reminder gave him a fatalistic burst of hope. His world was ashes now–why not stay out here, greet the sunrise? He didn’t reply, but he did look Willow directly in the eyes now, and managed, despite his mangled face, the ghost of a maniacal grin.
Willow saw his thought–didn’t even need to reach out with her mind to also hear it, though she easily could have. “She still needs you Spike,” she began, but his high, somewhat hysterical giggle stopped her.
“Needs me, Red? To do what? Kill her deader?” The laugh turned to racking sobs he could not control. Someone pulled him close, and he began to shove violently away, only to stop when Dawn’s voice sounded in his ear.
“You have to live. For me,” she whispered through her tears. “That’s what Buffy said. Don’t you dare quit on us now.”
Willow watched as Spike’s eyes traveled to each of them in turn, lingering on Buffy, and last resting on her. She knew now with a calm clarity what must be done. “Someone has to ... get her home… without anyone seeing.” Her eyes widened for emphasis as she spoke the last words, and understanding washed over Spike’s features. If anyone knew that the Slayer was gone….
He gave a quick nod and pulled himself together. Something he could do. Even if it hurt like hell, he could carry her. “I know someone,” he said. “We can get her home, do whatever….” He couldn’t think about it, looked away a moment. “Right, then.” He tried to rise, let Dawn and Willow help him unsteadily to his feet. His entire right side felt like it had crushed glass ground into it, and when he tried to move, the pain was more terrible still. Good. With a grim smile he turned to where Buffy lay. Saw the first rays of morning light blazing in her hair. Found Giles’ eyes. “You’ll have to bring her to me, Mate.”
Giles simply nodded. As from a great distance he heard Xander’s protest, Willow’s quiet explanation, Dawn’s soothing assurances. But mostly, he saw Buffy, dearer to him than any child. Remembered their first meeting. Her irrepressible zest for life. Her smile. Her fear. And her courage. He knelt beside her.
“Oh, God, Buffy, “ he breathed. He slid his hand under her shoulders, lifted her to lean against his chest. He worked his other arm under to support her legs and felt the stitches in his side–the few that were still holding after all this time–give way as he rose with his precious burden.
Spike stood at the edge of the shadow, where a nearby building blocked the sun’s deadly rays. The two men’s eyes met, and after a moment, Spike gave a slight nod. Acknowledgment, maybe, or respect. He gently took the body into his arms. “Go take care of yourself, Watcher.” He looked around, at these people who had been Buffy’s family–still were. “All of you.” Then he turned, his gait steady, betraying none of the pain and weakness he felt, as he made his way into the deeper shadows of the nearby alley.
Giles watched as Spike disappeared. Willow was once more at his side, with Dawn, who touched his ribs where the blood was soaking through. “Right, then,” he said. “We should….” He looked to Willow, suddenly lost.
“Hospital,” she said firmly, pulling his arm around her to support him, as Tara took Dawn’s hand in her good one. Xander followed, cradling Anya, who was now unconscious in his arms.
***
As they reached the street, they saw the flashing lights, heard the sirens. Sunnydale’s finest, as usual arriving too late for what they were not remotely equipped to handle. Xander remembered a time when he had wanted to be a fireman. Now he felt a tired resentment towards the men and women piling out the emergency vehicles. But one paramedic stopped him, looked at Anya, and asked “What happened?” as he helped lower her to the ground and began checking her pulse, her pupils. Xander could only stare wordlessly, unable to respond.
Another paramedic was leading Giles and Dawn to the back of an ambulance, asking the same question. Giles looked again to Willow, who was now close behind with Tara, before vaguely offering, “Um… gas leak.” He refused to submit to an examination until the young man had checked both Dawn’s injuries and Tara’s hand. It wasn’t until he sank back on the gurney, and the medic slid the IV needle into his vein, that he realized how much blood he had lost. He felt dizzy, somewhat nauseated for a moment, before he slipped into unconsciousness.
The paramedics lifted the stretcher into the ambulance, then helped first Dawn, then Tara inside as well. They settled themselves together on the low bench next to Giles. Willow shook her head when the young man looked questioningly at her.
“Uh, no,” she said, catching sight of Xander helping with Anya not far away. “I should….” She looked back at Tara then, remembering how she had felt, only a few hours ago, that if she could just have Tara back as she was before, she would never leave her side again. Tara gave her a sad smile that spoke more than any words could, and Willow realized she had projected her thoughts unconsciously. She felt, rather than heard, Tara say, “We’ll be fine. Take care of them.” The other ambulance attendant motioned her to stand clear while they shut the doors and started to pull away. Willow made her way over to Xander.
She saw the aimless wandering of the scores of the mentally ill, their minds first violated by Glory and then called to construct that obscenity of cable and steel towering over them. She reached Xander’s side in time to hear him say, “But is she going to be all right?”
The paramedic replied, “She has a concussion. We’ll know more when we can get her back to the hospital.” He finished cinching the straps securing Anya to the gurney and motioned his partner to help him lift it into the ambulance. “Are you family?” he asked, including both Willow and Xander in the question.
Willow responded without hesitation, “Yes, we are,” and Xander looked at her gratefully. The attendant offered them space in the back of the ambulance. Xander put his arm around Willow, and she felt him trying to be strong for her, and barely hanging on. “She’ll be all right,” Willow assured him, but she knew as they climbed up that they were both thinking of the one who would not be all right, ever again. The doors slammed and the siren began to wail as they pulled away from the curb.
***
As soon as Spike reached the entrance to the tunnels that ran underneath the streets of Sunnydale, he slowed up. He had expended nearly all his energy to mask his weakness in front of the others, but now he realized if he continued at that pace, he would collapse. He stood blinking in the cool darkness, trying to figure out which way he should go.
He had been lying–he didn’t know anybody he would trust to help him, and even the thought of killing them afterward could bring him no comfort. “Stay out of sight,” he thought, though most of the demonic population of Sunnydale had scattered to the winds, sensing the rising power was not anything they wanted to tangle with, and that the further they were from the storm when it broke, the more likely they might find a way to weather it.
He knew a roundabout way to the Slayer’s house, and as he started down a side tunnel, he reckoned it might take him much of the day to make it there, given his injuries. He felt his rib bones grind together with each step, and some bone fragments drifting loose in his shattered knee pierce the surrounding flesh. Unlike the injury some years ago, though, he had enough working parts that he could walk–also, unlike when he had been paralyzed, it hurt like hell. But that suited him. It was the least he could do. Since he had failed to keep his promise to the lady.
***
Willow paced an all too familiar waiting area, glancing occasionally at Tara, who was stroking the hair of a sleeping, exhausted Dawn. Both of them had been “treated and released,” and one of the interns, whom she vaguely recognized as a friend of Ben’s, had scrounged up a set of aqua scrubs so that Dawn could remove the hated, blood soaked dress. Tara looked drowsy as well. Willow wanted to go to her, but she continued to pace, focusing her mind on the sequence of things that they must do next, running through the myriad “what ifs” that would need to be taken care of in the coming days. She remembered how she had been when Joyce had died, unable to make even the simplest decisions about what to wear, even with Tara’s steadying influence. But now, as she glanced back at them, she felt a strange resolve. She was going to take care of them. She had to.
She went back to her mental checklists. They were safe and comforting, like a computer program–something she could understand and control. She needed that just now. She had watched Giles handle things for Buffy, with her mom, but she knew, remembering the glazed, stricken look in his eyes, that even if his injuries turned out to be relatively minor, this wasn’t something he could do. Not this time. The loss was too great, too near.
She saw Xander approaching and moved to intercept him in the hall, motioning with a finger to her lips and a glance at Dawn and Tara, now both asleep, that they should be quiet. “How’s Anya?” she asked, stepping back to discourage the hug. She couldn’t go there right now, and he saw it in her downcast eyes. That if she hugged him now, she would fall apart.
So he replied, relief evident on his haunted face, “She’s a tough girl, my Anya. Mild concussion, some bruises.” He drew a deep breath, blew it out again. “She’s going to be fine. She’s just waiting for a doctor to sign her out. She said she’d meet us here. What about Giles?”
Willow shook her head. “Still in surgery. But,” she continued hopefully, “he’s been so much worse, you know. Like that time when Angel… a-and….” She trailed off, and Xander reached out to grip her shoulder comfortingly. He felt her trembling, the effort it was costing her to be strong. “My brave little toaster,” he thought, with a sad, fond smile.
Aloud, he cleared his throat, suddenly constricted with unshed tears, and said, “Why don’t you sit down, Will? Take a break.” He gave her a small grin. “I can pace for you.”
She smiled back and nodded, but as she turned she saw the surgeon approaching. So she waited until he reached them. “You’re the family of Rupert Giles?” Willow and Xander nodded apprehensively.
The surgeon continued, “Well, he came through the surgery fine, but he has lost a lot of blood. We’d like to keep him, at least overnight, for observation.” Willow rearranged her mental priorities as the doctor paused, frowning back through the chart. “Maybe longer–wasn’t he in here just yesterday?”
“Yeah, he, uh, he got mugged,” Xander offered.
“By a gang on PCP,” Willow added.
“And then there was that explosion last night, as we were driving him home….” Xander trailed off.
The doctor eyed them dubiously. “Well, whatever happened, he needs rest and lots of it now. When I do release him, you have to promise me you’ll see that he stays off his feet for a while. I don’t want to see him again anytime soon. Understood?” The short, balding surgeon suddenly reminded Xander of Principal Snyder, as he fixed them with a piercing gaze. They both nodded.
Then, Willow found her voice. “When can we see him?” She was not deterred by the flash in the doctor’s eyes. “He–he lost someone very close to him tonight. I don’t think he should be alone when he wakes up. Not if you want him to stay quiet.”
The surgeon considered a moment, then nodded. “I’ll let one of you sit with him, if you like. He’s in recovery now. We actually could use another pair of eyes in there.” He paused and took in the unusually chaotic scene around him. “Lots of casualties from that gas leak.”
Willow turned to Xander, took his hand and squeezed it. “Can you stay with them?” she asked, motioning towards Tara and Dawn. Xander nodded and moved into the waiting area, to take her place pacing one end of the room, if only he had known it.
Willow turned back to the doctor. “Lead on,” she said.
***
When Spike got to the tunnel exit nearest the Summers residence, it was still late afternoon, but it was also quite overcast, and just now, raining pretty steadily. If he kept to the shade of the trees, and he knew from long practice just what path he would need to take for that, he should be safe enough. Though he still didn’t much care, for himself, he was damned if he would fail in this task, after everything.
He chuckled bitterly at the thought. He was damn right he was damned–wasn’t that the whole bloody point of being a demon? He laid his burden down for a moment to remove his leather duster, place it over her to shield her from the rain, then lifted her gently again into his arms. Eternally damned. No smell of a soul on him anywhere, the demon Doc had said. So why did he hurt so damned much?
He shook off the thought as he traced the well known path to Buffy’s door, knowing that she had not locked it the previous night when they had left. He had looked askance at her at the time, but her expression had kept him silent, and he realized now why she had not bothered. If they died, stolen possessions would be the least of their problems. And if they lived–well, she’d been right. Someone might need to get in in a hurry, without a key. He shifted her limp body in his arms as he turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Inside, he paused for a moment, then took the stairs up to Buffy’s room. The irony of his being alone in there now, with her, was not lost on him. But again, he pushed the thought aside as he laid her gently on the white bedspread, pulled his jacket from her face, and smoothed her hair with his hands. Crossed her arms on her breast. Cocked his head at her, in that quizzical expression he sometimes got, when the human condition mystified him. He was a demon who had inflicted painful, brutal, sadistic death on thousands, including two slayers. But now, as he gazed down at her, this eternal sleep made no sense to him at all. No more than his feelings about it did. He pulled the desk chair up beside the bed, and crossed his arms over the back of it, resting his head for a moment against the cool wood, before sitting up straighter to keep vigil.
***
It was odd. When Willow had first joined Giles in the recovery area, she had been relieved to see how much stronger he looked than she had feared he would. But now, as she approached him, lying in the bed he had just been moved to in his own room, a cold fear gripped her heart.
Willow dragged a heavy wooden chair up next to Giles’ bed and sank wearily into it. She looked over the bed rail at her mentor, her friend, noted how old he looked, and how fragile. They had always teased him about being old, of course, but now–he reminded her, painfully, of her grandfather, those last few days before he’d died, when she was ten. Around her, the sounds of the busy hospital faded to a deafening silence. She reached out and laid her hand on his and bowed her head.
She gradually noticed that her head was aching-- a side effect of doing magicks well beyond her normal abilities. She had mustered the strength to do what needed to be done, and she had restored her beloved to herself, but now she felt very clearly the cost. She bore it for a few minutes, then remembered a relatively simple spell–one that might alleviate the pain. Looking at Giles, she suddenly remembered the page in the book–one of many she had pored over after Tara’s injury–and she had a flash of insight–that if she modified it just slightly, she might be able to speed Giles’ healing as well as her own.
She focused her mind, became very aware of the blood coursing through her veins, and the weak but steady beating of her friend’s heart. She murmured the words of the simple incantation, and the pain in her head instantly lifted. She began to concentrate more on Giles, felt with some fear just how damaged he was, body and soul. She squeezed his hand gently and brought it to her lips as she continued to chant quietly. She felt his body begin to knit itself back together, and, as he gained strength, she felt him begin to move towards consciousness. She faltered then.
“Oh, no, Giles,” she breathed. She couldn’t let bear to him face the pain and grief that would be waiting for him, not just now. She called another spell to mind, one that would keep him unconscious until she lifted it. She worked this one more easily than the last, and though a slight ache came back to her head as she finished, she thought it was well worth the price. He needed to rest. As she opened her eyes again and looked at him, she noted with satisfaction how the lines in his face had eased somewhat, and how his breathing seemed deeper, less labored. She looked up as Xander peered around the door.
“Hey witchy woman,” he said quietly. “We’re all ready to go now. Want us to wait up for you?”
She shook her head. “I think we can leave him for a bit now,” she said. At Xander’s puzzled look, she quickly added, “The, um, the doctor just gave him something–should keep him out until at least tomorrow. What time is it?”
Xander glanced down at his watch and grimaced. “I’m guessing not 1:00 a.m.,” he said, shaking it. He glanced back to the clock in the hallway. “Coming up on 6:00, actually,” he said.
Willow nodded, gave Giles’ hand a last squeeze and gently laid it on his chest. “Let’s get everyone home,” she said.
***
Xander and Anya dropped off Willow, Tara and Dawn at the Summers residence. Xander offered to see them in, but Willow insisted he get Anya home. “If you need anything, give me a call,” he said, as he hugged Willow close to him.
Willow gave him a sad smile. “We’ll be fine tonight,” she said. She watched until his car turned the corner down the street, then followed Tara and Dawn into the house.
Dawn looked absolutely dead on her feet, even after her nap in the waiting room. It was to be expected, Willow mused. Too many sorrows in one so young; they were bound to catch up with her sooner or later. “Want a snack?” she heard Tara ask kindly, brushing Dawn’s hair out of her eyes. Dawn shook her head, paused for a moment, then said, “S-some water, maybe.” They detoured towards the kitchen while Willow made her way upstairs.
At the top of the stairs, she saw the open door to Buffy’s room, and the vampire rising to meet her at the doorway. “Everyone all right?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, her eyes moving past him to the still form on the bed. She found her voice. “No trouble getting here?”
She thought she saw a ghost of a smile, but it faded too quickly for her to be sure. “No,” he answered. “And,” he added, before she could ask, “nobody saw us.” He looked down, caught in his earlier lie, but she simply nodded, then looked at his torn cheekbone and his stiff movements as he joined her in the hallway.
“You’re hurt,” she said, reaching up to touch the cut over his eye. He caught her hand.
“I’ll heal,” he replied grimly, refusing to meet her eyes.
She shook her head. “We’ve got lots of bandages and stuff–you’ll heal faster if we get your injuries cleaned up and bandaged right.”
He shook his head, seeming a little embarrassed at the attention. “I think….” He paused, then continued, “I think I want to be alone for a bit, just now.” He was grateful when she didn’t point out he’d been alone all day.
“Ok,” she agreed, gently. They walked back downstairs. At the door, they heard Dawn and Tara in the kitchen, both crying softly. A look of pain crossed Spike’s face, and he looked for a second like he might go to them, but then he sighed and turned back to Willow.
“What’s the plan now, Red?” he asked.
She looked towards the kitchen, then back at him. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll make the arrangements for….” Her voice trailed off.
He nodded. “Please, let me know,” he said. “I… I’ll do anything I can for you. You know that, don’t you?”
Willow looked at him in surprise, partly from his gentle words, and partly because she suddenly had an urge to hug him, to comfort him, as if he were human, and their friend. He saw the look, and the walls snapped back up. “Right, then,” he said briskly. “I’ll just be off. Need a smoke somethin’ terrible.” With that, he turned and vanished into the twilight.
***
Spike wandered aimlessly, but he wasn’t surprised when he looked up to see the tower above him once again. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, took a deep drag on it. He stayed there a long while, looking down at the spot where Buffy had fallen, lost in thought.
“Returned to the scene of the crime, eh Spike?”
Spike started, then cursed inwardly. He composed himself, flicked his cigarette butt away into the darkness, following the glowing ember with his eyes. Then he pulled out another cigarette. “Sod off, Harris,” he replied, as he lit it.
Xander took him by the shoulders and swung him around. Spike just looked at him, unconcerned, as he pulled the cigarette from his lips. He made no move to defend himself as Xander’s fist connected with his jaw. The blow spun him halfway around, and Spike thought, not for the first time, that people really did underestimate this boy. He pulled himself back upright and gazed at the frustration and fury in those haunted eyes. He took another pull on the cigarette. “Shouldn’t you be home with your lady?” Spike asked conversationally, for all the world as though they were discussing the weather.
For a moment, he thought Xander might strike him again, but then the fist dropped slowly to his side. “She’s asleep. I just….” He trailed off helplessly.
Spike nodded, “Yeah.” They stood together in silence, hands thrust in their pockets, looking up at the tower.
“Doesn’t seem real,” Xander said, after a time.
“No,” Spike agreed, and began walking towards the broken wall near the back of the yard. Xander fell into step beside him. Spike indicated the hole in the wall as they approached. “Your handiwork?” he asked.
Xander grinned slightly. “Those under-rated bowling skills,” he acknowledged. Spike could see the wrecking ball through the hole, and he nodded approvingly, kicking at some of the rubble around their feet.
“Never played,” he admitted. “Used to be fair at darts.” He didn’t add that had been after he’d become a vampire, nor that the game had involved some damage to his human opponents not intended by the game’s creators. He did notice that the pleasure he had once taken in the memory of his former evil was entirely absent, and in its place was something very like–shame? Regret? He shook off the feeling, took another drag on his cigarette.
“Hey, what’s that, over there?” Xander pointed to what looked like an arm sticking out from behind the rubble. The ground was uneven here, where the portal’s energy discharges had left some fissures in the pavement. They made their way carefully around, until they stood over what appeared to be a headless body, wearing a familiar black leather jacket.
“The robot,” Xander breathed, as he realized what he was seeing. Spike was at a loss for a moment, then thought of something himself.
“We should get it back to Willow,” Spike said, not immediately noticing the murderous fury that blazed up in his companion’s eyes.
“Why, Spike? If you’re horny, why not just take her right here?”
Spike snapped his head around, his eyes unusually bright, unable to hide his pain and revulsion. Xander faltered in his self righteous anger. Spike waited a moment, choosing and discarding several replies before settling on simply, “If Willow can fix it, it’ll be easier to keep up the pretense that the Slayer is still here.” He sighed and continued somewhat unsteadily, “I think she would want that,” and they both knew he was no longer referring to Willow.
Xander ducked his head and then nodded. “My car’s parked on the street.” He bent down to lift the robot’s shoulders as Spike got its feet. They carried it in silence back to the car and placed it in the trunk. Then they stood around for a minute, neither of them looking forward to the next task.
“Right,” Spike said. “It’s not much good without….” He couldn’t finish.
Xander nodded. “We should spread out. It’s got to be….”
Spike nodded quickly. “Right, then.” They branched out, coming at the place where they had found the robot’s body from different directions, scanning the ground carefully for its head. Xander was the unlucky one to spy it first.
Spike knew the boy had found it when he heard a hoarse cry, then what sounded like vomiting. He ran over to Xander, saw what had caused the reaction, lying on the ground, staring sightlessly up at them. Xander was hunched over, on his knees, a few feet away. Spike sniffed hard, fighting back his own reaction. He was not a weak mortal, for hell’s sake. He reached down and squeezed the lad’s shoulder. “Easy, Harris. It’s all right.”
Xander replied thickly, “Sod off, William.”
Spike grinned at his spirit, but it faded almost as soon as it crossed his lips. He was silent a moment, then took a deep shuddering breath. “Yeah. Listen, give me your keys. I can take care of it.” Xander fished in his pocket without argument, slapped the keys over into Spike’s outstretched hand, trying to get control over his own breathing again. Spike turned back to the object lying in the dirt at their feet. “Uh, take your time,” he said quietly, no trace of his habitual condescending sneer. With a shudder, he lifted the robot’s head and gazed into its grit-specked eyes. His boots crunched through the gravel in the yard as he made his way back to the car. After a few moments, Xander rose unsteadily to his feet and followed.
***
Giles had read about alien abduction experiences, but this was the first time he had experienced anything like it himself. Not actual aliens, of course. Just the numbing terror that came from being totally awake, but unable to move or rouse himself. He was completely aware of his body--every itch, every breath, the discomfort of the heart sensors pulling at his chest hair, the bruising around his IV needle, where they had pierced him several times before actually hitting his collapsed vein-- but he could do nothing.
He struggled for a time against the weight smothering him. There was something very important, something he couldn’t quite remember, but it was absolutely vital. But try as he might, he was unable to get it. He cursed his weakness, his stupidity. He was unable to weep, but he desperately wanted to, without knowing why.
He finally sank back, inside himself, exhausted, and as deeper sleep claimed him again, he mentally uttered a prayer from his childhood that he had not thought of in years, one invoked to protect loved ones in time of danger and death. He knew no reason why he should be repeating it now, but it seemed dreadfully important. And unaccountably hopeless. He drifted off, wondering why he felt so desolate, so alone.
***
Dawn had said she didn’t think she could sleep alone, not tonight, and Tara and Willow had both agreed quickly that she wouldn’t have to. Now, as Willow gazed down on both of them sleeping peacefully beside her, she smiled sadly. She feared her restlessness would wake them and moved to rise. Tara’s arm curled protectively around Dawn, as around a precious daughter, and Willow laid a kiss on both their exhausted brows before pulling on her robe and making her way downstairs, where her laptop sat on the kitchen table, right where she had left it the day before.
She flipped it open and began to hack first into the coroner’s office, adding another death from the ubiquitous “gas leak”, complete with examination reports and death certificates, for one Anne Summerville, aged 20 years. Then she searched around until she found a casket company with laughably insecure web security, and created a purchase order for a mahogany casket, for the same Anne Summerville, to be picked up tomorrow afternoon. Xander could probably get a truck of some kind, and maybe get a couple of guys from the construction gang to help him.
She then thought about hacking into the computers of one of Sunnydale’s many funeral homes to add Anne Summerville to their list of incoming clients, but something in her could not bear to let anyone else touch the body of her friend. She didn’t think she could do it, herself-- but letting a stranger–that was even worse, she shuddered. And she remembered, Tara had told her quietly, while Dawn had been brushing her teeth in the bathroom, “I come from people who take care of their dead themselves. I know how to do… what needs doing.” Willow had smiled at her with a mixture of love and amazement, that Tara, having just come back to herself after weeks alone in some dark hell, would see just what was bothering her, and offer such comfort.
The thought of Tara, and whatever hell she had been in, brought her back to Buffy. Where was she, Willow wondered. Her religious tradition, about which she had been fairly serious as a child, had only Sheol–not Hell exactly, but just the place where the dead went, where they slept, unable to worship the Creator or care about anything or anyone. Of course, her religious tradition didn’t have much to say about Hell Gods, vampires, Slayers, dimensional portals, or magicks–not to mention why crosses and holy water, not Stars of David, had such a detrimental effect on the undead.
She had a sudden, horrible thought. What if Buffy had ended up in one of the many hell dimensions Anya was always going on about? A germ of a plan began to form in her mind. She would have to do something. Buffy was her best friend. Buffy had believed in her power, and she had come through during the fight. She knew without doubt that she could do so again. She began wondering how to get the information she needed from Anya and Giles, and perhaps Spike, without their figuring out why she wanted to know. She rested her head on the cool tabletop for just a moment….
She was brought back to herself, drooling a little, with her head sunk in exhaustion on the table beside her laptop, by a knock on the door. She rose groggily and went to open it.
Spike and Xander stood together on the doorstep, both with haunted looks in their eyes. “Hey, Willow,” Xander smiled wanly, while Spike nodded in acknowledgment behind him. Willow looked from one to the other, the last two people she had expected to see tonight, much less together.
“We, uh, we found something, back at the tower,” Xander began. He gestured with his head. “It’s in the trunk. We thought we should get it here now, while it was still dark,” he continued apologetically. “I’m glad you were still up.” Glad, but she could tell from his tone, not terribly surprised. Looking at the two of them, she wondered if either of them planned on sleeping ever again.
She was about to ask what they had found, but they were already moving back to the trunk of the Xandermobile, Xander fumbling with his keys, then handing them over to Spike with an irritated gesture at his murmured suggestion. Spike unlocked the trunk and placed a smaller round object on top of the larger one they both were lifting. They came back and Willow caught sight of the dismembered body of what looked like her best friend. It took her a few moments to realize it was the Buffy-bot, the head resting precariously on the stomach of the body as they passed through the open doorway and she stood back to give them room. Xander asked over his shoulder, “Where do you want it?” even as he moved to the couch.
Willow thought the couch was probably one of the worst places for the robot she could think of, especially if Dawn was the first up in the morning, but she didn’t bother to correct them. “There’s fine,” she nodded, and the two lowered it to the couch, Spike’s lightning reflexes catching the head before it tumbled to the floor, and placing it on the couch where a real head would have been, had it been attached. He turned it so the face was towards the back of the couch, and averted his gaze, unable to even look on the likeness of the woman he had been so obsessed about only a few weeks–or was it days?–ago.
“Uh, thanks, guys,” Willow said. She stood then, at a loss for what else to say, or do. Spike smiled first as he came up to her, drew his face down to bring his eyes level with hers.
“You should get to bed,” he said sternly, but not unkindly. Willow once again found herself touched by his humanity, even as she knew he possessed none, and would have been offended at the suggestion.
After a moment, she replied, “So should you. Both of you,” she continued, turning to Xander. He was still staring at the robot, trying not to cry.
Spike said quietly, “Harris.” The name, and the tone, were enough for Xander to look up at him. “She’s upstairs, lad. Maybe you should take some time, say your good-byes properly, to the real one.” Xander looked lost for a minute, then met Willow’s eyes and nodded. He made his way upstairs, and they heard the door click shut quietly behind him when he reached Buffy’s room.
Spike looked around the room, at the floor, anywhere but toward Willow on the one hand, and the robot on the other. “Maybe we should cover it?” he asked, after a few moments, obviously having thought of Dawn’s reaction when she awoke the next morning.
Willow shook her head. “Basement might be a better place for it.” She picked up the head, keeping its face averted from them both. “Can you carry the rest of it?” Spike only nodded and followed her to the kitchen, and the basement door. They found a suitable space between the washing machine and the wall, and laid the robot in it. Willow found a blanket on a nearby shelf and covered it, with Spike’s help. They stood for a moment, assessing their handiwork.
“Good idea,” Willow finally said, “bringing it here. I should have remembered it,” she added, ruefully.
Spike nodded, but didn’t reply. After a few moments, she moved back towards the stairs and he followed her. As they reached the front door, he paused. “Someone should be with Anya,” he said. “I can’t go in, uh course, but… I could hear if she calls out for him. If she does, I can knock, tell her what’s going on.”
Willow glanced upstairs for a long moment. “That’s a good idea,” she said, finally. She looked at him, trying to read his expression. “But, Spike…. Why?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He sounded genuinely puzzled. Then he shrugged, turned to the door, pausing as he opened it. “Just, uh… ask him not to slay me, if he comes on me outside his doorway.” He grinned weakly. “I’m not sure how much longer I can stay awake.”
Willow nodded, closed the door quietly behind him. But she continued staring at the door for some time, after the vampire had departed.
***
It was nearly dawn when Xander came back down the stairs. Willow was sitting on the couch with a steaming mug, looking thoughtful. Her weary eyes brightened a little as he came into view. His eyes were red, but he looked more at peace, and Willow was glad.
"Hey," he breathed, as she rose to give him a hug. He rested his chin on the top of her head.
"Feelin' better?" she asked gently.
"Yeah." He hugged her closer for a second, then released her. "You're up late," he observed.
"Or early," she corrected.
He grinned a little. "Or early," he conceded. "Whatcha been up to?"
"Oh, you know. This and that." He waited, just watching her, until he broke down and admitted, "Ok, hacking into official computer systems, falsifying records-- the usual." She paused for a moment, then said more seriously, "I'm gonna have a couple of jobs for you later. Think you can make me some time?"
"Sure," he replied. "I got no plans today. I cleared my calendar for that apocalypse…." He trailed off, the humor falling flat. "What did you have in mind?"
"Well," Willow began, "We need to go pick up Giles from the hospital this morning…."
"Think he'll be ready to leave so soon? He was in pretty bad shape yesterday, wasn't he?"
Willow avoided his eyes. "Oh, yeah, well, we should at least visit. But when, uh, If he gets cut loose, we should be there for him…." She lapsed into silence, and Xander knew she was talking about more than transportation. He nodded.
"Yeah, absolutely. We can do that." He gave her a reassuring smile and took her hand as they sat down on the couch. "Where will he go? I don't like the idea of him being all alone in that dark apartment of his."
Willow nodded. "I think here, for the moment."
"He'll be stubborn," Xander warned.
"Well yes, there is that," Willow agreed. "But he knows my Resolve Face." She tried to demonstrate, but she was less than convincing and broke into a grin after only a few moments. She was glad to see that it at least brought a small chuckle to her friend.
"Don't worry. We'll back you up." He glanced up, suddenly aware of the sunlight streaming through the curtains of the window behind them. He sprang up with a muttered curse.
"Oh boy–I forgot all about Anya! I bet she's worried sick. I didn't think to leave a note…."
Willow stood and placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "Relax. Spike went over there. If she wakes up, he'll knock and tell her you're ok." Xander looked at her like she had lost her mind.
"He what? Not making me feel any better, here, Will."
Willow shook her head. "No, really, it'll be all right, I think. Something's up with him, but…." She met his eyes seriously. "We're going to need him."
Xander pursed his lips and blew out a deep breath, then nodded. "Doomed vampire obsession. Great." He squeezed her hand, gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek. "I still better get going. Call me when you're ready to go over, or if you need anything, ok?"
"Sure thing."
***
Xander found Spike sitting with his back to the door, his legs stretched out straight, taking up most of the width of the darkened hallway. The vampire rose and dusted himself off as Xander joined him.
"Not to worry, lad," he said by way of greeting. "She hasn't so much as stirred." He cocked his head for a moment, as if listening, then added, "Gettin' restless, though. Got back just in time, I'd say." He looked around and rubbed his hands together. "Well, I'll just be off, then. Where's the basement in this place? Any good sewer access?"
Xander stood there for a moment, keys in hand, regarding him with a look of utter disgust. Then, as he turned and unlocked the door, he heard himself say, "Come in, Spike."
Spike's eyes widened in mild surprise. "No really, that's all right," he began, but Xander cut him off.
"Just get in here, ok? And keep it down. We'll be heading to the hospital pretty soon anyway. You can–I don't know–sleep in a dark corner until we get back." He looked over the boyish vampire, noticing his tattered clothing and ugly wounds in the brighter light of the coming day. "You could get cleaned up, too.” He paused, then, “After Anya showers," he amended quickly. "You have not seen true fury, until you see an ex-vengeance demon run out of hot water."
Summer 2 - Preparations and Farewells
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-21 08:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-03 09:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-03 10:16 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading.
Hob
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-13 09:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-14 08:08 pm (UTC)