The Unfinished WIP Thang

[shipperx]

Heh. I have a few. However, although it may appear to be a "never to be finished" WIP, "When Darkness Falls" is actually still being written.

I found Post-Gift unfinished called "Apocrapha." What's scary is reading both how far wrong I was (I actually had the Scoobs giving a damn about Spike) and how eerily right I was in the Spike/Buffy scene.


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Three weeks had passed since the death of Rupert Gile's charge, his friend, and --he could whisper it to himself--his daughter. No, Buffy had never been his daughter by blood, but somehow Giles knew it made no difference. He could not have loved Buffy more had it been his own DNA in her makeup. She *had* been his daughter. He had loved her, and she was gone.

The council would record it. "The Slayer Buffy Summers died in a battle against the hellgod Glorificus. . ." One Slayer sacrificed. Another soon to take her place. Somewhere a newly assigned Watcher would begin writing accounts of new battles as a new lamb was led to the slaughter. It was so simple, so straight forward. . .and so bloody heartless.

Giles shuddered and realized his thoughts echoed Spike's tirade from the day of Buffy's funeral.

"Watchers are more bloody heartless about Slayers than the demons who kill them," Spike had raged as Giles worked to prevent him attending Buffy's funeral.

If trying to talk a vampire from going to a Slayer's funeral was strange, being a Watcher trying to stop a vampire attending a funeral for the *vampire's* sake was even more strange. While it certainly felt as though the dense gray clouds overhead would never lift, the funeral was being held in a place called Sunnydale. . . and the city had the name for a reason. There was no way to ensure Spike could stay safely enshrouded in shadows, but Spike would hear none of it.

Spike had lashed out verbally. "Demons kill Slayers, but it's the Watchers who claim to love them while sending them to their deaths." Then as if he was nothing more than a marionette whose strings had been cut, Spike had sunk into a chair in the corner of the Magic Box. "I've killed Slayers and never felt a thing. One Slayer kicked it. Phfaw, another annoying girl took her place."

Hardly the most endearing comment Spike could make. But if the vampire's words were cold, his expression was not. Spike looked tortured. "Killin' what you love? That's another thing entirely." He pinned the Watcher with a blue eyed stare. "How do Watchers live with that?"

Giles didn't know but it skirted too close to 'evil' for his tastes. To choose innocent, young girls and send them into battle against darkness knowing her fate would be a violent death took a degree of emotional detachment that was frightening.

"Who is the greater villain?" Giles wondered. The council who lined up innocents for slaughter or the demons who destroyed them?

Giles had looked into Spike's face, into the face of an individual who had personally dispatched two Slayers, and realized he was no longer sure of his answer. If that hadn't been enough, Giles had recognized the pain and grief and guilt bottled inside him was clearly reflected in the demon's blue eyes.

Somewhere along the line both he and Spike had lost the emotional detachment they were supposed to posses. They were supposed to see a Slayer's death as only a phase of a cycle. Only in this case they didn't. They couldn't. Instead their psyches lay exposed in some gory emotional evisceration. Their hearts had been drawn and quartered. This time
the Slayer who had "kicked it" had been the Slayer they loved.

How many days and nights had passed since Buffy's death? Giles wasn't sure. He had lost count. . . if he had been counting at all--which he hadn't. Giles had avoided measuring the days because every moment that passed took Buffy further away, and no one was prepared to let her go.

But, prepared or not, willing or not, days had passed. The world moved on. Outside his door people talked and laughed and lived. Inside his apartment Giles sat with the blinds closed remembering Spike's bitter words and admitting to himself that he shared the vampire's bitterness.

Realizing his thoughts echoed a demon's should have disturbed Giles, but under these circumstances the Watcher found himself curiously at ease with the concept. Spike had--Giles could not quite bring himself to say the vampire had truly *loved* the Slayer, but Spike had cared for her in some capacity. . .just as Giles cared.

The Council, however, did not care.

To the Council Buffy had been a tool to be used and, if lost, replaced. Slayers were expendable. That had been the way of things for centuries.

Giles hadn't wanted to contemplate the calling of a new Slayer. In fact he had actively avoided thinking of it. After Buffy's funeral he had made great efforts to avoid thinking anything until Wesley Wyndham-Price appeared at his door.

The night had been unseasonably cool and his apartment eerily silent as Giles stared into a half empty glass of scotch. Hearing a knock on the door, he had wanted nothing more than to say, "Go away." Or better still, to say nothing at all and hope the intruder simply left. But the knock had come again, and, without conscious volition, Giles had risen to answer the door.

Wesley, standing with his hand raised to knock again, blinked owlishly before lowering his hand. On some half interested level Giles noted the changes in the boy. . .only Wesley was not a boy. Wesley hadn't been a boy the day Giles had met him. It was just that Wesley had seemed so sheltered that some part of Giles had considered the younger Watcher little more than an arrogant adolescent. Now Giles recognized an adult filled with more energy and purpose than could claim for himself.

"You were the only person I could think to speak to," Wesley said just as somewhere in the darkness a sharp British voice yelled, "Bloody hell!"

Giles and Wesley turned in time to witness a black leather clad figure emerge from the
shadows with a small, feminine form at his heels.

"You can't stop me!" Dawn insisted.

Spike stopped, his long coat settling around him. "Don't bet on it."

"Why bet? It's a sure thing. You can't stop me." She crossed her arms across her chest in a gesture that Giles found painfully familiar.

Spike advanced menacingly. The girl didn't blink which resulted in a frustrated growl from the vampire as he transformed his face into that of a demon.

Dawn sniffed. "Going bumpy won't change my mind. I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be!" Spike snapped.

Giles agreed. Dawn *should* be afraid of the vampire. At the very least she should see Spike as a potential threat. . .but she didn't.

Giles reminded himself to have a long talk with her on the subject. He should have had the talk long before now, but he had allowed things to slide. Since Buffy's death his work, his personal grooming, and his sobriety had suffered. Worst of all Giles had actively avoided dealing with Dawn. He had his reasons--and they weren't pretty--but they explained why any protest he might make about Dawn's association with Spike lacked conviction.

Giles' concerns about Spike's and Dawn's relationship was tempered by the memory of the night they had faced Glory. Spike had stood willing to protect Dawn at the cost of his own life while Giles had found himself voicing an unthinkable solution--kill Dawn to save the world. Even as he had said the words Giles had been horrified by them. . .but he *had* said them. What's more, he had meant them. . .so perhaps Dawn's instincts were correct. Perhaps she was safer with Spike than she was with himself.

Giles had little room to object to Dawn's attachment to Spike. Also, Giles was relatively certain his objections would only be ignored. Like her sister before her, Dawn had a mind of her own.

Spike also seemed to recognize Dawn's stubborn nature. With a sigh he allowed his demonic visage to fade exposing the expression of a confused and frustrated young man. Giles knew the expression was only partly illusion. No doubt, Spike *was* confused and frustrated. . .he simply wasn't young. "Little bit--"

"I’m going."

"No." Spike looked pleadingly at Giles. "Tell her."

Giles removed his glasses. It was a nervous tick. Giles knew it and still he surrendered to the urge to polish the lenses. "What am I supposed to say?"

"No patrol," Spike insisted. "Not now. Not ever."

Giles looked at Dawn with growing concern. "Patrol? You can't--"

"I can, and I will." Her expression became mutinous as she glared at the men surrounding her. "There's no one else. Xander brought Anya home from the hospital today. He has to stay with her, and Willow has to study for a make-up exam, and. . ." She stomped her foot. "Spike, can't go alone."

"I can do what I bloody well want."

"I saw what you did," she accused.

Giles pulled away from the door. What had the vampire done?

Spike ducked his head and glanced away. "It was nothing, niblet."

"Nothing? It was five Kulak demons--at once!"

Five? "That does sound excessive," Giles admitted.

"Sod off." Spike focused his attention on Dawn. "No patrol."

Dawn charged the vampire, both her hands slapping hard against the leather duster. "Fine!" She punched Spike but made no impact. After all, she possessed only human strength. Dawn couldn't physically harm Spike, but the vamp still flinched when she struck him.

Spike caught her, but when Dawn tried to pull away he immediately released her. She stumbled backwards and Spike moved to steady her only to have the girl angrily shrug off his hand.

"Fine!" she yelled as she wiped away tears with the cuff of her sleeve. "Get yourself killed. See if I care." Dawn ran into Giles' apartment.

Spike looked poised to follow. He even moved to do so. One step. Two. But before he reached the threshold, Spike stopped--and not because of any supernatural barrier. He just stopped.

The night was still and almost silent. Perhaps in the distance there was the sound of cars. Perhaps there was the sound of both Giles' and Wesley's breathing or their heartbeats, but only the vampire could know for sure. It was all too faint and distant for Giles, but then, since Buffy's death everything had felt faint and distant.

Spike sighed--though there was no physical reason for him to do so--and fished a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket. It all seemed so very normal, so very human. But then even Giles admitted this particular vampire had adopted so many human mannerisms that it was difficult to find his actions strange any longer. With an agitated motion Spike struck a match, sparking a tiny flame to life just long enough to light his cigarette. Cloaked in a thin gray cloud of smoke Spike turned to walk away.

Giles said sharply, "Suicide by demon is not acceptable."

"I wasn't--" The vampire didn't finish his denial but bowed his leonine head. "It worked before."

The quietly spoken words made Giles frown. Why did he feel he had just been given an honest glimpse into the vampire's murky past? Suicide by demon.

Giles shook himself.

It wasn't his place to wonder about the emotional well being of a vampire. It was Giles' job to destroy the creatures, eliminate them from the face of the earth. It was just that for the time being two vampires, Spike and Angel, had been granted grudging immunity from the unilateral death sentence. Still, not actively seeking a creature's death did not mean talking him out of self destruction.

"I pulled you out of the sun," Giles heard himself say in a not wholly emotionless voice. "Do not make the gesture pointless."

Defiance flashed across Spike's face. "'Spose I only to fight the itty, bitty demons then. That'll keep the hellmouth safe for puppies and Christmas."

"You aren't fighting for puppies and Christmas, Spike."

Their gazes met. Vampire and Watcher both knew the truth. Violence was part of a vampire's nature. It was intrinsic to what Spike was, and it was reflected in the restless way he paced across the courtyard. Energy flowed off Spike in waves-- too much energy, too much pain, too much anger and rage and grief for any human to bear. And it was becoming painfully obvious that it was almost more than Spike could bear. It had to be released and, for a creature of the night, it had to be released through violence. . .or death. Giles frowned. Perhaps Dawn was correct in fearing for Spike.

"Dawn has lost enough," Giles annunciated in crisp, sharp tones. " Do not add another thing--not even yourself."

The black clad vampire didn't move. It was an unnatural stillness, impossible for any living creature to imitate but only uncharacteristic of Spike whose accent was softer and more refined when he at last decided to speak. "Tell niblet, I'll stick to three to one odds." At Giles' glare Spike prudently added. "Or less. And tell her. . .tell her not to go buying sunblock.."

Spike disappeared into the darkness as gracefully and as silently as only preternatural creatures could.

Wesley said, "That was a--"

"A vampire. Yes." Giles put on his glasses. "You said you needed something."

Though still staring into the darkness, Wesley managed to say, "Have you heard anything about a new Slayer being called?"

Giles stiffened. "No." He started toward his apartment's door. "I haven't wanted--" He stopped abruptly and took a single, painful breath. "No."

"Isn't that odd?" Wesley asked. "I know I'm no longer part of the Council, but I thought I would have heard something. It's been weeks."

"Yes, well, these things take time."

Wesley, sounding stronger, more decisive, and more determined than Giles had ever heard the man sound before, asked "*Will* a new Slayer be called? The line passed from Buffy to Kendra." Wesley shifted his weight from foot to foot. "With Faith was called after Kendra's death, it seems likely that the calling passed out of Buffy's hands."

"Perhaps," Giles conceded.

"What will happen to Faith if a new Slayer isn't called?"

Giles didn't know. He didn't want to know. Given the pain Faith had caused Buffy, Giles didn't want to care. . . and yet some part of his humanity poked at him, telling him he could not be a disinterested bystander. Once upon a time Faith had been an innocent...
an innocent the Council had inadvertently lead to destruction.

"I know I was --" Wesley paused and seemed to search for an appropriate word "--rather pedantic when I was first assigned as Watcher. I know I considered the Council's rules to be infallible, but I am not that man any longer. I may agree with the Council's goals, but I do *not* agree their methods. I worry what they will do about Faith. Will they arrange her release from prison or. . ." His voice trailed off, but Giles didn't need to hear the rest of the question.

Would Faith be murdered?

The Council could not afford a Slayerless world. . .but would they entrust humanity's fate to an unpredictable rogue like Faith? Faith was in prison for murder. She had proved to be unstable. Yes, she had made changes since then, but could the Council rely on her tentative reformation?

Wesley swallowed and Giles conceded that the younger Watcher had a right to be worried. The Council was a pragmatic group and the pragmatic solution would to kill Faith so a new Slayer could be called, and Quintin Travers would ensure that the new Slayer would be one trained and controlled by the Council.

"I don't know the council's plans," Giles insisted. He wanted to go inside his apartment, close the door, and forget about the world that had cost Buffy's life.

Wesley refused to retreat. "I won't see Faith murdered for the Council's convenience. I failed her once, and I will not allow her to die because I was incapable of giving her the help she needed."

Giles understood the younger Watcher's pain. Giles had also failed his charge... only his own failure seemed so much worse. Even now when Giles closed his eyes, he could see the morning light illuminate Buffy's body lying battered and broken on a pile of rubble. He had failed his girl. He hadn't found a solution that Buffy could accept, an answer that didn't mean destroying her sister or destroying the world. In the end Buffy--clever Buffy--had discovered an option he had never dreamed. She had destroyed herself.

Now Wesley had reason to fear for the Slayer who had once been put in his care. .. and if Giles ignored that worry, could he bear the weight of another Slayer's death? Feeling forced into actions he did not want to take, Giles grunted. "Come inside. I'll make a few calls to see what we can discover."

When they entered his living room, Giles was acutely aware of the empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table. It looked out of place next to Dawn's discarded text books. Actually, it more than looked out of place, it *was* out of place. . . but then Dawn very rarely spent her waking hours here.

Giles liked to tell himself Dawn spent her time visiting Anya and Xander at the hospital or Willow and Tara at the university, but deep down he was relatively certain Dawn spent her free time with Spike. Somehow in the wake of Buffy's death everyone except himself had reached for someone to cling to. . .and Dawn had chosen to cling to Spike.

"Is Dawn living with you?" Wesley asked.

"For the time being." Giles sat down in his worn leather chair. "We've employed a forgetting spell and a few misdirection spells so that no unnecessary questions are asked. Dawn does not need to be in foster care. Hopefully, her father will arrive soon and--"

Resentment rose inside Giles. He had no desire to see Hank Summers. The man hadn't responded to repeated pleas during his ex-wife's illness or after her death. . .or after his eldest daughter's death. Giles was not happy with the prospect of turning Dawn over to someone so neglectful.

"Worthless bastard," Spike had snarled, and Giles found he could not help but agree. What kind of world was it when a vampire had better parenting skills than a human?

Giles repeated--perhaps for his own benefit. "Dawn lives with me now."

Wesley nodded and Giles felt his conscience begin to prick him. He did not want to ask the question. He did not want to invite the remembrance of grief from those who had not been there that horrible day. It was all that Giles could to bear his own grief and to witness the pain of those who had stood beside him. A quote came to him, "We few. We merry few."

Followed by the memory of another voice adding, "We band of buggered."

Buggered indeed.

Giles reached for the bottle of scotch. He didn't want to listen to someone else's pain, but common courtesy dictated he ask, "And in LA? Willow said very little after her return."

Wesley nodded. "Cordelia was shaken. She cried a great deal, but she's strong. She'll recover."

And the inevitable question. "Angel?"

Wesley walked across the room to stare out window. "A vampire in grief isn't an easy thing to watch. You never know what to expect. . ."

Giles understood the precariousness of the situation.

For most of his life Giles had been trained to think of vampires as nothing more than emotionless demons. They had the faces of men and women, but it was little more than illusion. . .at least it had once been easy to think so. Giles was beginning to suspect that council doctrine was oversimplified at best. The first doubts had been raised by the existence of Angel, the vampire with a soul, but over the last year Giles had begun to suspect that other individuals in the species could be more complex than the council admitted. After all, there had to be some way to explain the conundrum that was Spike. The blonde vampire's grief over Buffy's death was *not* an illusion.

Still, emotions did not mean that Spike and Angel were "safe." In fact the exact opposite might be true. The tethers holding Angel's and Spike's demons in check were tenuous at best, and the danger they represented often made Giles wonder if he was hopelessly misguided in allowing them to live. Angel and Spike were old, powerful, and possessing a predatory intelligence that far surpassed the average vamp. The problem lay in the fact that for the time being the two men *did* keep their demons in check Then Giles would realize he had thought of Spike and Angel as men and understood why he could not sanction their deaths. . . at least for now.

Still, given their present emotional turmoil, Giles could not help but wonder if either vampire could truly be trusted. Giles had great difficulty keeping control of his own rage over Buffy's death. How much more difficult must it be for a creature who embodied rage and destruction? Spike and Angel were a danger. . .and yet given all they had suffered and sacrificed, how could a certain measure of trust be denied them?

Giles became aware of Wesley's speculating gaze and found himself admitting, "A vampire in grief is not an easy thing to witness." Giles saw some thought register on Wesley's face. "What?"

"Lately, we haven't witnessed much of anything where Angel is concerned. He dropped out of sight days ago." Then under his breath Wes added, "At least he couldn't fire us this time."

Giles strove to be unconcerned. "I'm sure he will reappear."

Wesley looked up and Giles realized the true source of Wesley's worry. Would it be Angel who resurfaced. . .or Angelus?

At last understanding the urgency of Wesley's trip to Sunnydale, Giles moved into action. "I'll make those calls. See what I can discover about the council's plans. . ."

The answers Giles received from the Council were quick, reassuring, and plausible. So why did they inspire him to call other contacts? And why did those contacts sound agitated and uncertain? Giles could easily imagine the person on the other end of the line genuflecting and calling to whatever god they recognized.

The council was up to something.

It hadn't taken much urging to convince Giles to make travel plans. Something told him that he needed to be in England, but his plans had been complicated when another crisis struck--Spike had never returned from patrol.

Xander and Willow checked the crypt, the Bronze, and even Willie's, but there was no trace of the vampire. It was as if Spike had simply disappeared when he had left the courtyard outside Giles' apartment.

"He's dead," Dawn announced coldly when everyone knew her feelings for Spike had been anything but cold.

"Well of course he's dead." Xander's purposefully cheerful sounded strained. "Just not dead dead."

Willow nodded.. "Just vampire dead which--let's face it-- isn't all that dead."

"Spike'll turn up." Xander never quite met Dawn's searching gaze. "Just when you don't want him around, he'll show up. Spike's really annoying that way."

"See this face?" Willow indicated her own pixie-like features. "Do I look worried?"

"Yes." There was no inflection in Dawn's voice, just simple, startling truth.

Willow blinked. "Oh. Guess my 'not worried' face needs work." The red headed witch jumped to her feet. "'Cause I'm not worried. Spike will show up making witty repartee and Xander butt monkey jokes that Xander won't appreciate. You'll see."

"'Cept the witty part," Xander protested. "I do witty. Spike does mean."

Willow gave an unconvincing smile. "He'll turn up, Dawn."

Only he didn't--not that night or the night that followed. Giles finally concluded the vampire had at last run afoul of something craftier and nastier than himself.

Dawn, who had been distant since Buffy's death, became almost completely withdrawn. She didn't cry. Giles wasn't sure she had any tears left in her which made her silence all the more worrisome. In an instant Dawn became little more than an automaton moving in mindless motion. She exhibited only the most rudimentary signs of life-- eating, drinking, sleeping too long and too often, and watching too many late afternoon talk shows.

Giles couldn't blame the child. He felt like living the same way himself. . .but he was not an adolescent whose life lay in front of her. He couldn't allow Dawn to atrophy on his sofa listening to Jerry Springer. It wasn't right. It wasn't healthy. She desperately needed to be pulled back into life. . .Truth to tell, maybe they both did.

In the end Giles decided that Dawn should accompany him to England. Being half a world away from Sunnydale wouldn't ease her grief, but at least memories wouldn't be staring her in the face. Dawn needed time and distance to heal. Giles could give her both. It was the least he could do.

Council contacts easily supplied a passport for Dawn, and now Giles stood in LAX with Wesley, Cordelia, and Dawn reading the video monitors listing international flight numbers and departure times.

Wesley said softly, "I believe your flight is boarding."

"Oh, yes. Quite." Giles polished his glasses in an effort to hide his distraction. He wondered when the mental fog would leave him and--if it did-- would he miss it? He feared he would. If nothing else, distraction muffled the pain.

A flight attendant announced they were boarding seats fifteen through thirty so Giles lightly touched Dawn's shoulder. She didn't even look up. Her only response was to listlessly reach for her backpack as Giles said to Wesley and Cordelia. "Keep your eye on Faith. I fear your instincts were correct and she is in danger."

Cordelia hugged both Giles and Dawn. Dawn rested in Cordy's arms for a few moments longer than was strictly necessary, but the older girl didn't seem to mind.

Giles knew Dawn had no particular reason to cling to Cordelia. In true reality the young women had never met before this afternoon, though in the monks manufactured memories they had known each another for years. Still, even in those created memories Cordy and Dawn would hardly have been close friends. Cordelia's and Buffy's association had been fractious at best. . . which caused Giles to speculate that the reason Dawn's arms wrapped tightly around Cordelia's back was because in some way the older girl's embrace felt sisterly. Cordy reminded Dawn of Buffy.

When Dawn pulled away she slung her backpack over her shoulder and handed her ticket to the flight attendant. After losing her home, her family, and her best friend Dawn was leaving the country to find. . .what? What was there to find? Peace? Yeah, right. And fate had been so kind to her so far that she just *knew* great things were in store.

Then again whatever she might find a continent and an ocean away, it had to be less painful than what she had found here. . .or to be more precise, what she had *lost* here.









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Spike ached.

His muscles hurt. His joints hurt. Even his bones throbbed with pain. In general Spike felt like bloody shit--which was not a mental image he had ever wanted to apply to himself. Ignoring the protest of a multitude of nerve endings, Spike focused on his limbs. Deciding that nothing--well nothing new--seemed to be broken, gouged, sliced or diced.

He still had a few bones knitting together from the last catastrophe to befall him, but he could handle that.

Having dismissed the possibility of major bodily damage, Spike allowed himself to notice the light. It seemed blindingly bright but since he wasn't bursting into flames he felt it was safe to assume it wasn't sunlight.

All in all, though he could live without the pain, he was satisfied with his general condition. At least Spike was satisfied until he realized he couldn't move. Several thoughts flickered through his head the first and most frightening was paralysis. He was never again going into some bloody wheelchair. But as his entire undead nervous system was screaming in pain, paralysis seemed unlikely. . .which was a comforting thought until the next one came. The Initiative. The bastards were back and had him trussed up like a Christmas goose for more Dr. Frankenstein experiments. Well he was having none of it this time. They could kill him first. . .if he didn't kill them. And he'd do it too, even if it made his head explode.

It took a few moments for Spike to realize there was no poking and prodding going on. There were no restraints or chains on him either. He simply couldn't move . . .so was it some super anti-demon drug the bastards were testing now?

Straining to overcome his the artificial paralysis, Spike managed to open his eyes and see that his surroundings looked bit too much like Hannibal Lecter's cell in Silence of the Lambs for Spike's taste. The gray stone walls were a nice touch. Gave the place a quaint dungeon-like ambiance, but the fluorescent lighting was a bitch. To top it off there was no Jodie Foster staring at him in terror on the other side of the plexi-glass wall. There was only another huddled black clad figure crumpled on the stone floor. The bugger looked as pathetic as Spike felt.

Bugs under a microscope, Spike thought. That's what we are. Fucked up bugs under the Intiatives goddamned microscope.

* * *

The first thing Angel was aware of was the pain. It moved over him in waves, but after a moment he was able to push it down, repress it, shove it into some dark corner of his mind and pretend it didn't exist. What he could not do was overcome his inertia. Not one muscle obeyed his commands so he lay still and exposed. . .and he hated it with every fiber of his being.

Angel was aware that where he lay was hard and cold. If he had body heat it would sap it from him. But he had no inner heat so he only felt the only thing that truly disturbed him was the unrelenting hardness of the surface against which he lay. It took several moments but at last he found he could open his eyes and stare at a stone wall. For the most part it looked like the cell he had been thrown into in Pylea. . .but Pylea hadn't had fluorescent lighting nor had they seemed to be interested in casting spells that would hold a vampire immobile.

No this room was very much of this world, his world and if Angel searched his mind for who would trap him and hold him helpless he could only thing of Darla and Dru or Wolfram and Hart. In fact if it was the former it was most likely the latter as well. Angel closed his eyes and waited. His moment would come.

"Bloody hell!" an angry, familiar voice cursed.

Spike. Angel wasn't surprised. If Dru was involved it was inevitable that Spike was not far behind.

"Riley, you shit! Come down here and face me like a man. No plastic stake this time. No Slayer's feelings left to protect. Just you and me. Take this goddamned chip out of my head and let's have a go. Come on you chicken hearted bastard!"

Angel heard a loud bang. It sounding like pounding, and belatedly Angel realized the spell holding him had sometime in the last few minutes set him free. He turned and saw Spike pounding against a plexiglass wall screaming for the "bloody bastards" to come out and face him.

As Angel dragged himself to his feet he noticed that he and Spike were trapped in identical cells; and at that moment Spike noticed him as well. "Fan-fucking-tablulous," Spike growled. "The great poofter has arrived. Make my day. Tell me they shoved a chip in your head."

"What are you talking about, Spike?"

"Just you wait. You'll find out," Spike muttered as he paced his cell while searching his pockets. "Wankers nicked my fags." He hit the glass once again. "No bloody fair, taking a bloke's cigarettes."

Angel crossed his arms and leaned against the stone wall. "Maybe Dru grew tired of the habit."

Spike blinked. "What does Dru have to do with anything?"

"You must have done something to piss her off to end up caged like this."

"So I tied her up. Dru doesn't hold a grudge for that sort of thing. Not like I set her on fire like _someone_ I could name. 'Sides this isn't Dru's style. This has dickless soldier boy written all over it." Raising his voice loud enough to raise the dead Spike screamed, "Get your ass down here, Riley Finn!"

"That name sounds familiar."

Spike snorted. "Bloody well bet it does."

Finally Angel made the connection. "Buffy."

Spike's pacing stopped and suddenly hung his head. "Yeah. Buffy."

"Why would Riley have it in for you?"

"Why did he ever? Because he's a cowardly shit who's got a desperate need to feel all manly--and don't go making that sound homoerotic in your head."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Spike started pacing again. He seemed lost in thought. Angel hadn't forgotten that about Spike. Restless agitation meant distraction in most creatures but with Spike it meant he was lost in thought as his clever brain worked fast and furious. "This isn't Dru," he pronounced. "Darla may be wrapped up in driving you bonkers but she couldn't care less about what happens to me. This isn't her." He stopped pacing and pinned Angel with his gaze. "What makes you think it's the two of them."

Angel didn't liked being confronted or analyzed by the likes of Spike. "I never said it was the two of them."

"Last time I saw, pet she was sporting some nasty scars and talking about how great-grandmum was brought back from the dead. Said the pair of them were driving you to the looney bin and asked if I wanted to help."

Angel pushed himself away from the wall and approached the glass. "And did you?"

"What?"

"Want to help."

Spike scoffed, "Don't flatter yourself, mate. Had better things to do than think about the likes of you." Something about the way Spike said it almost convinced Angel it was true.

"Maybe turning her down was what landed you in here."

"This is not Dru's handywork. Look at this place. No chains or satin sheets or dolls with their eyes poked out. No, this place reeks of the bloody Intiative."

Angel had to admit that Spike was right that these cells did not look like something that the mad Drusilla dream up. "Who is this 'Intiative?'"

Spike's face clearly expressed surprise. "What? You don't know? Figured the Buffy and the scoobs would have kept you informed."

That caught Angel's attention. "What about Buffy?" If this had anything to do with Buffy's death, the Initiative--whoever they might be--and Spike would pay with their lives. "What does this have to do with Buffy, Spike?"

Spike frowned. "Nothing. Nothing except that useless wanker Riley Finn. We all thought the Initiative had cleared out over a year ago."

Angel longed to grab Spike and shove him against a wall. He wanted to beat the truth out of Spike even if at the moment Spike seemed more than willing to talk. It would have been a tension release to beat the words out of him. "Who's 'we'?" Angel asked.

Spike's brows drew down sharply over his eyes. Angel knew Spike was calculating and analyzing the situation from a multitude of angles. It never paid to underestimate Spike's formidable intelligence. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you," the British vamp realized.

Angel was damned if he would admit a thing. "Who's 'we'?" Angel asked again.

Spike approached the glass with a curious expression. "Buffy truly didn't tell you? Nothing at all? Not the chip? Not--"

"What the hell are you talking about, Spike?"

"Joe blow, Captain Cardboard, pasty faced farm boy Riley Finn was part of some covert G.I. Joe types who like to capture and torture demons for kicks. And if that wasn't quite enough fun then they cut 'em up in bitty pieces and spliced them together with people."

"Human people?"

"No, spider people. What the hell do you think?"










**********************************************************************************
....




With his head bowed and refusing to look at her Spike said, "I meant it, you know."

Buffy frowned. "Meant what?

"That I understood that you would never love me. I finally got it. There's nothing I can do. Nothing I can say. No way I can change enough to even make it a possibility. I figured that out when I realized it's not about what I've done. It's not about the people I've killed or even a century of being the scourge of Europe. It's not about any of that."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Oh yeah. 'Cause that's all so irrelevant."

Spike's head snapped up and his intense blue-eyed gaze locked with her. "It is irrelevant." He said to Buffy's disbelief.

"Spike, how in the hell is the fact that you are a killer 'irrelevant'?"

Spike shook his head, rose to his feet and started to pace first to one corner of the cell then back to another. His ever changing expression hinting that he might be trying different explanations in his head befor he came to an abrupt halt and simply blurted. "Remember when I kidnapped Will and tried to get her to do the love spell?"

"Yeah, and it's not winning you any brownie points."

"You were making googly eyes at Angel the whole time."

"So?" She asked defensively.

Spike's gaze narrowed and Buffy almost gasped, knowing that Spike was about to do one of those frighteningly insightful comments that always either scared the hell out of her or made her furiously defensive. "So how many months was that after he killed your school teacher friend?"

Ooh, see the imaginary target, nice red painted concentric circles, and see the arrow that just hit the dead center of it? Bullseye.

"How many months, Buffy?"

"A few."

"And I've been walking around with this chip for how long? How many years?"

Buffy was furious. He didn't get it. Couldn't he see? "That's not the same! Angel, he. . .he changed."

Spike nodded. "Right. So you see what I'm saying then."

"Huh? See? No, that would be a no. I have no idea what you think you're getting at."

"Angel killed your Jenny Calender," Spike said with brutal directness. "Angel--or Angelus-- whatever the hell you want to call the poofter. He killed his fair share here in SunnyD and the numbers he killed before becoming all soul-having are legion to say the least. . .but that's all forgiven because he 'changed.' So you see, it's not about what he did or who he killed just as in the end it's not about what I've done. It's about who we are. And I'm... just me, Buffy. Just Spike. It's me you don't, you won't, you can't love. It doesn't matter what I do. It's who I am that you don't want, that you can't. . ." His voice trailed off and he turned away.

Anger drained out of her, leaving Buffy with nothing but confusion and this sense that she could lose something here, something precious. Something she may have already lost. "Why are you still here, Spike?"

He laughed somewhat sadly, somwhat bitterly. "Because I love you. I know you don't love me, but I love you. And I can't turn my back on that because it's who I am." He looked at her with his clear, expressive blue eyes and a self mocking quarter smile. "So it's still me. I have no choice. Either way I was dead. Either I died on the Watchers terms, or I stayed true to myself and protected what I loved. I know you didn't want my protection, but. . ."

He loved her. Her loved her enough to be tortured for her, to die for her. It wasn't what he got from her-- it was simply because he loved her. To ask him to betray his heart would be asking him to betray everything he was.




**************** Version 2.0********************

Buffy looked into his battered and bruised face and muttered in a mixture of pain, sorrow, and horror. "You would, wouldn't you. You would die for us."

His eyes were so dark and so blue. "Why not? Nothing else is very urgent on my schedule."

"Spike!"

A ghost of his old cocky smile briefly lightened his features. "Why not, Slayer? There's death and glory and sod all else, right?"

"This is glory?"

"No. It's that thing you don't want to hear me say. That you never wanted to hear me say." He tilted his head to the side. "I could never give you anything you wanted. I could never be who or what you wanted. But I can give you this."

He'd die for her. She shook her head. She'd known that. She'd known it before. He had proved it before on more than one occasion, but she had tried so hard to forget.

Spike was right. She'd never wanted to hear him say he loved her. He wasn't who and what she wanted. . .and he was the one who loved her. He was the one who loved her the way she had dreamed of being loved-- fiercely and fearlessly. He had stayed. No matter what. No matter what happened or how she screwed up. No matter if she said the wrong things or did the wrong things. No matter if there was hope or a future. Spike stayed and he loved her no matter what. He'd die for her.

"Spike. .. "






****************************************************************





I have the unfinished start of the sequel to Telling and Code of Conduct

It's a fanged four flashback scene that I was going to use in a fic called "Visability" (written early Season 6):


Florence, Italy 1882

"Again, William," the older vampire insisted.

"Bloody hell, how many times must I repeat this?" Dropping his voice into a faux Irish accent, Spike mocked his grand sire, "A good kill, a *clean* kill is an art."

Bollocks, Spike silently balked. He could hardly say the words without laughing. If Angelus wanted art he should go to the Uffizi to see Botticelli's Venus or to the Galleria dell' Accademia to gaze at Michelangelo's sculptures. *That* was art. What Spike and Angelus discussed was killing, and killing was never clean or artful. It was violent, lurid, chaotic, and obscene. It wasn't *clean,* and who the hell would want it to
be?

To call murder an art was to deny what it was. It stripped death of its meaning, its terror, its pain, and--in an odd way--its dignity. Murder was an act of destruction, the ending of life, but try explaining that to Angelus. It was like talking to a wall. The bloody poofter prosed endlessly about artistry and skill. . .as if it took skill to grab someone from behind and rip out his or her throat, as if it was anything but pure, mad, predatory instinct.

Art? Bollocks.

* * *

The evening had begun with its usual selection of annoyances. Drusilla had killed the porter before they had arrived at their destination leaving the four vampires to sit in a train car with a corpse for a full three quarters of an hour. Darla had been most unhappy with the situation. It was not that she objected to a dead man's glassy, terrified stare fixed in her direction. It was that said dead man had clearly had an aversion to bathing prior to his death, and Darla could not abide creatures who practiced less than scrupulous hygiene habits. Little wonder she hated practically every creature currently residing in Europe.

The moment the train had come to a halt, Darla had sauntered away with a swirl of crimson skirts and black petticoats as Angelus followed fast on her heels. Dru and Spike had followed at a more leisurely pace as was their habit.

****

Spike had quickly become bored by Darla's and Angelus' arguing over where and how to hunt and had followed Drusilla into the looming shadows cast by the imposing ediface of a Rennaissance cathedral. Dru was always fascinated by cathedrals. In the last two years, Spike thought he had surely seen more Catholic cathedrals than any protestant turned demon every should have to endure. . . but then where Dru wandered, Spike followed.

Darla had complained that she but had soon found themselves on the steps of Santa Maria Novella. Growing bored of Darla and Angelus' pointless arguing over where and how to hunt, Spike had followed Drusilla into the shadows. Their footsteps had echoed against the stone pavers as they emerged into a small moonlit courtyard.

Dru, her pale skin glowing in the evening's blue-white light, had looked especially ethereal as she had cooed over the tombs and sepulchers. "It's the Cloister of the dead," she had announced in awed, hushed tones.

"That it is, pet." He'd seen the sign when they had passed through the gate, but Dru was too distracted to hear his words.

Spike didn't mind. Instead he had smiled at Dru's childlike glee as she danced between crypts, resting her cheek against each one and giving a comments about its occupant. This one had been a "vengeful boy" and that one "had shoes of worn leather." Spike was not at all sure why he should care about the leather of a dead man's shoes, but he had been pleased by Drusilla's laughter and mysterious smiles.


After some small space of time, Spike's generally good mood had been banished by the arrival of the two banes of his undead existence--Darla and Angelus.

"Do you enjoy forcing us to search for you?" Darla glared petulantly at Spike. "You are supposed to keep track of her."

"I never lost her." Spike rose indolently to his feet and wrapped his arm around Dru. "Did I, pet?"

Dru's long, narrow fingers trailed down his shirt. "No, my William, but you will. . .south of an ocean from here." Dru pouted. "And then you send me away."

Spike drew back frowning, confused by her words. "Never, love."

"So you say, but you do not know. I know. I see." Dru gazed at the sky. "Do you hear the man in themoon singing to me? Such tales he tells. Toys and tin soldiers. Light which lives and loves--loves my pretty, pretty boy. And a slayer who offers crumbs and cookies."


[Okay, me stepping out of reading this flashback. Oh. My. God! I'm psychic as Dru!]

Dru slipped from Spike's grasp and danced around Angelus. "Daddy does not love me well
though he feeds me blood and wine and grandmummy." Her pale fingers grazed Angelus' temple. "Pretty girls turn your heart this way and that." Dru stepped back, her gaze still fixed on Angel. "She sees," Dru announced. "She sees like me."

Angelus appeared bored and sullen. "You are babbling, Dru."

"Babble like a brook, I do." She glanced slyly at Darla and giggled. "Grandmummy, my daughter, make a grandmummy of me."

Darla sniffed. "You're demented. We should stake you and be done with it."

Spike bristled. "Over my dust."

"That," Darla drawled. "Can be arranged."

Darla and I have decided we should hunt alone. The four of us together will attract
excessive attention."

Angelus said it as if Spike should be surprised by that decision. Spike almost chuckled but restrained the urge. Truth be told they almost *always* hunted alone. The Irish lout might enjoy comparing them to a lion's pride but in Spike's opinion they more closely resembled tigers. They blended into the jungle of humanity and hunted alone.

After all they each had their preferences in prey. Darla desired pretty boys. They could be tall and muscular or lean and almost effeminate but they *all* must be blindly enthralled by her. Angelus? He sought the young, the pretty, the defenseless, and the pure. To sully what was pristine and corrupt that which had remained innocent was Angelus' greatest joy. Spike on the other hand was not so particular in his appetites. A meal was a meal. Whatever was at hand would do. On those occasions when Spike felt the mood to hunt it wasn't a sweet meal that he craved.

Angelus, Darla, and Dru loved the rich, sweet taste of panic and fear. It tasted of honey and wine. Spike's tastes were a bit more exotic. He preferred the sharp spice of rage and strength.

Perhaps it was a lifetime spent as whipping boy for unchecked bullies--he glanced in Angelus' direction--and an unlife spent in much the same manner that had seasoned Spike's tastes such that he singled out the powerful, the strong, and the intimidating for
confrontation. He loved nothing more than to face down a bloke who would have torn William the Bloody to pieces...better yet, three such blokes at once. The greater the odds stacked against him the more he liked it. No, he adored it. To throw himself against the unknown, the uncertain, the unconquerable and to survive was a heady sensation.

As far as Spike was concerned it was death, glory, and sod all else...well not precisely *all* else. He was also quite the connoisseur of more carnal pleasures, food--the human kind--and the physical expression of love with his darkly beautiful Dru.

Dru was the voice that called to him in the darkness. Hers was the smile he sought to bring to the surface. Her touch was what soothed blackened bruises and lingering hurts that had been inflicted upon him God only knew when or how which was why when Angelus spoke of hunting alone, Spike never for a moment considered that to mean without Dru.

He had held out his hand to her but she had walked away saying, "I wish to go with grandmummy this night."

"But, pet!"

"Sh! My William." Dru returned and pressed her fingertips to his mouth. He kissed the digits. "You love me best." She sighed. "But Grandmummy is last to walk by my side."

Dru slipped from Spike grasp and followed Darla into the shadows. Spike didn't like it. He did not like it a bit. He Darla could not be depended upon to have a care for Dru's welfare. Ruefully he admitted Darla could not be depended to have a care of anything at
all.

He heard Dru's laughter in the night. "We go find pretty boys at the opera."

So Spike found himself alone in the Cloister of the Dead with Angelus who then also turned and walked into the night.

Fine. Spike did not had no desire to follow in Angelus' wake. The night was young and there had been fun to be had. He had walked south toward the river and found a small restaurant. Angelus and Darla thought it was obscene and funny that Spike continued to visit such places, but Spike found pleasure in it. And they could bloody well rot in hell.

Finding a seat in a dim corner he had ordered Chianti and roast chicken with spaghetti on the side. Of course the sauce had garlic which tradition said a vampire was supposed to loathe. Then again, Spike wasn't the traditional sort. Garlic packed a bit of a sting, but not noticeably worse than strong black pepper or the small bright red Chinese ones, and to
his surprise Spike had found he rather liked it. He hated anything being insipid and bland.

Opening the wallet he had stolen from his previous night's human meal, Spike had tossed a few thousand lire he onto the table and exited the ristorante to seek whatever fun there was to be had. He found what he was searching for on the banks of the Arno where he could look up river and see lamplight on the Ponte Vecchio.

Three men, large and imposing, had pulled a flat bottomed boat onto the rocky shoal at the edge of the river. They looked up to find Spike staring at them. He knew what they thought. He appeared to be an easy target--a foreigner standing alone in the darkness, a
pale, thin Englishman who at best appeared only capable of token resistance to an attack. It was clear from the way the boatmen approached that they assumed this to be the case. They were wrong. Dead wrong.

The brawl had been exhilarating. The men had been fast and strong, powerful and vicious. To their horror they had soon discovered Spike to be worse. Far worse. Fists and fangs and a near animalistic howl into the night followed. Spike pushed the last body into the river as he wiped blood from his lip not entirely sure if the blood was the last of his meal, or because one of the boatmen had split his lip in the fight. It didn't matter.

The spring night was warm and dry and carried the scent of lemon and orange blossoms as Spike looked up at a clear sapphire sky. He brushed his clothes free of dirt from his previous scuffle and was pleased to note that his split lip was already healing. He wandered the city a bit. On a side street he found the house of Dante Alighieri. It appeared rather non-descript to Spike's eyes and he wondered if such a great poet had found satisfaction in his work. A rose climbed against a wall and even across a small portion of the tile roof. Spike stole a blood red blossom with the intention of taking it to Dru.

Somewhere in his head, in the education that belonged to William the Bloody rose Dante's words, "You were not born to live like brutes, but to follow virtue, and knowledge."

Bloody hell, there were reasons Spike strove to forget the things William had known and a quote like that was one of them. Twirling the blood red blossom between his fingers, Spike set out toward the Piazza Ss. Annunziata, the destination where the four had agreed to meet before the night was done.

Spike found Angelus in the dimly lit square bordered by an elegantly simple arched collonade. The dark Irishman stood on the steps, towering over the inert body of a nun whose skirts were rucked up. Spike almost laughed. Really, the poofter had no sense of metaphor or allusion. For all of Angelus' lectures on art, he was a bloody obvious fellow who tended toward the literal. Spike said as much to Angelus as he approached.

"I know you have quite the fixation with defiling innocence but isn't ravishing a nun on the steps of the Spedale deghli Innocenti just a bit obvious?" Spike leaned against one of the loggia's narrow Corinthian columns as Angelus turned a dark glower on him. Spike examined his nails as he idly asked, "Ever thought of incorporating a little dash and unpredictability into your life?"

Angelus had stepped over the nun's body and pushed him. Had Spike been human he would have flown into the wall. Instead, with his agility and preternatural grace, he had landed lightly and quickly stepped out of Angelus' reach. "Tetchy tonight, aren't you," Spike
mocked.

"You grow boorish, William."

Spike arched a brow. "Do I?"

Angelus sniffed him. "And you reek of food. You've been eating again. It's disgusting."

"I take offense. The Chianti was quite nice."

"Will you never learn the way of things?"

"Will you ever cease being slave to tradition? It's bloody boring."

"You have no refinement. A good kill, a clean kill--"

"Is a sodding art. Yes, so you've said before, just as I have told you--bollocks!"

Angelus pushed passed him. "You know nothing."

"And *you* do?"

Angelus attacked. Pinning Spike against the column, choking him--not that Spike needed to breathe anyway.

"Do not mock me," Angelus warned. "I am above you in all things." Angelus shoved his arm tightly against Spike's throat. If Spike was human he would be dying. "*I* am master here and you WILL obey me."

Not bloody likely, but then that was the constant war that raged between them. Angelus wanted control. He wanted to lead and be worshiped. Spike would concede none of those things. Ever. And if that unspoken battle were not enough to set them at odds, there was
also the baggage of the men they had been before--before Darla, before Dru. . .the men they had been raised to be in their human lives.

Angelus was Irish, the son of a merchant. Spike knew as much from things he had overheard Darla and Angelus say or from Drusilla's cryptically prophetic comments. In the eyes of human society, Spike who now owned the lowest rung on their vampiric social ladder had been
above any of his companion's touch. Darla had been a lady of the night. Spike's darling Dru was the wealthy daughter of a tradesmen, but wealth did not buy position in British society. And Angelus' Irish brogue would have been looked upon with contempt in the social circles where William had walked but two years before. That society would laugh at the expense of an Irishman with ties to trade believing himself in any way superior to a proper English gentleman.

Spike didn't give a rotter's damn about such things, but when Angelus prattled about art and finesse while dressing in a stolen Chesterfield overcoat complete with velvet collar and red silk ascot, Spike could not help but their differences in human social position nettled his grandsire. On occasion he wondered if it was part of why Angelus tried so very often to break him. Then again, it was also possible the reason Angelus tried so often to break him was because Spike simply refused to break.

Angelus lessened his chokehold. "Again, William. Repeat the words for me again."

"What words?" He gave a rusty, abused laugh.

"I am not amused. Again, William."

Spike pushed his grandsire away. "Bloody hell, how many times must I repeat this?" Dropping his voice into a faux Irish accent, Spike mocked, "A good kill, a *clean* kill is an art." Then added, "If you're a complete pratt."

Once more Angelus moved to attack.

"Now, now, boys," came a soft, female voice. "This little war is becoming quite tiresome."

Darla stood before them dressed in a scarlet silk evening cape over a black satin dress whose neckline had small pieces of jet sewn into the expensive black lace. "Truly do you have no better way to occupy yourselves?"

She stepped over the body of the nun and stood on her tiptoes to press a cool kiss to Angelus lips.

"Where's Dru?" Spike demanded.

Darla shrugged. "Do I look like her keeper?"

"In a word, yes."

Darla waved her hand in the general direction of the way she had arrived. "She is somewhere back there. I lost track of her when I found this perfectly lovely gentleman."

"Gentleman, ha!" Spike flew at Darla, grabbing her wrist roughly. "Where is Dru?"

Angelus pulled Spike away from the small, spiteful blonde. "Be mindful to whom you speak."

"I'm speaking to a bullying killer and his vicious little slut, now tell me, where is Dru?"

Angelus threw Spike into the street. "I have warned you--"

Darla placed a restraining hand on Angelus' chest. "Now, now, dearest. Remember, William is Dru's pet, not yours." She looked down at Spike. "If you are so determined to find Dru's whereabouts, I suggest you search for her. Dawn will be here soon." Taking Angelus' hand, she drew her lover down the Spedale Deghli Innocenti's steps. "Come, my love, I have other pastimes I would seek this night."

Left standing in the empty square panic set in on Spike. Where was Dru? Where had the bloody heartless bitch left her?

As the sound of his footsteps echoed down the empty streets, memories from the life that had been William the Bloody's surfaced to send fear blazing through Spike's dead heart. He remembered facing two bullies as his only friend in the world stood out in the rain. He remembered standing helpless as his friend suffered and died. He remembered the black loneliness and fear that followed.

If only he had acted then. And nothing would stop him acting now. "Dru!" He called into the stillness of night. "Pet, where are you?"

Darla was right. Dawn was coming, and Spike had no clue where to look. He could not lose Drusilla. She was the only one living or dead who looked at him, who listened to him, who chose him. Spike protected her. It was what he did. It was what he *was.* She was both
his purpose and his place in this cold, empty world. She was his pleasure, his pain, his heart, and the last memory of his soul.

"Dru!"

The sapphire sky had changed to deepest violet as he passed the Palazzo Pucci. Where could Dru have wandered? Was it hopeless to search for her in this maze of ancient streets and alleys?

He passed iron grilles covering massive windows searching with no clue of where to go and what to do. Spike hated feeling ineffectual. He hated the thought of losing someone dear to him. His heart was cold and dead but not unfeeling.

"Love, where are you?" He murmured to no one but himself as he stood in the shadow of the enormous baptistery of the Basilica Santa Maria Del Fiore. How could one city have so many bloody churches?

The marble called domed cathedral glowed a soft white with black stripes in the moonlight but Spike could see the upper reaches now being touched by early morning light. High above him a line was drawn, the marking point boundary day and night. It moved inexorably downward changing the vision in black and white to pink tinted stone with green and terra cotta colored accents.

The night was over. He had to find Drusilla now. Sooner than now. He had to find her or meet his end.

Then he heard laughter. Delighted, mad laughter echoing down the deserted streets. "Dru?"

He returned down the street he had just searched and paused by an arched opening of rusticated stone. Within the courtyard beyond, Drusilla sat amidst a ring of bodies. A handsome young man, whose oddly bent neck proclaimed him well and truly dead, sat next to Drusilla on the front steps. A man dressed as a servant--who was also quite dead--lay at Dru's slipper clad feet while beside her lay the whimpering shell of a beautiful young girl. As Spike approached he saw the damage Dru had wrought to the girl's throat. It was amazing she still lived, but that was not the worst damage of all. The worst damage had been reserved for the girl's eyes. He had never understood Dru's obsession with her victim's eyes. It was almost as if she took pity and did not want them to see the suffering around them--as she had seen the suffering of her own family's deaths. But Dru's 'compassion' came at a horrific price and even Spike, a monster himself, had the urge to avert his gaze from the damage Dru had wrought on the girl's once lovely visage. Damn, he wished Dru wouldn't play with her food.

As he knelt by his beloved's side, he realized that she had arranged her victims as if they were no different from her dolls. "Dearest," he murmured as he brushed her hair from her face and watcher Drusilla's demonic visage return to that of the human face he loved. "It
has grown late. We must go."

"'Tis early," she protested. "The sun hasn't touched us yet."

Spike took her hand in his. "Nevertheless we must go. We truly do not wish to witness the sunrise."

Dru stepped over the servant's corpse at Spike's urging as the mutilated and dying girl whimpered, "Help me."

Of course the girl was beyond help. Any idiot could see that. . .though given what Dru had done, it would be not exactly be a tactful observation to make. Still the girl was doomed. She would die in minutes, or if she was particularly unlucky, she could last hours yet.

"Help me," she cried again.

Oh, bloody hell. Spike stooped and with lethal precision snapped the young woman's neck. The crying ceased.

As he and Dru, exited the courtyard he could see the line of light dropping down the wall of the building across the street. Morning had come with strong Tuscan light glowing clean and white against aged stone.

"Look how pretty!" Dru said in a sing song voice. "The sun has come out to play with us."

"It bloody well isn't playin'" Spike muttered as he dragged his dark Princess away from the light and searched desperately for a place to hide from the day and from whoever would be sent to investigate the lurid display Drusilla had left in the courtyard behind them.
There were now people walking the street, merchants making their way to their stores.

And still the line of light dropped further.

"This way," Spike instructed as he pulled Drusilla behind him. She laughed and still pretended it was a game. . .only it wasn't pretense. It *could* be a game for all that Dru was capable of comprehending. But as much as Spike might like to play with death at
his own expense, he wasn't ready to face it here and now and not with Dru at his side.

There, to his left he saw a plan and rough façade. He almost laughed. Yet another cathedral, only this unlike the last was not dressed in fine marble and stone. It stood barren and unfinished, a work of art which had never been completed, a promise which went unfulfilled.

He pulled Dru up the steps of church of San Lorenzo, pushing inside, and slamming the doors against the light.

Spike closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them as he felt Dru drift away. Unlike the rough exterior, the inside was finished and lovely and bathed in a nice, non-fatal golden glow. As Dru wandered like a curious child over counting the tiles in the floor, Spike reached out to her and he noticed the back of his pale hand was blistered and burned.
Simultaneously he became away of hot pain along the back of his neck and across his cheek. He winced as he touched his own angry, tortured skin. He must look a sight, a burned and damaged visage.

Spike reached out to Dru, but she never turned to see him. It was like she didn't even know he was there. Spike slid down the wall knowing that they must spend the day here as he swallowed the ache in his throat.

In truth the pain inside him felt far worse than the damage done to his skin. . .and more words William the sodding Bloody had take

Comments

[rusty_halo.livejournal.com]

This cuts off rather abruptly. Did LJ cut it off at a certain length or something? Just wondering.

I really enjoyed reading these. You have great insight into the characters, especially the fanged four dynamic.

I'm looking forward to more "When Darkness Falls." Also, do you have any plans to continue "Crux Ansata"?