Cicatrix: Part Three

The Bronze was a dump. Granted, it had always been a dump, but this went
above and beyond the call of duty. Splintered wood, bent metal, moaning
humans, moaning demons... At least the human moans were entertaining,
but Cordelia had little tolerance for those even nominally of her kind
acting like a bunch of whining little cryspikes.

Spike, who was currently bitching and moaning himself, even though his
own wounds were long since healed. Cdrisi attack. Whatever. Cordelia
hadn't exactly been lazing by the pool of blood herself last night.

But did Spike understand that? No. Instead, he was striding around like
he was still trying to break in those stupid leather pants and ranting
about the Hellmouth trying to open. The man was, as usual, pathetically
trapped in the obvious.

Just like they were trapped here.

Bits of the ceiling were missing where visiting hellspawn had broken
through, only to fall to their deaths. Or somebody's deaths. The floor
was tacky with blood and dust, and too many of the missing faces were
*hers*, dammit.

She'd sent several off to scout out new homes -- L.A. seemed doable, for
a start -- and build her ranks, and there'd been far too few left here in
Sunnydale to lose so many.

Sunlight burned through the holes, causing some of the tack to smolder.
The whole place was a condemning waiting to happen, but could they get
out? Again, no. Because Spike had blocked the sewer entrances in his
big, important battle with the Cdrisi.  Looked like a bunch of badly
cooked lobsters to *her*.

Several of their children were down there now, trying to break through.
There had been far too many familiar screams as mistakes were made and
they hit daylight instead. *Obviously* Mommy Druest had had some sort of
shit fit at the Hellmouth and they were paying for it.

Cordelia spent a moment both hoping and fearing that one of the half
*billion* things Dru had called --

*pop*

-- and was apparently still calling god *DAMMIT*. -- Cordy whirled,
annoyed to find that her half-slagged crowbar was actually sticking to
her palm. Well, nothing would get her weapon away from her this time,
not even the big, yet oddly delicate *whatever* that had just...
exploded Harmony.

Darn.

She'd promised to vamp her when she got a chance. Oh, well. Cordelia
decided to try to fight from a distance, broke the crowbar in two and
threw.

Her first toss went wide, skidding over silver-blue skin and leaving a
burning welt. Oh, she *loved* the ones that couldn't deal with iron, but
she didn't really feel like dancing around the sunlit room with the
creature just to play. Her next throw hit the mark true and the creature
burst into flames.

And managed to ignite Ari before it died.

Cordelia barely resisted the urge to stamp her foot and curse. She'd
*liked* Ari, Ari had *style* --

"Oooh, excellent routine, but I'm afraid you lost on the dismount. 7.8."

"Fuck off, Spike."

"Gladly. Would what's left of the ladies' do?"

"Oh, you *would* like the post-apocalyptic look."

Spike grinned at her insolently. "I'd have to say that it really, really
brings out your eyes."

"I liked you better when you were just wandering around whining about
your headache."

"Tell you what, luv. Let's bang *your* head through the floor and see
how *you* feel."

"Let's not. And say we didn't."

"Suit yourself." He lit a cigarette, scowled up at one of the holes. "In
any case, we should probably be discussing things instead of just
fucking about with those fairy blue Yali demons."

Cordelia narrowed her eyes, patiently counted to ten nail-pullings,
widened them again. "And just what exactly do you think *we* have to
talk about?"

"So your leash isn't chafing you any?"

"Look, Spike, if this is one of your sick fantasies then you can just
keep it to yourself. You're a lot more attractive with your bony little
face buried in Dru's pussy."

"Heh. And so are you. I seem to recall you enjoying that position more
than once."

"So good to know all those blows to the head didn't damage *too* many
important things."

"You're craving her right now, aren't you?" And the words hit too close
for Cordelia to come up with a quick denial. She *was* craving Drusilla.
Desperate for anything and everything she wanted to give. As weak as...
as Spike. "At least I still care enough to resist!"

"When she doesn't have her eye on you."

And Spike was smirking and watching. Watching her fall into big, dark
eyes that for the moment only existed in her mind, but were still
powerful enough to make her... sway.

*No*.

She shook it off and found herself clinging to Spike, needing to make
things OK, needing to make it OK for Drusilla, they were all friends and
they loved each other and --

"*No*. Damn you! What *is* this?"

"Now don't go blamin' me, ducks. I just figured out the whole of it
myself. Guess it's because... what was it? I'd been using me brains for
hair gel?"

"*Tell* me, Spike!"

But he just started walking away, winding through the sunbeams, kicking
away the moaning demons.

"I had a bit of a chat with myself while I was staking that child of
yours who went mad. Percy was it? Nobody with a name like that deserved
to live.
"So anyway, I asked myself: If the little bitch was having such a bad
time of it with Dru and me, what the hell was keeping her from sodding
off?"

"She *hexed* me? She hexes people for dates? How fucking pathetic!"

Spike's smile changed. "She never had to hex me... and besides, luv --
you're not exactly her type for long term relationships... oh, that
stung, didn't it? What a shame, what a bloody shame. She hexed you for
your blood, Cordy-love. You're nothing but an overdressed *cow*. Now
how's that feel?"

Cordelia took a moment to make herself be calm. Cool and calm. "We won't
be getting out of this dump until sundown, Spike. More than enough time
for... what was that you called it? A dust-up? Why don't we see what you
can do against Master blood?"

"Oh, you do say the loveliest things... but I have a better plan. Why
don't we just cut the shit and get down to business, eh? You want to be
free of Drusilla, I can't bloody wait to see the back of yer.  If we
come to her together, maybe get her a bit... distracted --"

"She's *always* distracted. God, the woman you love is a psychotic slut
and you think *I'm* pathetic? At least I would've made a better choice
-- no, shut up, let someone do the thinking that actually knows how."

Spike made a mocking 'after you' gesture and lit up again.

"Like I said, she's *always* distracted. We need to give her something
to focus on that isn't us, *then* slip in the let-me-free thing."

"She already *has* that something -- Willow."

"So maybe she just needs to be a little *more* focused. Maybe if her
dear, sweet, flea-ridden geek was hanging somewhere, partially
eviscerated --"

"Ah, ah, ah... your jealousy's showing, luv. Let's just knock her around
a bit, blame it on the demons popping out everywhere, make her think
she'll need all her power to fix the little cunt, and bam, we're all
shut of you."

Cordelia nodded slowly. Drusilla was obsessed with her pets /not with me
what did I do *wrong*/ and would do everything she could to get Willow
back.

And probably kill her herself in the process, solving *all* of their
problems.

Cordelia let herself smile, broad and white. Offered her hand to Spike,
who shook it officiously.

"Now we just have to wait for the right time..."

*

The sky overhead was a strange, gaudy thing like a circus tent,  blue
and white and red and black.  And circus tents were full of clowns and
clowns were... bad.  Scary bad.  But then -- a moment's joy bubbled up
-- elephants!  But no -- Willow fingered the bars of the empty cage and
sighed.  There were no elephants in this tent.   All the animals ran
away...

At just exactly the worst time too, but then animals never thought of
things like that, did they?  No.

They just... they just did whatever they wanted to.  Whatever  their
selfish little animal brains told them to.  Just bit or screamed or
messed up their cage or ran away. Never thought about what it would do
to people, how it would mess up perfectly happy people's lives.

And how were you supposed to make things right when animals just...
Slamming the metal door of the cage because it made her feel better.
Not 'good' better but better like biting Drusilla or digging her
magicked claws into Drusilla and screaming...

Cool hands covered her eyes.  Cool hardness pressed up behind her,
buzzed against her ear:  "Hush, precious.  Hush..."

Screaming anyway because she needed to make noise or else she was going
to be lost in here.  So dark and the green warm whispers far away all
wailed that she was lost.  And all the other voices  shrieking in the
dark that came and went only saw and didn't care and.  She would never
get away and...

"Hushhhh."  Cool fingers sliding over her lips, teeth, across her tongue
tasting of rot and metal.  Cool fingers sliding down over her hip,
through curls, into her sex.  "Hush, pet.  Hushhhh."

She gagged and bucked at once, still screaming but the sound was
flattened against Drusilla's fingers on her tongue, sliding in, pressing
down.  More fingers across her lips and the sharp, cool shiver of long
smooth-nailed fingers, pressed through slickness, forking around her
clit.  She gasped at the delicate rasp and made a wet, and voiceless
sound.  Twisted in Drusilla's arms and it was all hips.  All hips.

"That's right, Mummy's Precious.  Daddy's sleeping still.  You don't
want to wake Daddy before his time." Drusilla sang the words into her
ear and Willow moaned at the sound.  At the way every part of her body
was wired into the voice like amps, like the amps that someone made of
Oz the wires, the wirecutters.  Electricity arced from it, cold and blue
and burning in her nipples, her sobbing lungs, her throat, her clit.
Crackle and hiss of wet and moaning her and oh she wanted... something.

Sobbing raw and wet now around the fingers, more fingers in her mouth,
stretching her jaws and fingers pressing into her now, too fast and oh
she wanted but she was so alone in here and there were things...

Fingers pushing deep and bone deep cold; thumb spiraling sharp aching
heat from her center and her eyes rolled a little and oh yes she wanted,
needed.

*No!* she had to say this.

She shook her head, ground molars down on the invading fingers and
worried, hard.  Twisted her hips up and away.

Not high enough, Dru still so deep so deep inside her and her mouth was
full of blood.   So good.  So bad and good.  But no and reeling, she
tried again, gained mouth enough to breathe with, tongue to talk:
"Naughty chi--" Dru began.

"*Listen*" Willow slurred.  "Listen to me.  Pleasssse."  And to her
great relief and amazement Drusilla... stilled.

"Mummy's listening pet," she said, so sweet into Willow's ear.

"I--"  Drusilla didn't take her fingers from Willow's mouth, but the
fingers were softer now, gentle on her tongue like Dru was feeling the
words.  Like Helen Keller from the thing... the movie they showed in
Socials.  And that was...  "We need.. for the spell, we need him..."

"Who, pet?"  Fingers surged inside her, thumbstroke, thumbstroke. Willow
gasped and humped helplessly against Dru's hand.  So good: "Oh... ohz.
We... oh...  we.... I need *Oz*"

"We do?" Drusilla asked, all pained puzzlement.  "The stars don't say.
Look, Puss -- you can see the stars now in the day.  Aren't they too
lovely?  They burn your eyes, you know..."

"No, God, list... listen.  Ohh..." The thumb still working, working her
and she was drooling she could feel her chin wet and oh --  just give
up.  Give in.  She wanted so much to just let go.

"I will, I'll catch you."
"No -- aaaah," Willow nearly screamed.  "It's *bad*.  It's -- listen to
me it's fu-- it's messed up.  But I can fix it.  I know, I know how to
keep him now.  I made the hook.  But I need... I need.. It's... ohhh.  I
can't.  I can't..."

"Hushhh," Dru said again and pulled her fingers out.  All her fingers,
leaving Willow aching, empty.  But only for a moment.  Dru's hands,
slick and cold on her naked shoulders and she was soothing Willow.
Soothing and bending her at the waist and pushing her gently down onto
the cold, metal hatching of the cage

"I'm going to tell you a story now," Dru said.  "It's a very beautiful
story my Daddy once told to me.  Will you listen like a hungry little
mouse while I tell it to you?  Will your eyes be bright?"

"I --" Willow said, but then she really didn't know.  Her teeth were
chattering and she knew something big was happening around them,
something she needed to be sharp for and she *could*, the voices
whispered, but Drusilla's hand was spreading her thighs apart, pulling
back her hips to leave her sex exposed, running the cold, hard line of a
fingernail from her clit to her butt and that made her shiver and
shake and the cage rattled beneath her ears and she didn't know... she
didn't *know*.

"Of course you do," Drusilla said.  "Listen..."  And Willow listened.
But all she heard was the whisper of wind.  The rattle of steel.  The
crackle and pop of the cellophane circus sky and distant screams.

"Do you hear it?"  And hands on her now.   Hands branding cold across
her buttocks and she gasped again.  Moaned as thumbs spread her, drew
her shape cold across the tight little pucker.  Fingers slicking down
into the wettest bowl of her sex to dip and spread.  Came up and
flickered light, hard nails across her clit, tangled in the curls and
tugged.

"Do you, pretty child?"  Fingers pressing inside again, a soft cool
spill of hair against her buttock.  Soft kisses there.  Sharp little
bites.  Willow jumped and shrieked and then nearly swallowed her tongue
as the fingers thrust.   "Can you hear it now?"

"N-no," she wailed.  She was really listening now too.  Listening hard,
in a way she never had before because she could almost, if she could
just...  There were things deeper in the darkness.  Older.  Older than
the old green whisper sunshine.  Older than the shrieking.  An old
before words or light or time.  So powerful and slow and she could
almost... And the fingers now, too many fingers thick and hard inside
her and she snapped her hips and whimpered at the cold hard pound of
bone on tender bone and the blue sparks struck with every thrust.
Writhing,  mashed hard against the unforgiving cage, her own fingers
curled slick and aching around metal.  Tasting metal.  "I can't...
Drusilla *help* me, please..."

-- I'll help you, -- Drusilla said, in words that Willow knew weren't any
language known to man -- I'll tell it right into your secret heart. -- and
then Drusilla was twisting, turning under her, between her legs and her
mouth was hard and buzzing and electric against Willow's sex and the
fingers filled her and emptied her and the tale went on and on, driving
her higher and higher while she screamed and screamed and almost heard.
And it was all so cold, colder by the second even though she knew it
was her own temperature rising. And the story was the most beautiful,
most terrible thing... images crashed around her, storm-painted sky,
girl, achingly perfect weapon of unknown unknown oh...

Drusilla was... taking her and this wasn't the way it was supposed to
go, she wasn't supposed to be crushing her own breasts against cold
iron, rippling inside somewhere deep that painted over the entire world
with the story.

-- Listen. --

And she heard herself moan, long and low and felt the beginnings of a
struggle in her legs and Dru's next thrust brought her up on her toes.
There was something slamming against her pelvis and tickling her clit
and just as she knew it wasn't the right position, she knew she
couldn't possibly --

Crash and flood again and the battle was terrible, and Drusilla smiled
so sweetly, she could feel it, her favorite, loved, so loved despite the
broken silence and sharp bright pain in her back followed by the venom
she'd given Drusilla herself. Hot, bright thing making her flush and
sweat and  now her whole body was as slick as the center of her and
now Drusilla's touch made her shudder and there was a catch, a hint
of pain and then a deep, flaring ball of it that could have just been
the venom.

And Willow couldn't hold on to anything any longer, not to Oz, not her
rules, not the story, nothing but the absolute *invasion*, different
than one finger, or even four and oh she was dead, Drusilla was dead and
*inside* her. One impossibly small twist and the lightning flare of what
felt like bare bone on bare bone and the pain was fading in slow,
terrifying pulses.

She could feel more and more with each pulse, a black-to-life pulse that
spiked some sensations while others faded until she was left with
nothing but the slow, steady drain of blood from her back and the great,
alien thing inside her. Awareness slamming back and ebbing away and
Drusilla began to move, twisting little pushes that nudged and melted
her away until all she could do was try to drape her soul within the
confines of her half-rigid and trembling body and give in.

And it surprised her that it still hurt, that she had to work to tease
out that sensation from the others... the impossible fullness as Dru
bent and flexed her fingers, the individual caress of one or two
fingers and it *hurt*. It did, it did, somewhere, and if she could
just... if only...

But Dru's thrusts rocked her entire body, made her clit swell into an
aching button, made her insides scream and protest and the only word in
her mind was violation. Nothing else was permanent enough, nothing else
could explain how badly she needed this /Dru  knows she knows what you
need/ and if it ever stopped she thought she might die.

-- you'll never die now -- the unword Dru-tongue said into her flesh.
-- always Willow in here with us -- and oh, that made her empty and oh
that made her cry and cry out and the sudden *heatflash heatflash* took
her by surprise and she was hooked and *splayed* on it and coming,
coming.

Making the story true in the telling and only Drusilla anchored her to
the world and the old, old power rolled over and through her just long
enough to taste her -- old, rolling, drowning pleasurethunder heat
-- before it sank.

And maybe she did die for a while.  Or maybe only slept but the story
was inside her now and the story was Drusilla and Drusilla had never
been wrong about anything at all.  She tried to move, cried out at the
deep and broken ache inside, but strong arms settled her, stroked her
hair.

"Such a good girl," Drusilla said against her head.  "Such a good,
obedient, *hungry* little monkey.  I think you shall have cakes and
lemons with your tea."

*

Giles carefully crushed the dried mushrooms into powder. Mortar and
pestle was the only way to do the job effectively, though Willow had
said something about a food processor before...

He shook it off and kept grinding. There were far too many dangerous
trains of thought, but he couldn't allow them to distract him from his
duty. Yes, he could call it that. Point to the Watcher's seal, engraved
with A Bulwark Against The Darkness in English, Latin, and Yelerian --
the language of the first demon species made extinct by the older, more
outer-directed Watcher kill squads.

He could have done that himself, taken that route... after London, he
certainly had the experience. But the squads had been for the lower
classes, of course, and Roderick Giles had been quite assiduous in
making sure he had escaped that designation.

But really, he was doing quite well here on his own, wasn't he? Two
Slayers dead on his watch, and so he was doing the next best thing --
selling a boy's soul to get a new one. Unprecedented, of course. Sure to
get him drummed from the council when word got out. Better that way,
perhaps. Instead of being retired to the teaching staff, singled out as
an example of what not to do with one's Slayers.

Perhaps he would even be marked for the more permanent brand of
excommunication for this atrocity. Get to see first-hand what the squads
knew that he did not.

And that... that brought something like a thrill to his soul, the
pleasure of going down fighting, the dream of Ripper. He wanted Ethan
there to see it, to see his thoughts turn that way. A new desire born of
the past few days -- an apology of sorts. "I'm sorry I said those
terrible things, please allow me to keep doing so while you prepare our
sacrificial lamb."

It was just the sort of thing the man would appreciate. Ah, but he was
allowing himself emotion again. Couldn't have that, couldn't be human
while he was doing this, because that would just make it worse. Make
it seem as though he'd agreed.

He had, of course, but there was still room for... denial. Yes, denial.
He denied all of this, from the powder slipping grey and purple into the
boiling holy water, to the holy steam bathing him in something
undeserved. To the sounds of Ethan's low, insinuating voice and Xander's
shocked/surprised/angry laughter. Giles couldn't decide to cheer or
discourage Xander's continued resistance to Ethan's charms.

It made Giles feel both weaker and intensely more sophisticated, as if
Ethan was a piquant delicacy to be served only surrounded by the most
bitter greens. A dish only an over-rich fool could pretend to enjoy.

Of course, *Giles* wasn't pretending.

But it was time for the chant. A stanza per infusion of the strange tea,
the eighth this time with nineteen more to go. Whispered into the harsh
fumes and Giles secretly craved these times. The chant was the spell,
the chant took him back to when the words were engraved on his soul,
when it had been *right* to have this gift, when it had seemed nothing
more than sweet power bestowed by a mostly benevolent patron.

Eyghon and no escape from *his* past into respectability. "Urare, Umedi,
Uzaq..." and why was he trying to escape anyway? What was the point?
The world was busily trying to end itself and perhaps, perhaps he had
the cure.

"Uyur, Ubawe, Uaier..." feeling the power rush through him, a
left-handed purity no mere shaman could muster and Xander was
standing in the bathtub, Ethan knelt before him. Xander slick with oil
of sage, steadfastly staring nowhere but forward as Ethan applied the
straight-razor to his thighs, shaving him clean.

"Ufiru, Ugelc, Udo..." right to hold the boy's chin up, to whisper against
unmarked flesh as he drank and the whisper beneath to have him, take
him, show him the other ways to the great master, to the raw sweetness
and Giles was dizzy with it, feeling himself respond and respond until
the last drop was swallowed and then it was yanked away.

Power, whisper, everything. Leaving him to shudder before the boy,
before *Xander*, and hate himself a little more. The next draught would
be the delf root, the next stanza the ninth. The sibilant, longest
ninth.

It would be harder dragging himself back from that one, but he would do
it.

Surrendering would be the death of the spell, of course. And just
another way to blacken his own soul. Ethan had paused in the shaving to
trace over a small patch on the front of Xander's thigh. Perhaps it
would require another pass of the razor... Giles shuddered again.

He would make it back.

*

Ian's house was dark and quiet when Faith returned from patrol.
Shouting, "I'm back," she paused in the foyer and listened.  Nothing.

Irritated, she strode to the den, where the only occupant, a fat little
dog with the disgusting name of Phoebles, gave Faith a sleepy glare from
her bed in the corner.

"Bite me, Phoebles," and Faith threw herself sideways into an
easy chair and aimlessly kicked her feet.  Of course it was too much to
expect he'd be home.  The days of him anxiously greeting her after
patrol were long gone.  It wasn't as if she was a kid anymore, or that
there was any ass out there, supernatural or otherwise, she couldn't
kick six ways to Sunday, but still.  It would have been nice to have a
chance to at least *talk* about some demon action, seeing as how there
just wasn't any happening here.

If this was your typical Slayer existence, you could keep it.  Dull,
duller, dullest.

And Ian, he of the imminent heart failure from too much steak and kidney
pie, was also dull.  As a rule.  But lately his flabby little face had
been a little more red than usual and his calls to Council more frequent
and frankly, loud.  Words like "Hellmouth" and "Sunnydale" were shouted
so loudly Phoebles was actually induced to waddle to another room for
some peace and quiet.  And Ian, after slamming down the phone would
storm off to his pub.  Which, she thought, was probably where he was
right now, drowning his Yorkshire temper in lukewarm, bitter ale.

Of course she *knew* all about the Hellmouth.  And Sunnydale. After
discovering the last two Slayers had bought the farm there, Faith had
made it her business to find out.

So she wasn't supposed to know.  Big hairy deal.  She wasn't supposed to
know Ian's e-mail password or that he was under strict instructions to
*not* let her leave town, courtesy of official Council e-mail.

And yeah, okay, Ian wasn't too bad when he wasn't baby talking the dog.
And maybe the Council had a right to tell him what to do.  But she
hadn't asked for this gig and *she* didn't recall ever agreeing to do
anything *anyone* said.

Faith jiggled her foot and gave the desk a speculative look.  She'd be
willing to bet dollars to fucking donuts Ian had stormed out without his
wallet again.

A quick search revealed indeed he had. Well.

After stripping out all the cash and his credit cards, Faith scrawled a
hasty note telling him she'd gone home for the night, then called and
reserved a seat on the next flight to California. Yes, she would like a
rental car waiting, thank you very much.  No, while the compact deal did
indeed sound economical, she wanted something a little more exciting.

"I don't suppose you have a Jag, do you?"

*

Angelus may have been a piss poor father, Spike thought, but he'd been
right about one thing.  Too many cats eat all the rats.

He pushed through the restless crowd of Dru's 'army' and grimaced.
They'd lost a fair number, but there were still too many to subsist on
Sunnydale's rather depleted population.  And they were all hungry now,
especially the ones who'd been wounded.  And that was almost all of
them, including him.

Before too long that little witch, skinny as she was, would wind up
under the wrong set of teeth, Dru or no.  Maybe it would even be his.

Dru's problem was that while she saw the marvelous plan, she completely
ignored the little nit picky details required to make it work.  Build an
army, she said.  Fine.  Done and done.  But everyone knew, except for
Dru, that an army runs on it's stomach.  Starve 'em long enough and they
either die, run away, or revolt.

At this point Spike wasn't sure which would be more bothersome, or if
Dru would even fucking notice.  Bugger that.  She wanted them, she could
decide what to do with them.

He strode into the bedroom and found her sitting on the bed, brushing
Willow's hair and crooning a lullaby.  The witch didn't appear to be
listening, but then she hadn't appeared to be doing much of anything
since Dru'd dragged her back from their big, bloody, bollixed up spell.
She just sat where Dru put her, her eyes mostly vacant and her mouth
continually whispering nonsense words.

"Drusilla."

Answering absently, "Yes, pet?"  Dru put the brush down and pressed a
kiss to Willow's cheek, then started braiding her hair with a little
frown of concentration creasing her brow.

Without even trying to soften the sarcasm, Spike said, "I realize this
may have escaped your notice, what with you being so busy playing with
your dolly, but your children are hungry."

Dru fiddled with strand of hair and said, "Do you it like this?"
"Like it?  Are you listening?  Dru, they are going to *die*.  There
aren't enough people to feed them, not even half."

"Or maybe it would look better up," Dru murmured.  She undid the sloppy
braid with a few careless twists.

Spike clenched his hands against the urge to stalk over to the bed and
slap her until her lips bled, was shocked by the impulse a scant moment
later.  He'd never struck her, ever, had never wanted to, no matter how
furious she made him.  But then, she'd never been like this, either.

Very carefully, very slowly he said, "I know you can hear me.  I know
you understand what I'm saying and don't want to deal with it.  Tough
shit, princess.  Did *that* get through your Angelus-scrambled brains?"

She looked at him then, smiled and sweetly asked, "I wonder if Daddy
will like her hair up or down?"

And suddenly he knew, knew exactly what she'd been up to at the
Hellmouth, knew why there were demons from all seven corners of hell
suddenly all over *his* town and why she needed the witch.  It was all
he could to not snap the little tart's neck right then and there.

As if she'd read his mind, Drusilla wrapped her arms around Willow and
gave him a reproachful look.

For the first time, it didn't work, didn't make him feel simultaneously
guilty and protective and somehow proud that he had the power to hurt
her and then make it better.  It was now quite obvious.  He was going to
be replaced.  Oh yeah, he'd probably still be *allowed* to hang around.
Good old reliable Spike, good enough for a few scraps, but not the main
course.

"I won't have it," he said in a low, rough tone.  "D'ya hear me, Dru?
I won't go back to that."

Drusilla just smiled a little deeper and rubbed her cheek against
Willow's, then murmured, "It will be like it was before.  You and me and
Daddy and now a sweet little baby."

Willow whimpered a little and Dru hugged her closer, then bit at her own
wrist and raised it to Willow's lips, which opened obediently.  As the
witch drank, Dru looked at him and whispered, "She's mine, Spike.  My
blood, my little girl and you mustn't hurt her or I shall be very, very
cross."

And Spike, who'd never felt afraid of her before, suddenly shuddered at
the promise in her voice.

He backed away, out of the room and away from her and actually pondered
leaving.  The hell with this.  Just pack up, get out of town and go.  He
didn't need this shit, he was young, he was bad and... and.  Fuck it
all.  He still wanted her, still needed her, needed her to need *him*.

Spike spat out a vicious curse in Fyarl and slammed his fist into the
wall.  Good, he thought, anger was good, he did his best planning when
he was furious.  Piss him off long enough and he'd be the next Alexander
the Bloody Great.  But for now it was still too new, too raw, so he
cursed again.

He heard a scuffle break out in another room and realized that in the
meantime he had other problems.  One of them was bound to get hungry
enough to take a bite of even him, eventually.

And then it hit him, the solution to several problems all at once.

Spike beckoned one of his children over, one smart enough to follow
orders and stupid enough to be trusted.

"I want you," he told the youngling, "to gather up a few of your
brothers, get a car and drive over to the next town."

As he pointed out the location of the blood bank, Spike smiled grimly.
Yeah, he'd feed the little sods.  After all, they were *his* army now.

And when he'd won, when it was all over, he'd break the cunt's neck, tie
Dru up in the basement and feed her little bits of redhead until she
loved him again.

*

Washed and sanctified and lying pink arse-up naked on the little cot
they'd moved to the center of the tiny room, Xander looked quite...

-Yes...-  Beautiful.

Ethan had to take a moment.  He wasn't a fool.  And regardless of what
Rupert Giles chose to pretend or Ripper fancied he remembered, he was
fully in control of his urges.  But still.  It was only right that when
one was going to fuck someone as thoroughly as he was about to fuck
young Alexander, one took the time to... appreciate.  Give thanks.

Savor.

It wasn't even just the fine, smooth canvas of flesh that made him want
to lick his lips.  Or the scarred, lean, oddly soft curves of young
masculinity.  It was, in a way, the moment itself that he savored, the
sheer awfulness of what he -- what *they* -- were about to do.

"Are you getting a good look back there?"  Xander asked, tightly,
twisting his head around on his bare neck to glare at Ethan.  They'd
shaved off the sides and back of his hair, taken the eyebrow off on the
right side,  It left Xander's dark eye a kind of fiery black under the
small fall of curl that remained.

"Very," said Ethan.  So *much* fire.  And just a very little trembling.
Janus, it made him feel almost... well, not *holy*.  But Xander's want
for this was humbling.  Exciting in and of itself and he'd lay odds that
Xander was hard right now.  Or ready to be.  *He* was certainly aching
for them to begin.  "Can you spread your legs for me a little?"

"*Fuck!*"  Real rage and Xander started to come up off the bed.

"Don't look at *me*," Ethan said, raising the book in front of him.
"That's where it says to start."  Xander's gaze flicked rather
desperately, Ethan thought, to Giles, who sat cross-legged on the floor
with a bowl held loosely in his lap.  Giles who merely shrugged and
shook his head vaguely, deferring to Ethan with his eyes.

Apathetic and silent Giles who seemed to have found a comfortable seat
somewhere back behind his own eyes and had simply left the rest of
himself around for their convenience.  Just as he had after Randall...

He wondered if Giles expected guilt to stop him taking advantage of
that.  No.  Ripper knew him too well.

"Look, if you don't trust me..."

"Oh, right,"  Xander said. "*That's* an issue."  He dropped his face into
the mattress, rubbed it back and forth for a long minute, but before
Ethan could interject again he raised it.

"Is all magic based in the big gay sex?" he asked.  It sounded plaintive
but... resigned.

"Only the good stuff," Ethan said, letting the corner of his smile curl
up.  And his turn to glance at Giles, offer his conspiratorial wink, but
Giles' eyes were closed now.  Bastard.  Ethan felt the warmth leak out
of him again.  "Look, we really should get started."

"Oh yes, let's do not, by all means, wait one second more," said Giles
abruptly, from his corner.  His voice was tight and brittle and made
Ethan want to slap him hard enough to cut and then kiss the blood off
his mouth.  "Will you tie him or should I?"

"Giles..." Xander half-laughed it, shockily.  But Giles didn't soften
his tone one bit.

"Because you're going to flinch, Xander, the way he's going to touch
you.  And because one mistake will likely be fatal, you see.  And
because the inks will continue to burn and you're going to need to--"

"You're really not helping..." Ethan began but Giles cut off as abruptly
as he started.  Stared intently into his bowl.  Ethan felt sour.  This
wasn't... it was *exactly*... Ripper just never would see... His
thoughts running back and over one another just for a second and he felt
the wave of familiar melancholy: oh, come *on*, Ripper, this is supposed
to be *fun*.  And Janus, if you could laugh about it at this point...

"Do it," said Xander, grimly. Ethan glanced again at Ripper, and Xander
reached down and grabbed his discarded shirt off the floor, held his
wrists out over his head.  "Just fucking do it and get on with it.
We're doing this okay?  I don't care if you don't like it." he glared at
Giles.  "Or if you like it way too fucking much," back to catch Ethan's
eye, show him all that fire again. "Okay?  Do you get it?  We're not
stalling anymore.  I don't care if if means sticking knitting needles up
my ass and setting them on fire. We're doing this.  We're doing it
because it's the only thing that's going to work and we're doing it
*now*."

Ethan almost laughed but held it back.  It wasn't a mocking laugh -- he
felt no mockery now.  No, not at all.  It was humbling, it truly was.

"All right," Ethan said and moved to take the shirt.  But Ripper was
suddenly up and stepping in to take it first.

"I'll do it," Giles said.  And did.  And Ethan settled himself back in
before the book and closed his eyes so as not to be distracted by the
suddenly terrible beauty of it all.  They were doing it.  They were
opening up a universe of their own.

He reached down then, his hand closing on the crystal vial of ink
they'd mixed this morning.  He hefted it, hot and heavy in his hand.
Spoke the unholy words as he uncapped it -- nostrils flaring at the
sharp sulfur stink.

The fingers of his other hand found the tray of pens and he let them
wander blind across the smooth cylinders.  Rare woods, shiny woods.
Carved and tortured metals.

Symbols whispering to him as he breathed.

He felt the brimming quiet settle around him in the dark inside his
head.  The snick of candles being lit.  The smell of wax and hot brass
and smoldering herbs.  Giles voice, soft and very far away began the
chant and he felt it shimmer, felt it sweep up through his feet, up
through his spine.

Sudden sharp pain under his hand and he closed his fingers there, around
*that* pen, felt it seal itself to his flesh.  Felt more words come,
spilling out of him, making bright silver lines in the dark that wasn't
dark and he opened his eyes.

Xander, pale and smooth and *holy* slate, vellum flesh laid before him
and the pen hummed with unspent words and ached for the draught of ink
and when he dipped, ink coiled and curled and stained the wood,his hand,
his wrist -- filled not just the pen but his veins, his eyes...

Burning through him, unholy word-vessel that he was, burning him as he
held the pen-tip over the curve of hip seeking the starting place.  The
true and sweet place and a hand came into view-- Giles' hand he knew
distantly --  holding the slate steady.  Holding it for him, opening
its secrets to him.

And that was right, so right and there he saw it -- the place, the shape
of the words, the sigils, the shape of the thing they were making, the
limned edges of Xander's soul.  Pure soul, burning just for this.  And
put the dripping pen to tender flesh -- and sizzle and sweet, sweet
stink and scream but the hand held steady, the slate held level and true
and the power roared -- and Ethan began to write.

*

Time had no meaning in Hell.  The Angelus supposed that was the point.
Eternity felt even longer when every minute seemed to last forever.

He knew he'd left the mortal world only a short time ago.  However,
since time was different here, he had no clue how much time mortal time
had passed.  It could have been a month.  It felt like forever.

The call had pierced every part of him when it came, breaking him free
of the Holy bonds his latest tormentor had nearly killed itself to place
on him. The call had made Hell tremble, and everything had gone silent
for a long moment. The Angelus had been the first to speak in his corner
of the pit:

"Drusilla."

It had taken him months to crawl out from the pit he'd fallen into.
After that, he'd spent decades fighting and clawing his way through his
brethren, trying to get to the fringes of Hell, to the place where the
barrier between here and the mortal plane was thinnest.

There, he waged a continual battle to keep his place, to keep the lesser
demons back.  Because sometimes the barrier opened, just a rip really,
and when it did, he was out of here.

He remembered the last time -- not the first time -- he'd done so, when
he'd taken the name Angelus for his own and the memories of a
dilettante. Oh, those were his favorite sort, sweet and soft as babes
with none of the physical limitations. Angelus, yes, he felt himself
that even here. He was more powerful than the vast majority of the
pathetic creatures here. Smarter.

Even if something defeated him here, out on the edge, he knew *he*
wouldn't forget himself back in the pits.

No matter how they flayed him, spitted him or left his soul scattered
amid the wreckage of a body forced to reform itself again and again...
he was the Angelus. The taint of emotion was the worst, though. When the
greater demons poisoned him with humanity, left him to watch again and
again as he destroyed. Made him hate himself. A gift from sharing so
long with the dilettante's own weak soul. A brilliant idea for his
tormentors to use.

The use of the subject's own memories to hurt him, a classic method of
torture that was difficult to approve of when used against oneself. The
Angelus smirked internally. The screams of innocents could feed his ears
for an eternity, but every once in a while there had been a certain
added... *something* in the breaking of a torturer.

Immortality dancing on the razor.

And there was beauty in this, it was true. The divine creation of its
opposite, the one place a being could be truly free -- the Angelus
believed nothing of the sort about Heaven, not with all the rules of
behavior on earth -- and pay for it with every searing breath.

The Angelus ruled in some corners of the pit, at some times.

The Angelus would rule on earth again, and soon. After all, his baby
needed him.

*

"...thean issen tolith aah."

And after the words there was quiet and Ethan was suddenly back.
Back in his body, back in the room.  Breathing.  Too soon. Too abrupt.
Too wrong.  He opened his eyes.

What he saw...  For a minute he couldn't take it in.  Xander's back,
thighs, buttocks -- every inch of flesh from heels to neck was
inscribed.  Beautiful.  It was like an ancient text -- no, stupid. It
*was* the ancient text, copied faithfully by... himself.

He nearly laughed, but there wasn't enough left in him.   So *tired*.
His eyes, falling shut, lit on the open book by his knee. That page,
yes.  It was burned into his memory, though he had no memory of the
burning.   He glanced up to Xander's back, his own hand resting on the
last serif of the last glyph.  Familiar and yet. Not.

Someone had told him this story and he knew there was something wrong
with the way his mind was working.  Something more than normal
post-casting fog -- he had broken something maybe.  Broken. But deep
beneath that he knew it was worse than that.  Not broken but traded.
He'd given something and gods, he wished he knew what.

And as he watched blood welled where the sharp nib of the pen still cut
deeply into the flesh.  One crimson drop of blood that trembled on the
edge of rolling down the smooth shelf of muscle. Instead it rippled at
the edges, then branched, splitting into thin trails that followed the
lines and curves of words Ethan had already forgotten how to read.
Limned them in red, then abruptly faded -- sunk beneath the skin.

The muscles under Ethan's hand spasmed hard.  Xander gasped wetly and
his following groan was long and helpless.  A throaty wail that vibrated
through Ethan like some horrible alarm. Familiar alarm.  And then from
the far corner of the room an answering sound -- a soft, dry intake of
breath like a little sob without any tears in it.  And that was familiar
too.

And then it was done.  For real this time and Ethan felt his head clear,
felt his muscles relax, become his own again.  He lifted his pen-hand,
shifted his crossed legs and nearly fell forward. Everything sluggish
and stiff and aching...

I, he thought, am an old man.  And to his surprise, it was not a
terrible thought.  After all, he had in front of him an exquisitely
brutal example of what youth did for one.  And he wasn't even sure if
that was entirely it, but really -- he felt quite marvelous.  Aches and
all.  He heard the muffled thud of clumsy movement and looked up to find
Giles staggering to his feet.   His face was chalky, drawn.  He swayed.

"Christ,  Rupert," Ethan said.  "Sit down before you..."  Too late and
Giles fell hard to his knees and just... stayed there.

"Right."  It was a struggle, but Ethan managed to get himself up off the
floor.  He had to pry the fingers of his left hand open to release the
pen, but once he got it free his joints loosened and he felt even more
himself.  Fucking powerful bit of casting they'd been at.  He wondered
how close to being himself again he *really* was.  And then he was up and
had his hands on Giles' shoulders.  "Come on, Ripper. I'm taking you to
bed."

Giles shook him off.  Shuffled forward, kneebound like a bloody penitent
to the head of the bed where Xander was still moaning softly.

"Janus, you're acting like Thomas, always carrying the weight of the
bloody world on your shoulders. Fucking get *over* it, Ripper. It's not
your fault!"

Granite tone, rough and cool. "I will not have you calling on that being
in my house, Ethan. And just because it isn't my fault doesn't mean it's
wrong for me to grieve. Or have you forgotten how?"

More of the same, more of the same and Ethan was *angry*, the boy a
moaning counterpoint to all of the poison between them. But the lambs
always screamed before a slaughtering, and Giles seemed quite immune to
the idea that he was *not* the lamb. This time.

But Ethan was so damned tired... "I haven't forgotten."

Giles merely looked at him, and the green eyes were bone-weary and
trying to flash... something at him. And yes, this was just like old
times, too. How many different ways can you say how many different
things? How many messages can you mix?

A game he'd enjoyed, a game he felt he should have created in all
honesty and so... pathetic here, now.

Two old men, desperate to be cryptically hurtful after a long day of
slowly teasing a young man's soul from its moorings. He'd taught Giles
well, bending and manipulating and shaping him away from the blunt young
boy he'd been, viciously, crudely blunt to hide a class-conscious
half-accent. And there he still was, crouching before Xander, struggling
to find something in the boy's eyes.

Some sort of escape from this, perhaps, even though Xander had been
reduced to glaze-eyed moans and grunts.

Ethan smirked to himself. The 'big gay sex,' indeed. He decided he would
miss that peculiar charm when it was gone, though there was no telling
what Eyghon would choose to use.

Giles sighed again and Ethan had to respond.

"It would be more cruelty to wake him from this."

Surprised look, naked in its queerly innocent hunger to undo...
everything?

"Rupert..." Slipped out before he could stop it and he could feel the
ghost of everything the old books warned against.  A name, a true name,
on the air and heard.

And it might as well have all been true because Giles was standing now,
Rupert was standing now and studying him, obviously trying to bank
anger.

Oh no, he wanted to say, I meant it, I swear -- and to stop himself he
bit his own lip hard, turned away.

Hand on his shoulder, then quickly gone. Awkwardly gone and Ethan wanted
to put it where it needed to be, wanted to smirk and joke about what the
boy would see, wanted to lean back, just a little. See what he could
feel.

"Turn around."

"No," and then Ethan did laugh, because it was a little late for
petulance, but he still wanted... an apology. He wanted an apology, and
promises, and this night and --

He cut himself off, shook his head and started to walk away, back into
the living room, which still held all traces of Rupert-fucking-Giles and
none of him. *None* of him, and it was how he would leave it, just as
soon as he was done here, as soon as it was all done, and there was
nothing left to say.

I, he thought, am not an old man, I'm an old queen. And this was not
news. Ethan laughed again, surprised to hear how brittle it sounded. He
was usually a lot better at being false, to which Rupert-fucking-Giles
would gladly testify, no matter who was there to hear.

"Ethan --" Low and a different sort of roughness and --

"*No*. Just --"

"Please, just say it again."

And then he wanted to. Spit it out, right then. Your name is Rupert, and
you are a selfish old bastard too weak to admit to your own past. You
could've been Ripper, you could've been something spectacular and
distant and powerful, but instead you're just... a man. "Don't make me
do this."

And then he was being forcibly turned around, too much force and Ethan
staggered a moment before Rupert steadied him. Green eyes, hot on his
own. So not-quite-familiar and not letting him go.

There was the laugh again, bubbling up behind his lips and Ethan let it
go. Took the other man's puzzled frown and kept it as one more victory.
Probably his last. Oh, fuck it.

"Rupert.  Me, Ethan and you... Rupert." He snickered at the feeling --
everything crashing out below him at once.  One day he would be able to
hate, if Janus was kind.

"Your name is Rupert, and I know it. I *know* it." Held tighter now and
he couldn't look anymore. "Now what are you going to do about it?"

Just a shift, and Rupert was hard against him and there was no time, no
time to tease that apart from everything else because Rupert's hand was
gripping his own hard enough to make him wince and he had to laugh
again, drown out everything but this, the two of them and this moment
and he wished to Janus that he'd closed the fucking door already or at
least gagged the boy who was now groaning like a bull calf with a broken
leg.

Very carefully, very deliberately, Ethan let go of Rupert's hand and
stepped back.

And let him go, let him do what he needed.

Rupert stepped away, turned away and headed straight back into Xander's
room and Ethan also very carefully did not set his clothes on fire.

Stupid to think Giles would ever walk away from the boy.  No matter that
Xander was barely aware, was only briefly lucid between waves of pain
and the effects of the drugs.

Rupert -- and he was definitely 'Rupert' now, not his Ripper, maybe not
ever his Ripper again -- wouldn't leave the boy's side, not while he
needed him. Never fucking mind that Ethan needed him too.  And that
would be another laugh if it didn't almost bring him to his knees -- the
sudden, horrible realization that maybe it had never been entirely
Ripper he'd wanted, that maybe beneath it all he wanted the other, too.
To be the focus of that bloody *caring* regard.

Oh, yes, Ethan had known Rupert Giles long before he ever saw his face,
and yes, there had been the dreams, and the promises on the road to
power. But no one ever said he'd get *Ripper*.

He felt a sudden violent urge to do something to take control -- just
stake the boy or grab Giles and *make* him love him.  Settled for
hissing a truly nasty curse and stalking past the half closed door.  And
paused when he heard voices.  Giles' voice, low and soothing and Xander
-- impossible to hear the words but the anguished sound of it.

Well, yes.

He'd never done *this* spell before, but graphomantic spells in general,
the ink they'd used...  It would be burning itself down to the bone now,
burning endlessly.  And part of him appreciated that with a delicate
shudder.

What would that be *like* and could he try it on himself -- another
wordless wail from the boy -- on a smaller scale, perhaps.  And Christ
-- what the hell did Giles think he could *do* for Xander now?  Sit with
the emptying carcass like he had with Randall?  Hours and hours, until
Ethan had had to bloody drag him off before the cops arrived.

Well, no cops were coming this time.  Ethan made his lips curl up at the
edges.  Hell, they could do anything they wanted now.  Free as birds,
they were. Just him and his... fine, empty hallway.   He moved back away
from the doorway, leaned back to wallow just a *little* more and the
door opened and Giles... stepped through.   Stopped, empty cup in his
hand, and closed the door behind him.  Stood there.
"Xander want his tea warmed?" Ethan asked, not trying very hard to hide
the blade.

"No," said Giles.  "He's quite... there's n-nothing he... requires."
Ethan straightened at the oddly small sound of it.  Looked at Giles.
Such a peculiar expression on his ashen face.  Empty-eyed and...
desolate.

And suddenly Ethan *saw* everything in Giles' mind, the pain, the guilt,
the bitter self-loathing.  The realization filled him with a kind of
awed, reverent bogglement.  He reached up, touched his pinky finger to
the corner of Giles' eye and stole the tiny unshed tear from it.

"My god," he said, softly,  "You really thought you could help."

"I--" Giles began, trailed off.  His whole body seemed to fall in on
itself then, twist into one all encompassing, helpless shrug that made
Ethan's banked fury flare.

Made him want to jab a killing straightfingered blow to Giles' solar
plexus, smash his mouth with brutal kiss while he died, ask in the most
hurtful way possible if it was worth it, this life that meant killing
all of your friends, but then Giles looked at him, reached for him,
*him* and he knew, with that same sense of numinous inevitability that
he was not going to do any of those things.  That all he was going to do
was open his arms.

"Come on, then."  Take Rupert into them.  Guide him up the stairs and
into his room,

Wrinkling his nose at the intimate smell of unmade bed and weeks worth
of dirty clothes strewn everywhere.  Giles stood passive while Ethan
cleared a space on the bed, began unbuttoning Giles' shirt.  Ah yes, his
dream come true.  And of course it was too funny that he wasn't even
*thinking* about sex.  And for god's sake, is this what happened to you
when you went soft?

He was surprised and not surprised when Giles' hands cupped his own.
But more surprised that Giles wasn't stopping him.  Surprised again to
glance up, find Giles smiling, oddly, distantly bemused at the top of
his head.

"What?" he asked.

"You still have all your hair."

Had to roll his eyes at that.   "All my own teeth too, yes."  He
untucked Giles shirt, tugged it off.

"I'm losing mine.  Hair, I mean."  Giles paused as Ethan slid jeans and
briefs down his thighs, then went on.  "Teeth, too, eventually I guess.
Well, everything, really..."

"Ripper..."

"Right," Giles said, stepping out of the puddled clothes.  Sharp high
stink of old arousal rising off him and Ethan had to revise. Not
thinking *exclusively* about sex, but Giles was speaking again. "Not --
not really appropriate..."

Ethan put his hands on the warm silk of Giles shoulders and pushed
down.  Giles folded slowly, sat.  Ethan thought maybe it was done, but
Giles was talking again:

"Babbling on, I mean," Giles said, looking up at Ethan.  "You know,
while Xander... while he..."

"Giles," Ethan tried.  Giles' eyes on him like this hurt.  The eyes were
more than empty.  Black things that burned and he couldn't see himself
in there at all.  Full of something inside and Ethan just wanted... he
didn't know... to touch the fragile gold-gray hair. Run his fingers over
Giles' collarbones.

"It's just,"  Giles voice dropped to a low near-whisper "It's just, he
*messed*, you know?"  The catch of something in that lovely cultured
honey voice and something... Ethan wanted to cover that mouth.  Not let
anything else slip out.  "I only wanted to clean him up.  I only..."

And he *had* to... needed to, press his fingers hard over those moving
lips.  But he couldn't let go of the shoulders that were starting to
shake and: "*Rupert*..."

Green eyes blinking up at him.  Those hadn't changed at all with age.

"Yes... Ethan?"

"Sshhhh," Ethan said.  And leaned in.  And kissed him.

And oh, it was wrong and beautiful to taste all that acid sadness in
Ripper's mouth, Rupert's mouth, oh it didn't really matter, though, not
anymore. Ethan knew he was the sweetest thing Ripper was tasting at the
moment, and, by the feel of the other man's response, the most
necessary.

Ripper arching up off the mattress to meet him, not so much kissing him
back as inviting him in further.

Hands sliding up his arms, making Ethan's muscles tremble. No strain
yet, not really -- a favorite conceit was that he was built to accept
anything, anything at all Ripper gave -- just the knowledge that if
those hands pushed him away he would have to try to accept that, too.

A moment's hesitation at Ethan's shoulder and then Ripper slid in under
Ethan's arms and just held him. Pulled him in too close to maintain the
kiss, too close to do anything but bury his face against Ripper's
throat, leave his chest open to the touch of Ripper's, the feel of his
heartbeat so close.

And yes, they were lined up groin to groin, heat to heat and Ethan
couldn't stop himself from twining in closer still, to the point where
every breath brought a new brush, new physical seduction and, oh, he
would beg if he had to...

But Ripper only whispered: "I... I need tonight."

Ethan tried to let himself be angry at that, he needed more than
tonight -- he bloody well deserved more than tonight -- but the only
thing that came out was "yes."

And suddenly it wasn't so much of a risk to pull up and away, because
Giles only reached up to help Ethan undress, pausing to rest against the
skin of *his* chest, trace *his* collarbone. Rest there.

"Ethan..."

"Oh, Rupert, you don't know how I feel about you but if you utter just
*one* more word I shall have to summon Gehenis to swallow us both
whole."

Low, easy chuckle and Ripper finally moved his hand. Cupped Ethan's jaw
and ran his thumb over Ethan's mouth and there was surely something he
could say here, some way to defuse -- "I need you."

"Oh, you bastard --"

And he cut himself off by taking Ripper's mouth again, soft and
maddeningly responsive so Ethan pulled away again, Ripper pulling his
shirt away in a weirdly slow rip, touching him, palming his nipple,
making him moan and Ethan needed a moment, just a moment to
*concentrate*.

Held Ripper's demon hands still and felt the rocking of their hips.
Together, too many clothes, definitely a bad idea to set his own on
fire.   Rupert's smile. Innocently knowing, happy, smug. Too confusing
in the midst of ahh heat --

"You've always known exactly what you do to me." Nearly an accusation,
but Ethan couldn't quite stop it.

Shift beneath him and then they were aligned, cock to cock and memory
supplied what it must look like, from the dreams, from the experiences
outside themselves when everything was just as fine and inevitable as a
movie and Ripper was only for him. Ethan groaned, pulled away long
enough to undo his trousers, wonder crazily if there was still a
launderer in town alive enough to do something about the hopeless stains
and bending to slip off his shoes and socks was a mistake.

Looking over at the bed, Giles nude now, up on one elbow and facing him,
one hand lazily stroking his own cock, nothing but hunger in his
darkening eyes.

Ethan pounced, kicking everything off, sliding one knee between Ripper's
thighs and taking his hands again. Being taken as the other man twined
their grip. Holding each other there, naked in the rapidly spicing stale
air. Too thick to breathe and Ethan pushed their hands up over Ripper's
head, knuckles brushing the wall, lips touching.

Breathe, touch. Gasp that might have been his own and then the kiss
again, a glamour in itself, so unutterably *together*. Almost a cliche,
melting together, Ripper either struggling against the grip or just
holding it tighter but Ethan *needed* this. Just this, body to body, hot
silken skin, slicker with sweat after every heartbeat.

*Ripper's* sweat, salt and high in the air. Deeply male and all his.

Break to breathe, sliding in cheek to cheek. Something in Ethan's belly
fluttered at that, tried to make him jump away, but he pressed in
closer, relaxed his grip on Ripper hands and felt the other man's grip
increase for just a heartbeat before he let go. And *then* he could
touch Ripper, trace the lines of his face, throat hot and taste there,
Ripper's hands on his back, kneading tracery work of their own.

Scraped short nails over Ripper's nipple and the cry was open, slid down
to bite, Ripper's cock nudging at his belly now, painting it with
pre-come, making it better slicker. Dark nipples, surrounded by soft
hair. Darker than when they were young, Saltier to the taste. Deeper cry
and Ripper's hands in his hair, tugging and pulling him closer and Ethan
had a moment to hate everyone who had ever done this to Ripper, felt
this... *giving*.

Felt it open him up, cleaner than a scalpel.  Exposing the darkest, most
foul and terrifying of all truths.  "Oh Jesus," Ethan groaned at the
horror of it, shuddered because it felt as good as any summoning and
twice as wrong.

He was in love -- innocent, solemn, bloody sweet 16 year old virgin love
-- with Rupert Giles.  He had to laugh.  Had to... and couldn't quite.
Because awful as it was he couldn't bear to break it with word or deed.
Couldn't speak it or deny it or laugh it off.  Could only raise his head
again, push himself up and kiss it onto Rupert Giles' mouth.
Rupert, who groaned, surged wildly under him.

Rupert who he held and gentled.  Whose swollen mouth he tended with his
own.  Whose cheeks and eyes and nose he kissed and kissed, ears he
murmured sweetly dirty nonsense into so that Rupert's breath came out
in little moans and hitching sighs.

Whose familiar body his hands and tongue began to relearn at leisure.
Drawing pleasure out.  Slow.  Slow roll.  No less passion than before but
different.  Slow, creeping hunger... not obvious or brutal, just
implacable and Rupert's hands on him, soft wizard's thumbs stroking him,
circling freckles.  Rupert's chin nudging him up and he was -- oh god --
he was afraid to look but he had no choice now, did he.  He'd put his
cards down, face up and so he looked and... no thunder, no lightning
crash.

Just Rupert Giles looking back at him.  Just *there* and it was like a
caress so soft it had to hide the slice of a razor or it would be too
much to bear.  It was.  He had to close his eyes, felt the surge rock
him, felt his own moan -- Rupert's hands spasming across his back and
when his eyes opened again, as they had to do -- there it was again.

And again and again.  Long slow inevitable build and both of them were
something like blind with the slow, thick pleasure and unable to push
things one iota faster, or skip one tiny step.

We're going to die like this, Ethan thought at one point.  Maybe even
spoke aloud because it seemed so true and fine, because by then he was
inside Rupert Giles and fucking him with such deliberate slowness there
could be no end but that.  And who knew what Rupert thought beyond the
way his hands clutched him, tore at the sheets.  The way his eyes sought
out Ethan's again and again, always with that look.  That open,
terrifyingly *loving* look.

And was it?  Really?  Ethan had to pause again, up on his knees.  Hefted
the long elegant weight of Rupert Giles' left leg against his body, ankle
hooked over his shoulder.  Urging him, Giles' whole body urging him to
deeper, faster but he needed to stop and look.  To really look.  Swallow
so dry it clicked and he *had* to...

"Rupert?"

Oh and Rupert did, he surged up, impaling himself so deep, made this
open-mouthed, open-hearted sound.  Naked, naked sound that said
everything that Ethan already knew about loving someone you can never
trust and oh god, loving them anyway and he was surging too.  No hope of
controlling this, shooting another load of pre-come into the oil-slick
heat of Rupert Giles' ass and he couldn't help it.

"Rupert."  Heard it come out surprised, begging, needful.  Almost too
much for him, but he hung on didn't let himself hide behind a tease or a
needle...

This was better than hiding.  Like the first demon summoning, when he
hadn't known, couldn't be sure...  Far scarier and more exciting
than any spell.  So much more at stake.

The dreams never promised anything like this... Or maybe they did, and
maybe he finally recognized that razor sweet pain for what it was.

Giles was trying to say something.  It just came out as gasps and
another long, rolling moan and Ethan had to move.  And then he *was*
moving and Rupert was making these sounds, loud wild sounds that Ethan
had only ever heard women make.   So *loud*

-- couldn't help but imagine it:  the boy in the far room hearing it
all, his bound body writhing agonized counterpoint --

and Ethan went a little mad.  He loved Rupert Giles.  No matter what. He
loved him, has always, will always, loved him whether Rupert Giles loved
him back or not. Didn't know if any of it slipped out.  Wonderful and
terrifying and he couldn't stop.  Couldn't look at Rupert Giles' face
anymore, turned his face to Giles' leg and left little sucking kisses.

"Ethan."  Barely a whisper and he was so close, it was like a kiss
against his eyes and he had to look.  He had to see -- and oh god, what
he was doing to Giles.  Saw that first flush of orgasm all over his
body. Rupert's eyes just on him, begging, open.  'This is everything.
Have it."

And he felt it flush right through him. Dared to give it back. He was
nodding.  "Yes."  He heard it come out of his mouth. Didn't let himself
close his eyes even then...

Oh and the look on Rupert's face as he came.  And Ethan knew, whatever
else happened, *this* was real and it just broke him.

And he came in a whirl of stars and his own lost, wailing cry.

*

Must be morning, Xander thinks.  Not sure why he thinks it.  Not sure of
anything but the pain.  Which is everything.  His God. His back a
charred, smoking ruin.  Blackened bones smoking and sometimes he is able
to understand why the sheets don't catch fire.  Why he can't smell
charred flesh.  But sometimes he forgets.  Like now.

He opens his eyes.  Ethan Rayne is there.  He knows Ethan Rayne, he
thinks.  Or something.  He knows something.

"You in there, Xander?" Ethan Rayne asks.  He's doing something down by
Xander's feet.  Xander wonders what it is -- it didn't seem to hurt.
And oh yeah, he's in here.  Somewhere.

"Sometimes," he answers.  His voice sounds froggy and squeaky. Funny.
It makes him laugh.  His bones are burning.  "Am I over yet?"

"Over?" Ethan asks.  "I don't think so."  More stuff and then Xander's
leg is free.  He's bending Xander's leg..  Xander's bending.  Char.
Crack.  The stain of words whispering through his veins. Deep inside
that makes him shiver.  There were places in his dreams.  He'd heard
voices.  Sounds.

"Is Giles okay?" He asks.  Ethan brushes something against his thigh. It
tickles.

"Giles is fine."

"That's good," says Xander.  The tickle becomes a buzz.  Such a weird
feeling Xander giggles, even though it's making him sick. Then he
remembers again.  The sounds.  The sounds of love.

"Giles could be very fine," he says.  "Happy.  Love. Ethan. Uewye.
Udali.  Doesn't that burn?"  Ethan doesn't answer and Xander realizes
his eyes are closed and opens them again.  Surprised that there's no
smoke.  Where does it go?  He's burning, he can hear the hiss and
crackle under the skin.

The old wizard is just kneeling there by the side of the bed.  Things,
tiny evil things form and flow like purplish mist around him.  Claw at
the air around his eyes, his hands, his heart.  Lower.  Xander wonders
how Ethan keeps from flinching.

"What are you doing?" Xander asks.  Ethan just laughs a little.  Packs
something away in a little box.  Wipes the tickle off Xander's leg with
the edge of his sleeve.

"Not, apparently, what I'd intended to do," he said.  "And don't ask
because I couldn't possibly tell you what or why."

"'S'okay," says Xander.  "It's just a little mistake."

"Right," says Ethan getting creakily to his feet. "Just a little
apocalyptically tragic mistake."  And he rests one hand on the back of
Xander's calf.  Cool fingers, so soothing.  Xander mmmm's.

"You are, I suppose," Ethan says awkwardly, "what I imagine is meant by
the phrase: 'a good kid.'"

"Yeah?" says Xander, feeling a grin come up out of the firepit inside.
Nice wide grin.  No devils.  "Because I don't smoke?"  And there's no
answer for a long time and Xander wonders if Ethan's gone away and left
his cool, cool hand behind.  But then the hand moves a little, then
moves away and Ethan says:

"Yes, because you don't smoke. And maybe one or two other reasons
besides."  And then he does go and takes his cool hand with him this
time and the air from the closing door feeds the embers in his spine and
the flames roar again and Xander burns.

*

Faith bounced on the creaky bed, flipped the knives she'd taken with her
from Boston into the walls again and again.

The whole fucking town smelled like ozone, and she was reasonably sure
she was the only living human within miles, and the inhuman screams in
the distance -- and not-so-distance -- never stopped. There was *no* way
she could pretend she was bored.

Her eyes kept flicking to the scorched chunk of missing pillar. Granted,
she'd never studied as much as Ian wanted her to, but it was still
wicked disturbing that she couldn't even *begin* to figure out what had
jumped through the hole and tried to gut her.

Relatively easy slay, but... there were scorch marks like that all over
town. And there was no telling where the weird holes were going to turn
up next. Faith felt better staying close to a place where one had
already been, though, and so the Sunnydale Motel was going to be her
crash pad for a while.

At least until she'd cleared the nests out of a better part of town.
She'd thought at first that she was just leaving the rich kids to rot,
but after spending the last few days slaying and sleeping, Faith felt it
was much more likely that the rich kids were probably just rich vamps by
now.

Faith absently petted the cool-looking spiraled horn she'd ripped off
something that had, unsurprisingly, tried to gut her. Maybe rich other
things, too.

She knew she should try to sleep, trust her reflexes to wake her if
anything tried to, maybe, gut her while she slept. She'd be no good for
patrol if she was all wasted, and a few days here had taught her that
she really didn't have as much of a badass-I'm-so-cool deathwish as
she'd thought she had.

Her destiny was to slay, not be slain, and fuck anything that tried
to say different, but.

But the air was all wrong, and the plane hadn't even *landed* in
Sunnydale. Detour to LAX, and Faith wished she'd just hung out there for
a while and partied instead of heading north.

She really, really did.

And, you know, maybe she should just walk out into the street, kill
whatever looked at her funny, hotwire whatever looked shiniest and get
out of town. Apologize meekly to Ian and write 'I will not ditch my
Watcher to go to a mystical mumbo fucking jumbo opening to actual Hell
ever again' 700 times in her Official Watcher Diary -- currently
propping up her Mom's gin table -- no need for coffee in Faithland and
maybe that was just bullshit.

Something thumped against the opposite wall. Definitely bullshit. She
was the Chosen One -- of the week, probably, considering this place --
and it was up to her to skip school and dutifully fight evil.

Damn, she was horny.

Exterminators didn't kill as many things in one day as she did. Just
slay, slay, slay. Faith wondered if she should put spurs or something on
her boots, just to have a reason for all the kicking she was doing. Lift
and squeeze and jab and *oh* yeah. What she wouldn't do for a nice,
quiet boy with a nice, big dick.

Heh. Throw him out *there* afterward and she wouldn't have to worry
about Willieboy catching a case of the feelings, either.

Silence for a few moments. Faith knew it was just a random kind of pause
but silences here always made her absolutely fucking sure that
everything -- *everything* -- out there had suddenly realized that there
was a fresh new Slayer right *there* who'd had about a fucking month
with her full powers.

She wished she was just part of the Chosen Two. Or maybe Four Hundred.
Stupid asshole for coming here on her own, stupid asshole *coward* for
not just coping and oh yeah, much better to have Mom in her head. Faith
wished she could just call the woman direct for a full dose, but she
already knew the phone lines were dead.

There was a Watcher around here somewhere, though. Unless she'd already
dusted him... Faith didn't remember any British accents in the vamps
she'd killed, but it was possible.

She could go. She could just go.

-- Run home, run home... no fucking clue how I got such a fucking weak
sister for a daughter musta fucked a fag --

Faith was throwing the horn across the room before she knew what she was
doing. But instead of a satisfying crash all she got was the dully meaty
thud of the horn hitting... something.

The hole closed around it, through it, and suddenly the room smelled
very, very bad.

Faith sighed and threw her bag o' Slay over her shoulder before walking
out into the Sunnydale afternoon. God, she loved her mother.

*

Oz kept to the shadows as he ran through the dark, empty side streets.
Low branches slapped his face, sharp twigs from low shrubs scratched
open shallow wounds on his arms, legs and flanks. He wanted to stop, to
lick them, to crawl deeper into the underbrush and hide.  Dangerous to
leave a blood trail especially when he knew *she'd* be after him, but he
was too panicked to stop, even for that.  And so he ran, looking for a
place to hide and maybe people to hide with. Hopefully his people.

He'd gone to the den first, but it was dark and cold.

They were gone, hadn't been there for a long time.  The den/house
smelled cold, stale and he didn't even need to open the refrigerator to
know all the food in it had gone bad.

That -- knowing how much time had passed, how much time *he'd* been
gone -- frightened him more than finding the house empty.

He'd searched anyway, the human part of him refusing to give up hope,
and found an old, faint trail leading from the back door.  He'd sniffed
and could almost hear the message: Follow.

Running low to the ground, he followed each marker, breathing in trace
scents of his family, yearning, needing to be with kin, with someone
who could help him.

But when he reached the city limits something stopped him, held him
back.  He dropped to all fours, scented the trail again and whined when
something tugged at him, choking him.

He circled and tried again.  Each time his throat constricted and his
muscles spasmed and went slack until he weakly rolled back. Panting, he
crawled forward and tried again at a different spot with the same
results.

Oz threw his head back and howled when he realized he couldn't leave and
why.

She'd done something to him, something more than what she'd already
done.

At that thought, his faint grasp of reason failed and furious panic took
over.  He repeatedly threw himself forward, trying to escape this new
cage she'd built for him, growing weaker with each attempt.  Just before
he passed out, he was aware of screaming for his mother.

When he woke, he limped home and hid in his parents' bedroom until
nightfall, avoiding the big mirror on the closet door, not wanting to see
the results of his... change.

Hunger finally drove him out, that and the need to keep moving, to find
someplace safe where *she* wouldn't be able to find him.

He wandered and found himself at Devon's without remembering how he got
there, pressing his face against the back door and delicately scratching
at the wood, wanting in, wanting Devon to be there to hold him and sing
to him and then he'd smelled fresh pine and realized he'd made deep cuts
in the wood.

With a whimper of horror, Oz threw himself back, away, and ran again.

There was nowhere to go, nowhere safe, no one who could see him like
this.

A small animal bolted when it crossed his path and he instinctively gave
chase, growling with hunger and the need to hurt.  The rabbit gave a
brief, abortive scream when he broke its neck and twitched when he used
his fine new claws to strip the skin off.

Inhumanly long hands covered in blood, he raised the warm carcass to his
lips, opened his mouth, inhaled and gagged.

Food, his body insisted.  *Food*.  But his mind only knew it was raw
meat and he gagged again and threw it away.

And how could he live like this, how long before he could easily eat raw
meat, any kind of raw meat?  A memory drifted through his mind, roses
and pink and small, shrill screams and Oz bent forward as his stomach
expelled the little content it had.

He straightened and ran again, wiping his mouth and then absently
sucking his fingers until he realized what he was doing.  The taste, raw
and coppery made him snarl, made him want to drop to all fours and for a
moment he forgot himself again.

Barely aware, thinking only of the blood and the kill and the *hunger*,
he continued at an easy lope, hunting mode now, human reservations
quieted by the sharp tang in his mouth.

His nostrils flared as he picked up an old trail of blood, dried and
flaking but faintly familiar, just enough to rouse curious hunger, so he
followed until the trail ended at a door.  He touched the knob and
jerked his hand back when a lash of power buzzed through him. Inhaling,
he leaned forward and a dim memory surfaced along with the scent of
those inside, dark, smiling eyes, low laughter and music.

Oz sniffed again.  Xander and Giles with someone touched by darkness and
the sweet mix of blood and pain he could scent even through the thick
door.  With a low growl, he threw himself at the door, not knowing if he
wanted to feed or protect, just knowing he needed *in* now.

When the door opened, he froze at the sight of Giles, grim faced and
crossbow in hand.

And it merely took Giles *looking* at him with shocked disbelief to kick
start his memory and

 -- sultry, heavy air and cool, wet Willow hair in hands and how the
golden sunset reflected in Kendra's eyes as he sprang, her pretty,
pretty voice nothing but a gurgle as his teeth sank into her throat and
--

his legs collapsed and he let out a small cry as he fell forward toward
Giles, and suddenly he really, really hoped Giles' arrow was tipped with
silver.

He closed his eyes and rolled to his back, thinking, yes.  She belonged
to Giles.  Yes.  Shoot.

Oz tried not to breathe, to brace himself but couldn't control a shudder
when he heard Giles take a step closer and flatly say, "Oz."

He nodded and opened his mouth, tried human speech and winced at the low
growl of his voice as he said, "Yes.  Giles, I'm --" sorry, so sorry,
please and shuddered again as his speech disintegrated into a whine.

"You're hurt."  An equally flat observation.

Puzzled, he opened his eyes and saw Giles staring at his blood stained
hands and mouth and fought the urge to roll over and hide them.  He
shook his head, fought for his voice, for words and asked, "Aren't you
going to kill me?"

For a moment Giles' finger tightened on the trigger and Oz could smell
his anger mixed in with the magicked pain smell from the open door
behind him -- Xander -- and his instinctive growl was echoed by a low
Xander moan and Giles suddenly smelled of pain too.

Giles lowered the crossbow and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Apparently not."

Oz quivered with the need to go inside but forced himself to lie still,
remain submissive until released, but couldn't stop from asking, "Why?"

And Giles gave a harsh approximation of a laugh. "Because there's been
enough of that for one night.  Why are you here, Oz?  Do you want to
die?"

Licking his lips, Oz fought for the words.  "I need," he tried, "help. I
can't shift, I can't change, I can't..."  He shook his head and softly
whined again in frustration.

With a frown, Giles knelt down beside him.  "You can't be fully human or
the... other."

Yes.  Oz nodded.

After a sharp look at his hands and mouth and then his eyes, Giles
grimaced and said, "I don't think we can help you.  But we'll try."  He
stood, then added, "But I warn you, Oz.  If you harm anyone in this
house..."  His voice trailed off and he made a small, threatening
gesture with the crossbow.  "Do you understand?  Can you control
yourself?"

The pain smell was stronger now and that combined with Xander's soft
sounds made his hair bristle and his mouth water, but he swallowed and
nodded.  He would.

"Then come in."

An hour or so later, he found himself fighting for control and halfway
across the room before remembering Giles command to stay away from the
guest room no matter what.

And at first he'd been able to ignore everything except the food Giles
gave him and the need for rest once his belly was full. And he trusted
Giles, could feel that whatever he did to Xander brought him no
pleasure.

But he'd been on edge ever since he'd met the other, Ethan. *He* always
smelled of Xander's blood -- and corruption.  Even if he was Giles'
mate, Oz couldn't help but growl at him in warning.  And *he* was the
one doing the hurting.

The scent flowed under the door to curl around him, the sounds of
Giles' chant grew ragged, and Oz found himself creeping closer and
closer each time before remembering his promise.  Control.  He *would*
control himself.

And then Xander screamed, a high, desperate, scream and Oz was at the
door and through it before he could stop himself, then stopped cold and
felt his lips wrinkle in a snarl at the sight before him.

Xander, his arms and legs tied down to the four corners of the cot.  His
bare flesh covered in runes that smelled like they should be smoking.
Every inch of him, even the tender flesh of his balls and half hard
cock, even the bare skin of his armpits quivered with letters that hurt
to look at.

Oz stepped closer, the growl now a living thing in his chest and saw
Giles shake his head, still chanting and trying to hold Xander's head
still in his lap while Ethan bent over him.   Xander screamed again and
rolled his eyes, one clear and streaming with tears, the other dry and
black, all black.

He felt his claws grow and shook his head, fought back the change this
much agony and magic seemed to call forth.  The growl died.  A part of
him knew, understood, that like the agony of his change, Xander had to
go through this, to suffer before he could be changed as well.  He crept
forward, dropped until he reached the side of the bed and nuzzled
Xander's clenched, runed fingers, licked the back of his hand, offering
comfort and sympathy.

Giles, sweat and tears covering his grim face, hooked an arm beneath
Xander's chin and squeezed while he held the clear eye's lid open. Ethan
touched a pen to the white and Xander convulsed in his bindings.

And suddenly all fell silent as Xander passed out and Giles stopped the
chant.  For a moment the only sound was the moist lap of Oz's tongue on
Xander's hand.  And then he tasted it, smelled it, felt *it* raise every
hair on his body and he only had a second to hurl himself backwards
before Xander convulsed again and *pulled* until all four corners of the
cot shattered, freeing him.

And then Xander opened his black, black eyes and smiled.

Like stones sinking into water, every mark swirled then disappeared into
Xander's flesh without leaving a trace.  Except for his eyes.

No.  Not Xander.  *It* smiled and ignored Oz crouching in the corner, it
raised its clear, unblemished arms, grabbed Giles and threw him from the
bed, then purred, "Ethan.  And Ripper.  So *nice* to see you both
again."

*

Spike took in the sight of the new, improved factory with approval. His
boys had done well with the blood bank, securing the whole stock. And
brought back the whole night staff as a gift for him. There were a few
benefits to having children, it seemed. At least after a nice, long bout
of Darwinism.

And it led to its own idea. They had a dead town, nothing left to
hunt... but no one said they couldn't farm their own cattle. Lost some
of the fun, sure, but free range wasn't quite feasible, yet, and Spike
had no intention of staying long enough to make it so.

The humans in the pen huddled and cried and wandered around dazed and
slept the sleep of the deeply anemic. They were well fed, though, and
none of them got killed so long as they behaved. And kept producing.

Cordelia had her lot combing the area for more likely cattle, and they
were having to go further and further away. It was a shame they couldn't
breed faster. Spike figured Cordy had her own reasons for volunteering
her kiddies for that duty, but he really didn't give a toss what it was.

She couldn't hurt Dru if she tried, after all. And Spike had never been
averse to a good fight. He took a moment to imagine taking her on.
Wondered how long it would take before one of those Italian stiletto
heels got jabbed at his heart. Sometimes he thought he really would miss
the little viper when she was gone.

And that thought, as always, forced him to look up. Newly renovated
upper catwalk -- Cordy in her best suck-ass aspect -- and favored haunt
of Drusilla and Willow. Willow, who had finally been cleaned up a bit.
Wandering about in one of Dru's old nightdresses, all bone and eyes. Her
hair was unfortunate. Drusilla had never been particularly deft with a
comb and brush on any head but her own -- and barely that.

And Willow's had been a matted wreck when they'd started.

She looked a bit punk now. Change all that old, ivory silk to leather
and he might've chatted her up twenty years back at CB's. As it was, she
was a living mockery of the Gothic. Their eyes met for a moment, and
Spike felt tangled for a too-long moment in the half million unreadable
emotions in the witch's eyes. And then she was making her way to the
stairs -- no joy out of trying to convince her she could fly, or so said
Cordy.

Who glided to his side, always so eager. Dru watched them for a
moment, or perhaps the air around them, then turned back to the sand
patterns she was drawing in the floor. Plotting to bring back Daddy, and
all of Hell with him. Angelus would surely appreciate the grandness of
the bloody gesture, and Drusilla... Drusilla had no cares about the
consequences. She wanted her Daddy back.

Sometimes Spike thought he could feel the bastard, reaching for him
through the floorboards.

"If we just have one of the children knock her off the catwalk --"

"She'll have enough time to maybe find another bloody witch to do the
spell with, so stow it, Cordelia. Or do you *want* to keep dancing with
demons for the rest of your life?"

"Dancing with demons? Can you *get* any more melodramatic?"

"What can I say? Apocalypse brings out the bloody poet in me." Willow
had paused to prod at one of the kids. Stuck her finger in his mouth,
tested his teeth. The vampire stood there quivering with the need to
bite her hand off, but remained perfectly still until she moved on.

"Drusilla's children have a surprising amount of... control."

"Drusilla's children are so well leashed they can't bloody *move*
without her blessing."

"I need to get out of here, Spike."

"We have to wait until just before they start casting, which could be
*any* bloody time so we keep an eye on the two of them."

"And what's stopping Dru from starting over again?"

Spike flashed on an image of himself, kneeling on Drusilla's chest,
slamming her head into the floor over and over again, burning the books,
beating the memories out if she ever even *looked* like it was going to
happen again. Thought of doing it anyway. "Me."

"Tsk. Domestic abuse is *so* lame."

"Take it up with Oprah next time you accidentally snap the head off the
poor bastard you've got jammed up between --"

"If they were weak, they deserved to die anyway."

"Ja wohl, luv."

"Fuck you, *luv*."

And then Willow was there, swaying on her feet like maybe if Spike blew
hard enough she'd take the necessary tumble. And oh, it was tempting. He
could feel Cordy tensed up so high beside him he thought she might force
the eyeballs right out of her own head. Willow traced a finger over
Cordy's breasts, half-possessive, half-distant, staring up at Spike all
the while.

She smelled of bitter herbs, old blood, and Dru. Dru all fucking over
her.

She didn't blink enough for a human.

"What can I do for you, Willow?"

"I know you want to kill me."

Little girl voice. Little girl on heroin voice. Spike didn't so much as
let his eyes narrow, and hoped Cordy had sense enough to do the same.
"I'm not in the habit of interfering with Drusilla's... pets."

"Please... you mustn't let her stop you."

And with that she was gone and Cordelia was shuddering beside him.

"I... am going to bathe. You can just fucking keep watch until I get
back."

And Cordy was gone.

Spike spat over the side and settled cross-legged on the floor.

And watched.

*

The room was small, common, uncomfortable and, most distressing, warded
to keep him in it.  Not exactly what he'd planned on during all those
centuries of hunting for his favorite children.   No, none of it had
gone anything like he'd planned... the wards, the bonds, the *company*

- Halt!  Do not pollute this vessel!  It is mine! -

Pompous void-spawn.  Oh sure they were hell on wheels with a body in
their possession and a sword in their hands, but here inside the body's
little skull...  Well, Eyghon had been possessing creatures since the
Warrior had been a boy with a bronze axe in his hand and really, the
expression on his utter lack of face...

And that made Eyghon chuckle a little, low and rich in the boy's strong
throat and the sound made their hairy little unthing in the corner whine
and curl up hard against the wall and that felt right.

And really, he wasn't suffering all that much.  The place was small but
that only made it easier to smell his boys, to hear them at their rut --
still desperate and secret after all these years -- and it was clearly
only a matter of time before one of them fell.  The wards were powerful
but he could hear the creak and crackle of magic under strain.  There
were things beyond this house that wanted in as badly as he wanted out
and wasn't that... interesting.

And he had a body now. Not one of the ones he ached to possess but it
wasn't a bad body.  Still vibrating a little with the echo of magic and
terrible pain, but it was a young body, strong and -- by the smell of it
-- pleasing to his Ethan.  And his Ripper.  And with Ripper he'd get a
side order of shame and can of self-loathing to go.

The thought seemed so oddly shaped that Eyghon felt the body's
forehead wrinkle in some habitual reflection of concern.  Turned his
focus momentarily inward.  Was both relieved and amused to hear the
war between the other occupants continuing unabated in the
background.

- and ye shall, to the void, begone.  Your soul consigned -

- yeah, yeah, 'soul consigned'.  Got that.  Hoping you'll rub it in some
more.  And in the meantime could you, maybe -- take the fuck *over*? -

Eyghon couldn't resist.

- If it's any consolation to you, Xander, he really is trying... -  He'd
expected nothing more than a warming bath in the wave of their mutual
helpless fury and so it was rather a nasty shock to feel them both
simply turn and *grasp* at him.   Sink metaphorical teeth and claws into
his presence there and yank.

It was no real effort to shake them off.  Send them reeling back to the
tiny cell of darkness where he'd put them until he could figure out how
to get them out entirely.  Well, almost nothing.  The Warrior had that
brute strength and purity thing happening, and Xander...

Xander was nothing.  Weak, tiny, nothing.   Yet somehow Xander was in
his words and he'd never had that before.  Troubling...

And then all troubles were forgotten as the door opened and the smell of
frightened, angry, desperate Ripper filled the air.  Ripper carrying a
bowl and spoon.

"That body needs food," Ripper said.

"This mind needs... release."

Ripper shuddered and Eyghon couldn't stop himself from scenting the air
again. What a rich playground inside that body, so much rawly painful
emotion built up around the simplest things.

Eyghon reached out, caressed Ripper's face. "Xander is in me. A bit
dazed from all the pain. I think he wants to know why you didn't comfort
him, Ripper."

Oh, and it was almost too easy. Leaned in closer and nuzzled Ripper's
face, knowing his delicious unwillingness to hurt this form any more.
Growls and curses from beyond the barrier and -- pulling back --
desolation in his sweetest child's eyes. Easy to run his new pink hand
down Ripper's arm, grasp him gently by the wrist.

"This body you want to feed... it is very sweet, Ripper. But I could
still be persuaded to leave it for yours."

Backed away, dipping a finger in the soup. Licked it off while Ripper
watched, settled himself on the narrow, ruined bed.

"He understands, you know. He heard you both last night, so loud, so
*passionate*. Xander knows your desires are... broad." The soup bowl was
trembling in Ripper's hand, he seemed otherwise frozen to the spot. "Of
course, he doesn't really know *how* broad...

"But if you're very good, he doesn't have to know." He laughed again,
hand to his throat. Yes, he would keep this voice for a while. It was
so... clean.

"Just *take* me, Eyghon --"

"Rupert, no!"

"I welcome you. I *invite* you. I bloody well *beseech* you --"

"Ripper, Ripper, Ripper... it's much too late for me to *not* be
disturbed every time I hear someone call you Ripper, Giles, I mean Jesus
Christos!  I call on the Christos to drive ye back, foul one! You have
no place in this body!"

"And neither do I, I know. Does all that declaring really help?"

"Your words are as meaningless as a cur dog's ceaseless yapping! Leave
over, fool! This body is mine!"

"You know, I'm starting to get just a little sick of your attitude, Mr.
Warrior guy. Giles, could you please just explain to him that I'm
*trying* here?"

"You're trying? Er... Xander? Are you all right?"

The Warrior pulled himself to the fore of the body, noting the runes'
reappearance with satisfaction. "Your spell was corrupt, sorcerer!"

"It was not."

"It was!"

"No, it really wasn't. We followed the instructions to the letter. Um...
would you mind if I spoke to Xander?"

"The body is mine!"

"Well, that may be so, but... hold on. The spell was corrupt. Yes, I,
Rupert Giles, declare the spell was corrupt. And so this body still
belongs to its original owner."

"Mine!"

"Look, Warrior, you said it yourself. The spell was corrupt. Sorry about
that... I suppose we could send you back to the void --"

"No! I... my rightful place is here, where there is battle!"

"No, no, we couldn't possibly ask you to stay, what with the spell's
corruption. Ethan, come on, we have to send him back to the void now."

"Rupert?"

"Chop, chop, no time to waste. Can't have the Warrior all crowded in
there with Xander and Eyghon --"

"Ha! You need me, sorcerer! Only I can keep back the demon who desires
your soul. I'll have to stay."

"Well... but it's Xander's body."

"That is true, and yet Xander is no warrior."

"Why don't you let me speak to Xander. I'll see if I can convince him to
let you stay."

Xander shook off the haze, shivered at the feel of the runes burying
themselves again. "G-man, I bow in your general direction."

"Yes, well, I'm going to go have a stroke in a moment, but I appreciate
the sentiment. Do you have any idea what happened?"

"Um, let's see. There was pain, and some more pain, and some pain, and
you and Ethan making hey hey upstairs, still more pain, a lot more pain,
and the next thing I know Conan the Shouty Guy is yelling at me for not
being gone, and Eyghon is locking us both up. You didn't mention
Eyghon."

"No, we... I... what have you done with him?"

"He's keeping me close, Ripper. So very, very close. I will whisper in
his dreams --" Xander growled and punched the wall several times. "Conan
and I have him... bound. For now. It isn't... easy."

Xander took his first good look at Giles in what felt like years. He
looked old. He looked like someone who really did all the things Eyghon
was showing him. Who had really wanted -- maybe still did -- all of
that... power. Just like Willow who was... where?

"Xander... how are you?"

"I'm naked, sore, and possessed, Giles. How do you *think* I am?" And
watched Giles crumple, a little, before straightening up again. Oh yeah,
fit for this world, all right. Not even smart enough to die when he was
supposed to and  "God...  Giles, I wasn't supposed to be here.  It was
supposed to be over --"

Cracked sound and he felt his skin shiver, shudder and deep inside:

- I can make it end, Xander, it doesn't have to be this way... -

- Quiet yourself, dark one, or I swear you shall swallow my fist! -

And yeah, thanks to his guests that just sounded pretty kinky.

But Giles was at his side now, crouching there, one hand on his
shoulder. And it was a good hand, a strong hand, a hand that had never
wanted to hurt him, that didn't want to now, but Xander couldn't look
at him. Could not. Out into the living room instead, Ethan standing just
beyond the threshold, staring only at Giles.

Blushing stung like sunburn and this was getting real old and the next
thing he knew there was something *shifting* just behind Ethan and he
sprang, felt the Warrior trying to leap into his mind and resisted his
body his mind --

 - Fool! Keep your mind, but give me the body! -

Flare of heat, half-comfort knew the runes were there and the body
beneath his was hot as fever, small and lean and hairy and his body
moved, the Warrior moved and the creature was pinned by its throat, fur
tickling at his own skin and his arm was up to strike and --

"Xander!"

Ethan behind him, fist around his wrist and he nearly threw him before
he could see the face hidden in the hair, not-right face, black eyes oh
jesus Oz.

- Back! Go Back! -

And the sudden absence of the Warrior made him sway, reflexively tighten
his grip until the Oz thing gurgled and the sound was too much. Sunshine
glinting on not-silver chain, bloody jaws and Xander scrabbled away,
back and back until he banged into an end table.

He knew all about werewolves. No one had studied werewolves as much as
Xander. No one no one and he knew that it wasn't really Oz, didn't
really have to be Oz who killed. Oh, Kendra, love you forever...
"Xander..." Oz's voice, lengthened and strained over a growl. "I'm  so
--"

And Xander brought a hand up.  "Don't say it. Don't you dare say it."

Anguish in the black eyes, hairy hand with overlong fingers reaching for
his own. Memory of a soft tongue nuzzling into his palm. I'm sorry I'm
so sorry please don't hurt...

And all Xander wanted to do was bury himself within himself

- Yes, do, sweet one... -

but he couldn't. Didn't dare. So he reached out instead, but when he
tried to speak all that came out at first was a cracked little laugh.
Pathetic. "So, Oz... welcome to Giles' Home For Wayward Boy Victims of
Demonic Possession. Have some tea."

And Oz... barked a laugh and grabbed Xander's hand.

And then the universe screamed.

*

Now that she knew she was enspelled, Cordelia could swear she *felt*
Drusilla's power crawling under her skin.  It didn't matter how far she
ran, it was always *there* -- like bugs crawling all over her.  But it was
worse when Drusilla was near, a tingling itch that made her want to drop
to her knees, to bury her face in Dru's old velvet skirt and forget,
just forget everything except her.

Since she wasn't anyone's bitch, Cordelia fled until she knew she was
herself again.

Her children behind her, Cordelia entered her parents' house.  Well, her
house now, even though Mom and Dad were still in residence of sorts.  She
flipped on the light switch and smiled at her father's corpse hanging
from the chandelier, upside down and bound at the ankles.  It had been
amusing at first, especially when her mom had discovered him.  But now,
with maggots crawling out of his gaping mouth and falling on the carpet,
it was just gross.

Bugs.  She shuddered and instructed the two closest to her to cut him
down.  "And vacuum, and use some air freshener.  It smells."

Feeling filthy and crawly again, she went up to the master suite, jumped
into the shower and discovered the water pressure was low no matter how
hard she turned the taps.  Well, shit.

Cordelia rubbed until her skin was raw and *still* couldn't make the
tingle disappear.  Someday, someday soon she was going to kill that
bitch, was going to set her children, her lovely, *loyal* children on
her and let them rip her to shreds.  Dru couldn't fight *all* of them.
And Spike, darling Spike who'd helped Drusilla do this to her, had
better stay out of the way when it all went down.

And then she felt it, the slightest shimmy in the tub under her feet,
followed by a shudder and then a lurch that left her clinging to the
shower head to keep her balance.

*Now*.  It was all happening now.

She spat out a mouthful of shampooed hair, cursed and scrambled out of
the bathroom.  Still dripping and covered in soap, Cordelia threw on her
clothes and bolted down the stairs.

"Forget that," she snapped at the two children lowering dear old dad's
corpse.  "It's time."

"For what?" one of them timidly asked.

"Duh!  For revolution.  Now let's go."

*

Willow stood, arms raised, palms to the darkening sky and struggled
without moving. Drusilla held her lightly around the waist, but she was
trapped within a spell of her own weaving. A summoning spell, and Oz
would be hers, for whatever she wished of him. The time was right, and
the power...
The same power that made the earth tremble came from her, *was* her and
it was just another step toward the peak, toward something like heaven.
Utterly pure in a power so great that it would burn her soul to ash.

Willow knew she didn't deserve to die so beautifully.

Willow knew it would be her destiny just the same, and in dying,
becoming the Conduit, the Voice, the Mouth, she would summon the beasts
and the ghosts and the demons, yea, they would come to Her, and She
would gather them close.

And She would summon the Father, and all that spilled out with him. And
She would break the world.

But Willow struggled against it, and pushed it back and back and it was
like pushing water, fire, but somehow it worked anyway. It wouldn't
last, but Willow had to make it last.

Spike crept toward them, gold and black spider on blacker catwalk, half
in and out of reality, Spike with fear in his eyes, as parts of him
shifted to burn. She wanted to yell to him, to hurry him, so much safer
at the eye of the storm, and yes, the sky was vibrant in darkness,
clouds circling to a nexus about her, making Drusilla croon and suddenly
Willow knew what she had to do.

One last time.

Released, just a little, and She was all, She was the Coming and yes,
face the benefactress, She Who Became and wrenching herself back,
fighting and fighting and sensing the rumble change, begin to settle
into something orderly. Herself and Dru was there, beaming, moon to her
sun and fighting and yes, here.

"Drusilla..."

"Sweet Voice, yes..."

"You must taste this."

And Drusilla leaned in, took her mouth and a fraction of the power and
Willow felt her surrender and surrendered, too, yes, so sweet and the
Summoning continued and over Dru's shoulder and down were floods of
demons, snarling and snapping at each other and please please hurry --

The blow was a flare of light, then nothing.

*

Fucking demons *everywhere*, spilling out of the walls, up from the
broken floor and screaming in harmony with the spell and fighting,
clawing at each other and *fuck*, this was too much like hell for
Spike's liking.

One staggering step forward on the swaying catwalk and one blow, one
hard blow, right to the back of the head and the witch collapsed like a
little rag doll.

And for one cold, ball-shriveling moment, everything was still.

Then Dru looked at him, her lips, still moist from the witch's kiss,
stretching in a scream that became his name and she gestured, twisted
the air, still screaming and he was airborne then flung down unto the
rail.

Pain, so hard and sudden and sharp and everywhere that he couldn't even
wheeze and a crack, like an oak branch shattering and everything below
his chest went suddenly dull and distant -- and then he did scream.

Dru bent over him, eyes dark and accusing and utterly insane with
power.

He wanted to explain, to curse, to plead, but the scream wouldn't stop
even when she growled,  "You shouldn't have done that, Spike."

And then she was gone.  He shifted without meaning to, tried to kick
because he was falling and realized Dru -- fuckingbitchcunt -- had
lifted his legs and was going to throw him over the side.

He grabbed at the railing and tried to twist, to pull free.  But she was
strong now, so strong and something in his back ground against something
else as she lifted and the scream became, "Nonono," because she was
going to do it, she was really going to do it.

His legs flipped over the side and dangled, dead, useless, heavy weight
that nearly pulled his arms from their sockets.  For an endless moment
he hung on, staring up at her, aware he was shaking his head over and
over again.

"Bad," she said coldly.  "Very, very bad, Spike."  And she peeled his
fingers back one by one, breaking them with horrid, small snaps.

The floor below boiled with demons, inhuman screams rising over his own.

And he fell.

*

Well, this is a real fun ride," Faith muttered as the pavement shifted
beneath her again.  Driving was out of the question, unless her goal was
to drive into a pothole the size of Cincinnati that had the added bonus
of being full of demons.  Not her idea of a good time.

So she ran, dodging the holes, sometimes just as the ground dropped out
from beneath her, and kept going in the same general direction as the
demons she followed.

Luckily *they* were so intent on getting to their destination, wherever
that was, that they didn't even notice her until the crossbow bolt hit,
or the knife stabbed or the stake staked.

Faith had a moment to reflect on the restfulness of behind-the-back
Slaying before a *wave* of demons turned the corner behind her to join
the wave she was following.

And then it was on.

Faith laid out a handful of silver throwing knives, jumped up and shot
out both crossbow bolts. Holy water in the face of something real piggy
looking and then she was down to her stake and her own body.

Just the way she liked it.

Scaly tentacle around her neck, back-kick and kick again and stake to
the single eye and down and mule-kick up and up again jab jab *punch*
and the wave was pushing her on and on toward some kind of old warehouse
and Faith knew she was going to die real, real soon because they just
kept coming.

And Faith just kept on going.

*

Xander, the sigils rising and fading on his body, ran ahead and for the
first time, Oz actually wanted to shift, to have four legs just to keep
up.

No one had said a word back at Giles'.  They hadn't needed to. Everyone
understood it was time.  Xander had grabbed a heavy, double edged axe on
his way out the door, and Oz followed on his heels, knowing that Willow
would be at the end of their journey and that they would probably die.

So be it.

They rounded a corner, right into a horde of demons and Xander waded in
with a berserker's cry, the sigils glowing as swung the axe.  A second
later, Oz hit them, claws and teeth ripping through scaly flesh, his
mouth filling with blood that tasted like poison.

No urge to pause and eat, no joy in this beyond that of simply rending
the interlopers to shreds.

And there was joy in that, unholy joy that made him rip a gobbet of
flesh free and contemptuously fling it over his shoulder before ripping
the demon's green throat open, a joy that was reflected in Xander's
black eyes as he hacked off an arm, the axe parting flesh like a hot
knife through butter.

Invincible, they were invincible, he thought, then saw a demon leap onto
Xander's back, sink its fangs into his shoulder and scrabble at his
torso with razor tipped claws.  With a howl, Xander, spun and dropped.
He managed to pull the arms off him, but was unable to dislodge the
creature's death grip until he reached behind and pulled the head off
with a grunt of exertion. Xander rolled to his feet, grabbed the axe
again and started swinging, aiming for heads this time.

When the pack of demons was dead, Xander looked at Oz, a hungry,
speculative look that made Oz want to back away.  He croaked, "Xander"
and the sigils faded and Xander, really Xander looked at him, then
grimaced at the gore on his hands.

He looked down further, frowned and muttered, "You couldn't even let me
put some clothes on?"  The sigils flared and faded again and he scowled,
then set off again.

The street was eerily empty, the smell of rot heavy in the air. They
used the quiet to slow to an easy lope, heading east. The wave of scent
seemed stronger there -- and then rips opened up all around them,
spilling creatures, some rips closing before the things could get
completely free, but not enough -- and the reprieve was over,

And Oz was in motion, surrendering himself to the battle, the kill.
Hamstringing and tearing at throats, teeth not as long, not as sharp
as they could be, but good enough, yes, and then he was in flight,
in time to see the demon's reflection in the plate glass window before
going through it.

Arms full of glass, his blood in the air and yes.

To be bloodied was to have the battle joined. Oz leaped back through the
broken window, leapt again and slashed with his arms, left, right and
the jagged tears opened wider on his arm but he left most of the glass
in the demon's wide, wide chest.

Down low again to claw at the thighs but suddenly he was showered with
blood.

Xander had taken its head.

On, then, and turning the corner revealed a nightmare: a solid snarling
mass of demons, and the old black factory beyond. Everything, even the
sky pointed there.

It was where they needed to be.

"Creature, I know not what you are, but I would be proud to die again at
your side."

The runes were showing at their brightest. In all honesty. Oz would
rather die with *Xander*, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

*

Angelus fought to keep his feet as his brethren battled around him. The
ones from further back struggled to get to the barrier, while the ones
closest to it fought to get away as it dipped and swayed -- sucking in
the unwary only to close around them.   Half of each demon went to the
outer world, screaming, while the other spilled its guts all over the
floor and feebly kicked, dying forever.

Dru.  It was Dru calling him again.  Only she could manage to cause this
much chaos in hell itself.

There had been many children over the years, but Drusilla... the Angelus
found himself... eager to see her again. Another demon down, fading back
to the pits where they wanted to send him. From behind, rake of a searing
claw over his chest and around his back and Angelus roared, spun,
punched *up* into sagging flesh that burned everything, and the *furrow*
in his chest sent the smell of smoked meat to greet him.

Nasty side of being in Hell with one's own body.

But he was strong, wouldn't fade with a mere blow and the clawing thing
was hulking over him now, looking like nothing more than a massive drape
of plant, clinging singeing vines slipping out to lash at him again and
again. Not claws. Another rip behind him, he could feel it, smell the
shockingly sweet air of Above and oh, Drusilla reached down inside him.

Touched the hollow places and made them echo with her summons. It was
building. Soon.

More vines wrapped solidly around his arms, arching toward his cock and
Angelus kicked, once, again, and the third caught the creature at just
the right angle to snap its stem of a neck.

Hit the bare obsidian floor with a thud just as he felt something snap
within him.

Drusilla.

Drusilla was gone from him, somehow.

And a Relovit, eight feet tall and wielding a massive trident was loping
his way. Oh yes, he was due for a flaying or perhaps an impalement and
no. No, that wouldn't happen. Picked up a handful of twitching vine
creature and threw it hard. Watched as the arm used its vines to latch
on like some complex piece of fetish wear and ran, avoiding, by
instinct, the thin places where he could be captured; trying and failing
to gain a weapon of his own.

The only choices were battle now, and luck. The chaos had paused, but it
would start again before much longer. It would begin again, Drusilla or
no.

It would.

The first thrust of the trident made him scream, the second made him
twist and roar again and he was being lifted. Jogged and impaled with
every shift as the base of the trident sunk into the obligingly melting
obsidian. The pain was... exquisite, too complete not to scream.

A pike through his leg, shattering the bone, another through his right
arm. And the demons gathered around, and ate his flesh to the bone and
Angelus screamed and screamed and lived.

Sooner or later, they would leave him alone on the spikes.

Yes.

*

Of course he *would* be almost out of comfrey.  Rummaging through his
spice drawer, Giles yelled over his shoulder, "I don't think I have
enough.  What about dried anise?"

"Bugger *all*, Rupert, I thought fussy librarians were supposed to have
well stocked kitchens," Ethan peevishly yelled back from the living
room.  "Fine, we'll make it work.  I do assume you have enough sage?"

Giles doubtfully looked down.  "Rubbed or bundled?"

"I don't know.  Bring both.  And hurry, would you?"

His arms full of herbs, Giles stumbled into the other room where Ethan
was feverishly casting a circle.

Oh, Ethan.  "That won't protect us, you know," Giles pointed out gently.

"I sodding well know, thank you," Ethan snapped.  "Nevertheless, I'm
doing it.  Start mixing."

Giles shrugged and dumped the spices onto the table, next to the massive
mortar and pestle, and began reading Ethan's crabbed handwriting for
instructions.

They might have a chance, of course.  Xander might be able to hold off
Eyghon long enough to stop this transmutation of hell on earth. But, just
in case, Ethan had come up with this solution. Giles frowned and read the
instructions again, suddenly realizing why this spell seemed so
familiar.

"Ethan?"
"What?!"

"Forgive me, but isn't this a composting spell?"

Ethan closed the circle and straightened, scowling.  "Sort of. Mostly.
Accelerated, of course.  I had to change it a bit."

"I see.  We're going to turn Sunnydale and everyone in it into a giant
heap of fermenting dung."

"You have a problem with that?"

Giles blinked and with mild sarcasm said, "No.  It's actually quite
appropriate.  Almost poetic in fact." He stirred and added under his
breath, "I always did want to be a big pile of shit, thank you darling."

And Ethan must have heard him, because he pressed his face against
Giles' shoulder and gave him a swift, fierce hug before saying, "Shove
off and let me do that.  You're not putting in enough basil."

He stepped aside and watched Ethan measure and stir, then quietly said,
"Ethan.  You know I have to go to him.  I can't let him fight this
alone."

"Yes, I know.  What are you waiting for?  Me to conk you on the had and
drag your unconscious body away from all this?"

A totally inappropriate, possibly even hysterical snicker escaped him.
"It does seem rather more your style, yes."

Ethan rolled his eyes and muttered, "Yeah.  Well.  Look, this is hard
enough.  Just take your bloody sword and *go*, would you?"

And his smile faded at the realization of how much it must have cost
Ethan to say that.  Giles laid a hand his shoulder.  "Ethan, I know the
price of doing this, you know.  Leaving."

And Ethan threw him a bright, mocking smile before saying, "Well, then.
See that you stay alive long enough for me to collect, will you?  Now
go. Before change my mind."
He held Ethan's gaze for a long moment, nodded, then grabbed his sword
and satchel.  And left.

*

In a way, Cordelia thought, it was not unlike how she'd imagined being
Miss Sunnydale in the annual May Day parade would have been. Except with
more killing.

All the way down Main Street to the factory: the crowds, the entourage,
the fireworks.  Even -- now that she was here and caught a glimpse of
peroxide blonde and black leather running up the catwalk stairs -- a
clown.

Still, it wasn't quite what she'd hoped for.  For one thing, her
fantasies never found her jostled by horny-elbowed demons --

"Ew!  Ever heard of moisturizer, dino-flesh?"

-- or ripping the arms off said demons --

"Guess you don't need to bother now."

 -- or having to fling said arms over the heads of the shrieking crowds to
free her hands so she could break the necks of small things that managed
to get through the phalanx of her loyal followers.

Which she had to admit was not entirely without a certain satisfaction.

No, what really sucked all the jelly out of the Parade donut was up
there -- the thing at the center of all the chaos, bathed in eerie glow
-- Drusilla and the Goddess of Geek doing the Crazy Person Dance on the
third level catwalk.

For a minute Cordelia just stood in the boiling madness of the crowd and
watched them.  Couldn't take her eyes off them.  Like they were
spotlighted up there and it was stupid and ugly and *embarrassing* and
still there was some little tiny whiny part of her that just wished and
wished...

*She* would have taken care of Drusilla.  Would have kept her long
hair brushed and shiny and dressed her in Versace or Anne Klein. The
classics.  And she'd only drink from the prettiest boys and girls and...
and...

And they would never be caught *dead* doing the Wicca Shuffle under
weird disco ball lights and kissing -- oh it was so unfair that her
mouth should ache, her vampire ridges fill with wanting that kiss --

And then she had a sudden glimpse of Spike -- white hair and fists
raised, too, but not to dance and down -- and Willow suddenly vanished
from view.

Things seemed to slow down everywhere.  She could hear the noise, but it
was thick like she was underwater.  Something knocked against her and
she shoved it back, never looking to even see what her hand had ripped
into.  Just watching them.  Spike.  And Drusilla.  Whose back was to
Cordelia but all that meant was a clearer view of the rage that rippled
up through her back, her arms.  Or maybe she just felt it ripple through
their bond or in the look on Spike's face.

And she could almost read his mind, could *feel* his shocked disbelief
and -- you bitch, you fucking bitch! -- Drusilla flung him up so high he
almost touched the ceiling.  He fell, bent horribly at the back and
Drusilla tossed him over the side of the catwalk, like trash, like a toy
she was bored with.

Spike pinwheeled to the floor, landing with a crunching thud.  And Dru
didn't even blink.

Drusilla turned away, bent over Willow and did something that made the
entire factory light up like a distress beacon, a hot, white light that
dried Cordelia's shower damp clothing and crisped the hairs on her arms.

And she knew, knew as sure as she knew Spike was a traction candidate,
that Drusilla was going to kill them.  Not just the ugly ones, or the
ones who still smelled, but all of them.  Even her.

Okay, then," she said, tossing back her hair.  "You're going down,
bitch."
*

Spike landed hard, limbs flying out in broken-boned precision to land in
a pattern she had never seen.

But Drusilla didn't stop to study it. Spike had been positively awful
this time, and she thought she'd have to kill him for it.

Later.

Her sweet Willow was crumpled oddly, still enclosed within the Circle,
but no longer the Conduit. Her body jerked and twitched with the power,
though, so all was not lost. Drusilla walked through the barrier, felt
parts of her fingers, her toes crumble painlessly to dust, felt her hair
fall gently from her head, and then carefully broke the sand-pattern
just enough to free Willow.

Sweet pet and the power rushed through her as Willow passed beyond the
Circle, and the Circle closed itself with a vicious gong that made
Drusilla's teeth rattle and oh. Yes. The only way now. Daddy must come,
and she would greet him in passing when the power finally burned her to
ash.

The Summoning would continue.

And Willow would be there to greet Daddy, and be his girl.

*

Four quick jabs to her side and Faith knew her ribs were cracked. By a
fucking *vampire*. It wasn't fair -- they were the most familiar things
in this pit. Faith landed a kick to its head, nearly losing her balance
in the process, and managed to drive a stake into its heart and leap
back from the blinding dust before the next one came.

And the next, and the next and this was really starting to piss her off.
No frequent slayage miles for her, and she was starting to have to run
as much as fight now, trusting the unhappy demonic rainbow coalition to
distract the ones that were just too much.

And then she ran into one of the too muches. Big motherfucker with six
arms, a lot of teeth and -- fuck *me* -- six more toothy mouths in each
hand. Long past time to get the fuck out -- if she could see anything
remotely like an exit.

Nothing behind her but a wall of demons -- none of whom were really
looking her way, more of the same to the left and then there was no time
because the monster sort of... lurched over to block the right and
that's when she saw the naked guys.

Two of them in fact.

One tall tattooed naked guy, hacking at the thing's leg with an axe, one
reject from the Wolverine wannabes *gnawing* at its throat.

Faith shrugged and leapt in to help. She always had preferred a little
sex with her violence.

And if they weren't human she could stake them, too.

No energy for grace, Faith drove her second-to-last stake deep into the
creature's lower belly, ripped it out and wound up covered in something
that smelled disturbingly like cherry coke, and did it a few more times,
hoping that one of the screams in the air was the creature's.

And then it was toppling and Faith slipped trying to get away but there
was suddenly a strong arm around her waist, yanking her back. Kick back
to the shin and spin and it was wolfboy. Looking pained. Leaping past
her back on the creature which was trying to stand up and tattoo boy was
hacking away at it pretty steadily. The axe made her mouth water.

They were obviously together, and killing demons was a good thing,
but...

"You are the Slayer." Tattoo boy said, advancing on her, and Faith
dropped into a crouch.

"What the fuck is it to you?"
"Salvation."

Faith decided she could work with that. "What's going on?" Glanced at
the wolfboy, but he just nodded up at Tattoo Boy.

"An evil sorceress is trying to open the Hellmouth, Slayer. It is our
duty to stop her."

"Riiiiight, OK, figures. I'm Faith, who are you?"

"I am the Warrior. That is all you need to know."

"Like the bad 80s song? Tough luck. What about you, fuzzface?"

"I'm Oz. Sometimes he's Xander."

"Well, all right, fellas. Let's go do some duty."

And it was easy as breath to slip into a triangle, warrior-guy on her
weak left side and Oz on the other. The moved in the same direction as
the demons surged and yes, it was confirmed: it *was* soothing to fight
without having to watch your back. And oh yeah, she could get used to
the feel of strong shoulders bumping and shifting against her own,
knowing something was dying just behind her, three-faced killing machine
against the world and whoa.

Another naked guy.

Another large, well-muscled, fucking perfectly formed naked guy with a
big, interesting scar on his chest just behind this tentacly thing
trying to -- who knew? -- gut her and right in their path but getting
there showed naked guy was, in fact, naked vamp guy. And wasn't that
always the way.

Faith knotted some tentacles together and drop kicked the thing, whipped
out her last stake but vamp guy was gone, loping through the crowd with
something big over its shoulder. Faith said a tiny prayer that whatever
the something was, it was already dead.

And then the only naked guys were the ones at her side, killing
things... had she had that dream? It seemed as though she would've
remembered that, but then the lull was over and the only thoughts left
were in her muscles.

*

At first, she didn't know she was awake. There was pain, but that seemed
natural. There were screams all around her, but that was how she lived.
The sweetness was gone. No, that wasn't what she wanted to think, but it
was the best description she could come up with. Voices was... far too
basic.

Willow reached in and in, past the beehive in her brain zzzzzzzzz flare
zzzzzzzz and found it. Little whispers she couldn't quite catch, way way
under the buzz. It was so *quiet*.

Except for the screams. But that was natural, demons were always
screaming, killing each other. And when you lived with demons --

She lived with demons.

Flash of sweet, open brown eyes, loving her. Small cold hands touching
her, all over, marking her. Making her moan and the buzz was a constant,
but she could hear herself over it.

Perfectly clear.

The images kept coming, the sound of Oz's screams...

No, oh, no...

And she wanted to scream but *flare* and the pain was making her moan,
now. Not Drusilla who loved her and held her and tempted her to
everything, oh everything... her jaw was broken. Maybe her head, too.
All broken and leaking secrets everywhere, where anyone /just me.../
could see them and she wanted to cry, too.

And she did, looking up to make sure no one was looking at her and there
she was.

Drusilla.

Willow remembered the crypt then, and tried to snarl but did better at
crawling. Yes. That's exactly where she belonged, on her belly. She
belonged under a rock. She was *dirty* and Drusilla... Drusilla was even
worse. Phantom taste of iron on her tongue, something else insinuating
and and... *alive*. In her now. *In* her, and she'd asked for it.
Begged. And now... now Drusilla -- and... was her hair gone? Drusilla
was using every word Willow had whispered to do a Summoning. Just like
she'd done with Oz but... but Oz was good and Oz wouldn't --

Running from her now, whining.

No, no, *no* --

Crawl a little further and she could stop this. Break the Circle... no
one left to... too late to make it again. She wouldn't make it again,
stop her somehow and then there was a sickening *crack* and her wrist
was cold *agony* and if she vomited it would kill her and --

"And where do you think *you're* going, Willow? Drusilla's *busy*."

Cordy. Oh, Jesus, Cordy... "I have to... have to stop her..."

Rich laughter, no different at all from a million lunchroom humiliations
and oh, yeah, Cordelia had found just the right life. "What are you going
to do? Give her fleas? Oh, I'm going to enjoy killing you... as soon as
you've been fumigated, of course..."

And Willow was reaching while she talked, ignoring the pump grinding her
wrist because Dru was so *close*, yes, she could feel it. All over.
Inside her. Under the buzz where Dru would always be, so close and --

"... and then later, I'm going to find your doggie and have him fixed
--"

"*NO!*" And it came out less a roar then a gurgle and Willow ripped her
arm out from under Cordelia and moaned and moaned and scrabbled onto her
hands and knees and there was a hand yanking at her chopped hair but she
wrenched away from that, too and then the lightning hit.

And it felt... just like lightning should. Crackling jolts of pain and a
soothing, ominous numbness beneath and beneath that, the greedy foul
welcoming of the power --

And then it was done.

Silence for a beat as all eyes turned to watch and Willow hit the ground
with a thump when Cordelia kicked her down --

"Naughty, *naughty* --"

Cut off mid-scold, even as Willow felt something misty-green and cool
slipping into her soul, and then only dust, drifting down to her palm.

*

/Sometimes he's Xander./  Yeah, no fucking lie there, Wolf Boy, Xander
thought with a grim amusement that bordered on hysteria.  His body moved
without his conscious volition, kicking and striking with a grace that
*he'd* never been able to achieve.  And he, his mind, his awareness,
watched everything from a distance.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.  He was supposed to be gone, not
back to back to back with a slayer and half-wolf Oz, watching his body
fight things that looked like they belonged in a King book.

And then there was the whole demon aspect, the slimy crawling presence
that called itself Eyghon that slithered around his brain, whispering
dark, filthy things.  Things about Ethan and Giles and their hands on
him and -- shut up, fucker, shut up-- and his arms swung the axe,
splitting the green thing's head right between the eyes and when the
Warrior turned his head to avoid the flying brain matter and bits of
skull, he saw, *they* saw Willow.

Willow crawling toward a vamped out Cordy who kicked her then attacked
something that looked like a tiny female version of the Master.  And
then there was bright flash of light, Cordy was gone, the thing fell
into dust and Willow was dangling from the catwalk.  She was going to
fall and oh shit, she looked bad, like the pictures he'd seen of
soldiers coming back from the front and she was fucking going to fall so
give me my body back.  *Now.*
And panic made him strong, let him claw out of the corner the Warrior
had stuffed him in and he was *there*.  Suddenly he could *feel* the
heft of the axe in his hands, the trembling exhaustion in his muscles,
could smell the stink of exertion from him, from Oz and the slayer,
Faith. He swung the axe again, a clumsy, weak swing, but enough to clear
an opening and he shouted for them to follow as he sprinted forward,
knowing Oz would -- not sure about Faith, but not really caring.
Because Willow, pale and shaking Willow, was going to fall.

Oz growled then yelped behind him.  Faith spat out a word Kendra
wouldn't have used even if you were cutting her leg off, and he shoved
that thought away before spinning, ready to swing but the demon was
down, stake in its back and Oz was waving him forward.

But over the cacophony of inhuman shouts and the screams he heard a
familiar voice bellowing his name, a voice that made Eyghon writhe and
snarl and try to surge forward

- back, demon, avaunt -

Giles, grim-faced, blood streaming from his forehead, making him look
like the world's weariest, saddest librarian clown, and frantically
pointing at the door, yelling, "Out, you have to get out!"

It occurred to him that Giles was never frantic, so 'out' must be a good
thing, but he turned and ran toward Willow.

When the rips started opening he suddenly understood the reason to
leave. He dodged, jumping, when one opened at his feet and a demon who'd
been diving for him fell into it instead with a horrid, slurping howl of
dismay.

Okay, rips leading right into hell *bad* and both the Warrior and Eyghon
agreed with him.  With Oz and Faith still at his heels, he ran up the
steps, not even trying to fight the demons anymore, just using the axe
like a machete, clearing the way.

Slipping on ichor and entrails, Xander stumbled up the stairs and
suddenly he was there, grabbing Willow just before a rip opened under
her, and pulling her into his arms.
"Will," he whispered, appalled.  She weighed nothing, the skin of her
face pulled so tightly over her cheekbones they looked ready to poke
through and her mouth, her poor sweet mouth was covered in bite marks
and dried blood he could smell wasn't all hers.

"Willow," he tried again.  Her eyes stayed closed but she was breathing
and he could see the pulse beating under the thin parchment of her skin
so she was alive, alive and they'd get out of here and she would be his
Willow again.

- Mine, I think. -

A purr from deep inside and Eyghon leapt out of him.

*

Oh and this body was wonderful.  Physically weak yes, but filled with
such reserves of power that Eyghon almost purred in satisfaction. His
and his alone with no whiny boy child or self-righteous Warrior to cage
him.

He flowed into her, the dark pathways in her mind eagerly accepting him
even as the boy screamed the girl's name.  Willow.  Such a pretty,
harmless, green name for such a corrupt vessel.  His vessel, now and
forever.

This was perfect, too deliciously ironic.  The boy wouldn't leave her,
would try to save her, as would Giles.  And that would be amusing, he
decided.  He'd forgotten how much *fun* it was to be in female form.

So he remained physically quiescent as he felt Xander stand and lift
him, all the while busily digging away at the dark constructs in her
mind, seeking the true power he felt buried deep.  His, it would all be
his and Giles would *writhe* on the spit when he was done and Ethan,
too, and the boy would watch.

One last scratch and he was there but --

His eyes, *her* eyes snapped open as a rush of power, warm, green and
moist engulfed him, suffocating and no, no!  This wasn't supposed to be,
this wasn't--

A voice, not hers, but made of a thousand whispering small things cried,
"Out, I cast you out, foul, corrupt thing."

And he was held, bound, then ripped out and thrown from her, wailing and
screaming in denial.

No, he was Eyghon, he would not be banished, he would not be held from
collecting his right, his *due*.

He hurled himself into a dead body, Fyarl, but it would do for now until
he found something better.  Eyghon raised his new head, opened his new
eyes and grinned at the fleeing boy.  Run boy, run while you can.

He didn't notice the rip forming just beneath him until it was too
late.

Frantically hooking his claws into the floor, Eyghon tried to pull
himself up and away from the grasping hands at his hooves.  And
howled with despair as the rip closed, cutting him off at the wrists,
sending him falling back into the pit and onto the hungry mouths of
his brethren.

*

Giles supposed having one enemy take out the other was rather
anticlimactic.  No exploding gobbets of flesh, no smoke clouds looming
ominously over the horizon, just dodging those infernal rips while
running back to his flat.

They burst through the door, the new Slayer, Faith, following.

Ethan, hand poised over the mortar, raised an eyebrow and said, "Well,
you're back early.  Saved the world then?"

"Yes," Giles muttered.  "In a manner of speaking."  He gestured for
Xander to set Willow, who was awake now and silently crying, on the
couch.

When Giles said, "Get the first aid kit," Ethan's brow rose even higher,
but he silently obeyed.  Well.  A night of firsts all the way around.

Xander, his face white and grim, gently placed Willow on the cushions,
then stepped back, allowing Giles to kneel beside her.

Returning with first aid kit in hand, Ethan leaned closer and critically
examined Willow.  "Isn't this the little witch who-"

"Yes," Giles interrupted when Willow winced and recoiled, hiding her
face.  "Willow," he said gently, "let me see.  No one's going to hurt
you anymore, I promise."  Oz growled at that, but a sharp look from
Giles made his eyes lower and the growl die to a soft rumble.

"No one is going to hurt you, Willow," he repeated firmly, looking at
each of them in turn.  Xander nodded and Oz, after a moment, followed
suit.  Faith, sprawled in his desk chair shrugged and said, "I've got no
beef with her."

And Giles, who'd spent so long torn between absolute fury and guilt
whenever he'd thought of Willow, was now able to temper those emotions
with pity and terrible sadness.  "Just let me see," he coaxed.

Willow slowly uncoiled and turned her face, her eyes huge over the dark
circles beneath them.  She solemnly watched him as he washed her face
clean, not blinking even when he dabbed at the infected cuts with
rubbing alcohol.

"It's not too bad," he told her reassuringly and winced when her face
crumpled into tears.

"It is," she insisted.  "Really, really bad."

"She smells like a vamp," Faith said.  "She drank their blood.  I'd say
that's pretty bad."

"Shut up, the lot of you," Giles snarled.

Willow made as if to rise and he gently pushed her back down, wincing at
the feel of her shoulders, bird thin under his hands.  He looked at her,
saw beneath the dirt and tangled hair, realized she was dangerously
thin, probably suffering from malnutrition at the very least.  God only
knew what drinking demonic blood had done to her.  Among everything
else, he thought grimly, just now seeing the way she cradled what looked
like a broken wrist to her chest.

Giles looked away and muttered, "I know you're all tired, but I think we
need to find the nearest hospital."

Ethan shook his head.  "That would be an excellent idea, except there
probably isn't any empty bed within a hundred mile radius."  When Giles
looked at him in shock, Ethan pointed to the television where CNN showed
mob scenes of police and panicked citizens running from demons in every
major city.  "It's everywhere, Rupert."

"She wanted to open the Hellmouth," Willow whispered brokenly, staring
at the television.  "She wanted to bring him back and I helped her.  All
those people and I helped her."

Her voice trailed off in a low whimper.  Her free hand touched her
cheek, then raked at it with broken, dirty nails as her eyes grew huge
and ceased blinking all together.

Giles rocked back on his heels, and froze, unable to think of a single
thing to say to refute that, to ease the guilty hysteria filling
Willow's eyes. She's going to break, he thought.  No one still human
could bear this.

Surprisingly, Faith rose, grabbed her hand and shook it, growling, "Stop
that shit right now.  You're freaking everybody out.  Wolf boy's about
to bolt."

And Willow froze, gaze snapping from the scenes of horror on the
television to stare at Oz, who was crouched next to the door, every hair
on his body standing on end.  "Oz?"

"Yes, Oz," Giles said cautiously.

Willow, clinging to Faith's hand, croaked, "Oz.  I'm sorry.  I'm so -- I
just wanted to -- I *needed* to help you.  I just wanted to *help*."
Oz bared his teeth and spoke, his voice a low rumble.  "You don't know
what you did to me."

And she cried out at that, fresh tears streaming down her thin face. "I
do, I know.  But I can --"

Xander crossed the room to stand next to Oz, placing himself between
them.  "I know you didn't mean to," he said in a low, tight voice, "but
your *help* did this to him.  Your help killed Kendra."  When his voice
broke on her name, he angrily shook his head.  "Will, I love you. But
you..."  He clenched his hands while the runes rippled and flared. "No
more.  Just don't.  Or I swear..."  Xander's voice cracked again and he
stalked from the room, Oz on his heels,

Giles found himself pulling her into his arms when she sobbed, "I wasn't
going to, I didn't mean to, I just thought --" and her voice became
indistinct as she pressed her face against his chest.

He crooned meaningless nonsense and jerked his chin at Faith to follow
them, then murmured, "I know, Willow.  I know.  It will be all right, in
time."  He found himself meeting Ethan's dark gaze and said quietly,
"Everything heals in time.  Go ahead and cry, then we'll get you cleaned
up and look at your wrist. Yes?"

She shuddered in his arms, but nodded slowly.

She fell asleep when they were setting her wrist, which was a blessing.

Faith returned from the guestroom, then sat on the arm of the couch and
watched silently.

"How are they?" Giles asked quietly, frowning as Ethan steadied
Willow's hand.

With a shrug, Faith answered.  "Still naked.  Sleeping on the floor for
some reason."

"Well, then you can have the bed, I suppose," he said absently.  He
looked up when she didn't answer and found her frowning at Willow's
sleeping face.  "You are staying, I assume."

"Yeah, for tonight anyway.  She really got fucked over, didn't she?"

"Yes," Giles said soberly.  "She did.  You're considering going home?"

Another shrug and Faith brushed a stray strand of hair from Willow's
forehead.  "I can slay anywhere.  And you have Xander the Wonder Warrior
to help you out here."

"But he's not the Slayer."

She smiled at that.  "No.  He kind of has the wrong equipment."  The
smile faded when Willow moaned in her sleep as they finished wrapping
her wrist.  "What's going to happen to her?  Does she have anyone?"

"Her mother, if she's still alive."

"Nice?"

Giles shrugged.  "Nice enough in a distant way.  Academic type.  I think
she saw Willow as a reasonably well adjusted teenaged female of above
average intelligence."

Faith's nose wrinkled.  "Ug."

"Quite."

She stood and stretched, then yawned.  "I'm going to sleep.  Thanks for
letting me crash here."

Giles stood as well, grimacing at the audible creak in his knees.  "It's
the least I can do, truly."

With another yawn, Faith sauntered toward the bedroom door, pausing to
say over her shoulder, "I'm a light sleeper.  I'll hear if she, you
know, needs anything.  And Giles?"

"Yes?"

"Do you want me to stay?"

He met Ethan's gaze and nodded when Ethan shrugged.  "Yes.  I do,
Faith."

Her back very straight, Faith dipped her head and said, "Well.  I'll
think about it.  Thanks."

A house full of teenagers.  Right back where he started.  And Ethan
wasn't laughing, just looking at him with his head tilted and a slight
smile.

"What?"

"Nothing, old man," Ethan said mildly.  "Just wondering how long before
the domestic scene drives you stark, staring bonkers."

"It already did," Giles said wearily.  "You couldn't tell?"

"Oh, you mean those noises you sometimes make?  Rupert, I thought that
was *me*," he said with a slightly affronted expression.

And Giles couldn't help but laugh and go to him and pull him in his arms
before tugging him up the stairs.  "Yes, that too," he agreed.

At the top of the stairs, he paused and asked, "Ethan?"

Pressing against him with slow, languid movements, Ethan murmured,
"Hmmm?"
"What about you?"

He paused and looked up at Giles, his eyes dark and inscrutable.  "What
about me?"

"Are you going to stay?" Giles held very still, waiting.

Ethan froze, then asked very carefully, "Do you want me to?"

And all he could say was, "Yes.  I rather do, actually," before Ethan
was in motion again, pressing him against the wall and kissing him
wildly.

When he pulled back and pulled Giles toward that bedroom, Giles gasped
out, "I take it that was a yes," as he fell onto the bed, Ethan on top
of him.

"No, that was me thinking about it," Ethan growled into his throat.
"You'll get your yes in a few minutes, lovely."

"Well, then," Giles said with a spurt of relieved laughter.  "Carry on."

*

Quiet now, the air, the moonless night.  No more pop and crackle.  No
more hellwind hiss.  Still screams on it, yes, but not so many as last
week.  Or the week before.

Apres le deluge... the sound of crickets, mostly.

Spike wheeled his chair out into the courtyard, away from Angelus.
Angelus' chair, Angelus' mansion, Angelus' loving care.

Angelus' pet vampire.

The spell hadn't even fucking worked, but the bastard had managed to
jump through one of the rips anyway, just before it all went to hell.
Hadn't stayed to help Drusilla.

A part of Spike wished he'd just left *him* to die, too, but it's almost
disappointingly small. Drusilla was dead, nothing left but a pile of
dust. But they'd had two centuries. Killing, fucking, Dru's little
tricks with her magic -- better than the big tricks by far.

Good times. But she was dead and he was not.

There. A hint. Touch of something inside.

Spike tried to touch where it was, see if it was anywhere near his
heart. It was... harder to hold onto things like that, knowing his
Drusilla was now just as dead as her body had always been for him.
Nothing left but a demon who'd borrowed and twisted some living,
breathing, shitting, caring version of Drusilla and twisted it into its
own, currently suffering any one the million torments Angelus insisted
on describing.

Like he bloody *missed* the place or something. Bloody University for
sadistic father-fucking bastards like Angelus.

But Spike had to admit to a desire to try just a few dozen of his sire's
helpful suggestions on Cordelia.

He pictured it, how it must have been while he'd been a pile of broken
bones on the factory floor. Cordy and the little witch, sneaking up on
Dru and catching her bare. No fight, no tumble, just a stake to the back
and off they went.

And there it was again. Like a wink. Twinkle in dear old dad's eyes as
he put some virgin on a spit. There and gone.

And with that, he could say he was honestly doing it for Dru. In part.
Better than the rest of bloody vampirekind, wandering around just
killing things, like they'd forgotten they had dicks. Or cunts, for that
matter. A man had to have a little something to come home to. Something
to bring things home for, or else he was just an animal.

A boring one, at that.

Hint of... something... and Spike tilted his head up to scent the air.
Yes, it was Angelus. Coming slow. Bastard had his meal.
At least his senses hadn't gotten befucked. It certainly seemed like
everything else had. Spike already felt things in his legs, though. He
would heal. Fast, too, if Angelus kept treating him like veal on the
hoof. Which was suspicious in and of itself, of course, but the faster
Spike healed, the faster he could get the hell out, take care of the
Cordybitch, and find himself a new mate.

Maybe a bit weaker than him, this time around.

Ounce of prevention and all that.

Hard hand on his shoulder, sudden enough to make him jump. The man could
move like a bloody cat when he wanted to. Spun him around and Spike
found himself looking up into merry brown eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry to say it, son of mine, but I'm afraid I ate your dinner
on the way home."

Well, that, at least was fully in character. Spike tried to wheel
himself back and away -- always rats around vampires, nice side benefit
-- but Angel held him fast. Spike sighed. So bloody predictable. "Oh,
all right, do your gloating."

And suddenly Spike was on the ground, Angelus crouching over him.
"Nonsense, man. We have to keep you fed!"

Spike couldn't manage anything but a gape when Angelus settled his body
partly across Spike's own, resting his throat against Spike's mouth.
And, oh, that smell. Same scent, with all the Hellstink finally scrubbed
off and fuck, jolt right to... well, his waist. Where the feeling stopped
almost entirely, but his lips were feeling just fine. Satin skin, hot with
the kill.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

Game and *in* and a sudden flood of everything, everything he fucking
needed. Sire blood, not as close or helpful as Drusilla's would've been,
but suddenly Spike knew -- vaguely -- that his dick was hard. He sucked
harder, let the iron wash of it flood his mouth getting fucked by Sire
blood and giddy laughter inside his head and another incomplete rush of
feeling --

"Good, that's good, Will. Drink it... drink it right up. You're gonna
need your strength --" Merry chuckle. "We're going to get your dear,
dead mum back."

And *there* it was, one solid painful wrench of something that had been
just about solid a minute ago, and *never* he would die first, kill and
*never* -- but his needful body wouldn't let him so much as choke.

*

Faith woke up with a jerk, scrabbling for a weapon before she remembered
that it was safe, OK for her to sleep here, no more monsters, not in
this house and it was like a mantra. And it worked until she realized
she wasn't alone in the room.

Xander. Or maybe the Warrior. Just standing in the doorway, watching
her. The runes matched his black eyes too well for her to be able to
read anything like an expression. But two weeks of living here, sleeping
in the bed that had belonged to Her -- and he said it just like that,
caps all the way -- and she'd gotten to know the reactions.

The Warrior would have already begun lecturing her on her sloppy
performance, so...

"Don't keep it in."

Good old caring Xander. Fucking after school special. "Look, we can
molest our inner children later, if you want. I gotta take a shower, and
then it's training with everybody's favorite Watcher --"

"And me."

"You? Or Conan the Incredibly Boring?"

Only a ghost of a smile, but there were sudden, shocking laugh lines
present. Deep. Used to be a joker. Faith filed that away for later use.
"Both of us, I think..." His voice became dreamy for an instant and
Faith braced herself for Conan, but Xander just shook his head, the
runes never flared.

"I didn't think you needed training."

"I do."

"Why? You can just let the warrior take over, kick back, have an
imaginary beer."

"Because I'm an absolute dumbass."

Faith snorted despite herself, earning another smile. Just a little more
there. Reflexively tried to see the man beneath runes that weren't so
much there as *present*. She already knew he had a *cut* body... she
felt her smile change, decided to let it ride. "So you like kicking it
up with Slayers, hunh? You better have some pretty good moves, X-man or
I'll kick your ass to the mat..."

And she finished weakly, because Xander had shut down utterly while she
was talking. Shit. Real smooth.

"I... uh... I'm gonna go take my shower. See you on the mat." And she
walked out, and it was completely *wrong* for her to not have played it
off. Tell the guy to lighten the fuck up, shit out the stick and be done
with it. And it wasn't even like she really knew these people, it was
just.

They were what she had. Fuck. Dead town full of demons, they needed a
Slayer and she...

Again, fuck. Kill a couple hundred demons and all of a sudden she was
little miss fucking needy. No way. She was out as soon as the job was
done.

Get back on her own turf, or maybe finally spend enough time in New York
to get her ya-yas. Guaranteed -- nothing back there could be remotely
tougher than this shit. Train every day, patrol every night. Except, was
it really patrol when all you did was step outside the warding circle
and kill everything moving for a while? The vamps were scattering,
looking for better pickings, but the other demons were still all over
the place.

All over the *world*, according to the news. Of course, they didn't use
the word demon, but the pictures were pretty flat out. Things were
getting hinky out there. Hinkier. Faith braced herself in the shower,
hot water and electricity kept slipping in and out of availability.
Willow had suggested that it was because too many people in the area had
left lights burning, faucets running when they were attacked. She was
checking into doing a house patrol, though God knew what kind of nests
they'd run into.

Still no phones, not a mailman in sight, but one of Giles' contacts in
the next town had brought him a message from the CoW that had come by
*pigeon*. Giles' message back was a lot of big Ian words and blah, but
Faith knew it pretty much boiled down to "saved the world, fuck off."

Which she could appreciate.

Pissed off and cursing Giles was a lot more fun than Mr. Giles,
supertrainer. Heh. If Ian tried half the shit Giles was teaching her  --
only sometimes it was more like *remembering* -- he'd keel over and die.
But he was so *relentless* about it. Again, not a hint of relaxation.

And then there was Oz, the amazing wolf boy, who spent most of his time
seemingly attached to Xander. Even slept near him, some-dead-somebody's
mattress vaguely at the foot of Xander's own in the curtained off half
of this room. A young woman needed her privacy and all that. A boy and
his werewolf, and weirdly like having kin. Family was too much of a bad
word, but kin was... OK.

Even when Oz was bristling and leaving a high wild stink of *something*
whenever Willow spent too much time in a room with him.

Out of the shower, half-shivering, and Willow was there, too. There and
not there, really, always wandering out into the day, just past the
wards to play in her garden. Coming back with dirt on the knees of her
jeans, green-stained fingers and the same spiky orange head. No one had
really brought up the issue of her mother, and Faith certainly wouldn't.

It was weird to think of actual families still out there.
It was weird to think of families living here at all. And suddenly,
right there, Faith saw her own neighborhood. Blasted and dead silent.
Grey sky. Piece of paper drifting down the street. Everything waiting
for night. Fuck.

Easier to think of Willow shoveling away food and looking like she was
ready to kill herself for wanting to take a bite. Looking at Faith with
naked... something that went way, way beyond lust... and then looking
like she was ready to kill herself for wanting to take a bite.

Which just brought to mind creepy-sexy guy Ethan, who had
not-quiet-enough sex with Giles *every* night.

And there was a thought designed to get her into training readiness, a
half irritated, half horny itch that made her want to pummel someone
into submission and then fuck their brains out.  Not like *that* was
going happen here in gay and/or extremely repressed and probably not
human anymore land, Faith thought with even more irritation.  More
testosterone than the Pats' locker room and none of it did *her* a lick
of good.

Still, she thought as she pulled on her favorite jeans, it wasn't all
bad. Definitely *not* boring, and the night scene was really honing
her skills.

Okay, so the entire world needed her, but Sunnydale was still demon
central.

And to be brutally honest, the rest of the world hadn't done dick for
her. But it was more than that.  Two weeks here and she felt... at home.
Comfortable. After a lifetime of knowing she was different, she finally
fit in.  And they needed her.  Not the way Ian and the Council needed
her.  Not just as a killing machine, but as someone who was like them,
someone who'd lived through the bad.  And maybe she kind of needed them
too, for the same reasons.  Just a little.  She passed and gave a smug
glance at her reflection in the mirror before leaving her room.  Yeah.
They needed her.

In the living room, she rolled her eyes at Giles' direction to move the
furniture and get out the mats.  Discipline tricks Ian had learned
*years* ago didn't work on her.  But she was willing to humor him and it
settled down Xander's tendency to twitch.

Ready to go, she shook back her hair and smiled at Giles.  "Boys, get
ready to be smoked."

*

Xander woke to the warmth of late morning sunshine and the sound of
someone battling a giant sofa cushion to the death.  From the sound of
it, Faith had that sucker dead to rights and was not only kicking its
New-Fabric-Only ass, but was giving it a nasty verbal reaming while she
did.

Over top of that, he could hear Giles dry 'comment and critique' voice
that indicated Kendra had gotten a little close to something vital
and/or breakable.  Xander closed his eyes again and turned over,
burrowing deeper into the soft bed.

No reason to get up yet.  Not really. The Warrior trained, yeah, but not
-- since they'd determined yesterday that even sparring with the Slayer
constituted Defcon 1 for the Warrior and proved fatal to much of Giles'
old furniture -- with Faith.

And aside from sparring and patrol...  Well, there wasn't really
anything apart from sparring and patrol.

- A vessel to ready; a battle to join.  These are my only needs -

- yeah, yeah.  And fear and surprise and a fanatical devotion to the
Pope -

- The Pope is the voice of... - But Xander, with years of high school
under his belt had already discovered that he could tune out Mr. History
as easily as he'd tuned out every other boring lecture type information
people had tried to shove between his ears.  It was kind of restful
even, the drone of it in the back of his head.  It certainly wasn't
keeping him up any.  He shifted a little, stretched.

Immediately gratified to hear the squeak of floorboards, feel the
soft-bristled curve of Oz's head rub his palm.

"Morning," he said, fuzzily.

"Morning," said Oz. Then the warm head moved away and Xander heard Oz
get up and  patter down the hall to use the bathroom.  Yeah, something
he should definitely think about doing sometime soon.  Only it was so
comfy here in the bed.

And there lay the weirdness.  Comfy in the bed. In *a* bed, when a month
ago he didn't think he'd ever be able to so much as sit on a mattress
without wondering... And Faith in Kendra's bed -- his own bed of dimly
remembered pain and she was *nothing* like... just too hard....

And he had Kendra's murderer sleeping on the mat at his hand like his
favorite Irish Setter.

He should, he thought, really want to die for that.  It was all so wrong
on so many levels, but somehow it was like there was nothing left inside
-- like he couldn't even get it up for death anymore...

- ...should be past grief... -

- what?--

- Ah, now you listen... -

- Hey, I'll perfect the system eventually -- you just wait.  But, um...
what did you say? -

- 'What 's gone and what 's past help, should be past grief'.  It is a
quote.--

- You know quotes?  You're like, what... the Warrior *and* the English
Major? -

- I have been called many times over the centuries.  You pick things
up. -

- You pick things *up*?  Whoa, stop there, Warrior man.  Next thing
you'll be using contractions and you know that's a bad sign for the
Enterprise. -

Incredulity had opened Xander's eyes, as though he expected to find
the Warrior watching him.

But there was no one there, just the room and the big, dark, British
curtain and the window with some pumpkin and blue patch of autumn sky
in it and brilliant October sunshine coming through.

And quiet in his head.  Gone again.  It was a funny thing this sharing a
body deal.  The Warrior there and gone, taking over when the
battle-lust thingie happened.  Or in peacetime, talking to him like some
other person in there -- someone who used weird, stilted, heavy rhythms
but in his own voice.

But at the same time it didn't even really feel like someone was sharing
innerspace with him or his thoughts.  Sometimes he wasn't even sure it
was all really happening.  Like now, with the Warrior's voice not even
an echo in his head.  Course, if he wanted confirmation all he had to do
was look down at himself.  Look in the mirror.
And he could pass on those things indefinitely.  Well, if he could avoid
it.  There was the pee thing which was actually getting a little urgent.
And he found himself sitting up, pulling on boxers with a slightly
ridiculous sense of satisfaction.

- So *there* -

The door opened and Oz stepped in, accompanied by the sounds of serious
furniture slayage from the living room and a carrying a paper bag.

"What's that?" Xander asked.  Oz paused where he stood, held up the bag
in one long-clawed, long-fingered hand and examined it like he hadn't,
until Xander mentioned it, realized he was carrying something. Then he
looked at Xander.

Such a strange, helpless look.  Those black marble eyes so shiny and
huge in his face and Xander felt, not for the first time, like he wanted
to put his hands over those eyes.  Maybe block out some of the horror of
the world for Oz.

/Kendra's murderer/

/Not!/

And neither of the voices in that argument belonged to the Warrior.

And Oz was still just looking at him, blinking a little too much.

"Oz...?"

"Peace offering," Oz said.  It sounded slurry through all those teeth,
that slightly too-long tongue, and Xander frowned quizzically.  Then Oz
jerked his head sideways toward the window that looked out on the lot
across the street and everything came into sudden focus.  "From her."

"Oh," said Xander.  He found himself staring at the bag now too.  Little
brown paper sack of Doom in Oz's hand.  Then Oz made an odd flick of
his wrist, tossed the bag on the nightstand.

"Wanna hunt?" Oz asked.
"I --" Xander said, then stopped, thinking about it.  Something.  Hunt?
No, he didn't really want to hunt.  But still.  Outside.  Oz.  Loping,
long-legged strides through the crisp October sunshine.   Old, rusty
memories surfaced, turned over -- looking at pretty girls, listening to
music, tossing sticks into the long runs of surf on the beach.  *That*.
But, eyes flicking to the bag and back to Oz and what there really was
and --

"Yeah, sure.  Give me five to get ready."

"Yeah," said Oz, hungry half-grin over too many teeth that Xander
couldn't help meeting with his own.  "Meet outside."  Xander nodded and
quick and quiet as wind Oz was out the door and gone.

And Xander yanked on jeans and socks and shirt and made his way to the
bathroom.  Peed, threw water on his face, tied his hair back into the
tiny ponytail it now made because the Warrior had Samson issues with
haircutting.  Ran the electric razor over his face because the Warrior
also had issues with beards.  Came out musing on the tendency toward
neurosis among demons and wondering if that was a kind of grown-up
Xander thought.

Faith still swearing streaks from blue to ultraviolet in the living room
and Giles still giving her that Watcher patter.  "Lower.  To your left.
Don't show your weak side.  That's right."  And he could hear Ethan
banging pots in the kitchen --- half nostalgic memory of a time and
place where people cooked *food* in the kitchen, not spells -- but that
was okay.  It's not like it had ever happened in *his* house.

And then back to his room, sitting on the bed to pull his boots on and
his eye fell on the bag again.  Peace offering.  From Willow.  Hmm.  And
he stopped.  Got up, laces untied and flopping and stood contemplating
it.  Little bag, full of something heavy by the way it sat.  Waiting for
him.

Surprised really that he didn't know what to do with that.  That he
couldn't just leave it there.  Ignore it or pretend it wasn't there or
forget it, like Oz did and no judgment there, just... just that he
couldn't.

Just like Xander couldn't really ignore or forget the quiet, timid
Willow-ghost that crept through the halls at night sometimes.  Or wept
silently by the window when the moon was out.  Or even now, a little
stick-person with spiky orange hair moving slow and painful in the
dead-looking scrub of an empty lot across the street that used to be a
park.

Trying to make things grow again.  And part of him wanted to be -- was
-- *angry* at that.  Wanted to be angry forever and never forget, never
forgive and how do you fucking *dare* Willow, how do you dare?

And Xander was suddenly crying -- no sobs, just thick, hot tears
spilling out of his eyes and plop-plopping down to stain the bag because
somewhere along the way it had stopped being a rant and become just the
question.  How?  Jesus, Willow.  How do you go on? Where do you get all
that fucking *courage*?  How?

What's gone and what's past help.... well, that was pretty much
everything, wasn't it.  But past grief?  Past the fucking Berlin Wall of
grief that poured and poured and poured out his eyes, that nearly choked
him with trying not to make a sound?  He didn't think so. Not in this
lifetime.

-  I've had many lifetimes.  -

Hot dark voice that Xander could only half pretend was the Warrior. Or
maybe *was* the Warrior, he didn't know

- And the Berlin Wall no longer stands  -

but damn it was lame and comforting and damn.  He dashed his hand
across his eyes, snuffled wetly.

- What, do you get CNN in there too? -   And no answer but his own
soggy lame-ass attempt at a laugh.

And he picked the bag up.

Opened it.

Heavy in his hand.  Barely warm.  A heartbreakingly familiar waft of
sweet and yeasty.  Tiny scrap of paper inside the bag and a shaky
version Willow's loop-de-loop scrawl that he had to blink and blink to
read:

"Faith found a bakery open and she thought it would be okay if I got
these for you.  I hope it is."

Read and read and read the note and then folded up tiny and fingered it
into the pouch in his pocket with all his other charms.  And then even
though he wasn't anything like hungry,  he picked a donut out of the bag
took a bite:

-- sugar and grease and Buffy's laughter at something silly he'd said
and Giles polishing his glasses and wiping powdered sugar off of
Kendra's mouth and Willow looking up at him so shy and full of love --

Crying again, but that was okay, it was good crying and it wouldn't last
forever.  Maybe just through this bag of donuts and the next that he'd
bring back with pink and sprinkles for her and jelly for Giles and oh
man, donuts are going save the world now.  Hear that Big Dub?  Put down
your battleaxe and pick up a chocolate sprinkle and fuck and fuck...

Donut therapy and hey, the amount of donuts he was going to need for
mental stability, maybe he'd get fat enough...

- Do not count upon it. -  said the voice that might or might not be.

"Just watch me," Xander said and wiped his eyes and took the donuts with
him as he went out into the sunshine to find Oz.

*

Willow had tried to leave a couple of times.

It was hard, so hard to stay in the same house with them.  Every silence
felt like an accusation, every glance a condemnation.  And when they
tried to be nice it was somehow worse.  She would bite her lips to stop
herself from screaming at them not to be nice, to stop treating her like
she deserved anything but -- blood, pain, grinding pleasure -- and no, no,
she wasn't going to think about that. About her.

But it was hard not to sometimes, when Giles set a plate of food in
front of her and she knew she should eat, but would instead look at it
with mingled hunger and loathing, then pick at it until she gagged.
Everything tasted bland.  Once she found herself picking at a wound on
her hand until it bled, then sprinkling the drops on her pasta like
grains of salt and only stopped when Xander choked out her name.  And
the horror in their eyes was almost as bad as the pity.

So she'd tried to leave, only to have one of them, usually Faith, bring
her back once she slipped through the wards.

The last time she'd ran home, only to find it empty.  No sign of her
mother and as she wandered through her room, she couldn't find any signs
of *her*, either.  The clothes in the closet all seemed strange.  Too
bright, too pretty.  Too clean.  Just like this room filled with nothing
that looked like hers, except for the books.

Books.  Willow drifted to the bookcase and stared at them, all her old
spell books, and clasped her trembling hands behind her back.  And no,
none of that again, either.

Faith had found her, chided her for going out when there were still
demons who didn't fear the daylight wandering about, then took her
home.  Rather, back to Giles'.

And there Giles treated her with gentle caution until she felt the
screams building again.

It was a little easier with Xander.  He didn't treat her like she was
going to break, didn't really even speak to her.  Just looked at her
with watchful and sometimes sad eyes.  And sometimes, like when Ethan
said something perfectly catty and sly, he'd laugh and catch her eye,
like part of him wanted her to laugh with him.  And that was bad and
good at the same time.

Oz wouldn't look at her, not directly.  Wouldn't talk to her, would
rarely stay in the same room with her unless Xander was there.  She
didn't think he'd ever forgive her, didn't know if she wanted him to
anymore, not when she saw him come home from patrol, casually wiping
fresh blood from his mouth.  But once she'd woken up from a nightmare
convinced she'd felt a gentle touch of rough fingertips on her forehead
and wondered if maybe Giles was right.

Giles, of course, was Giles.  Mostly.  Much like the pre-Master Giles.
Distracted, gently affable when he wasn't being cuttingly British. He
smiled a bit more.  And then there was the whole Ethan thing. Ethan who
smiled like a shark and who looked at her sometimes with this oddly
impersonal pity.  Like he *knew* and didn't want to.

Faith was the only who treated her with any degree of normality, who
spoke to her of normal things, little things.  Who touched her
casually.  Who treated her like maybe she wasn't... tainted. Sometimes
Willow just sat quietly next to her and breathed the same air and
almost felt normal.

But soon enough something would happen.  Xander would snap on the
television and every news bulletin about another strange murder made her
feel that every eye in the room stared at her in accusation.  Or
something would throw itself against the wards after dark, and she was
convinced she could hear her name in its screams.  Or she'd simply close
her eyes and see Drusilla's face, contorted in pleasure-pain and could
swear she felt dark whispers creeping at the walls of her mind.

And then no amount of hot water and soap could make her feel clean
again.  And when they looked at her at those times, she couldn't help
but flee, to get away and breathe air that hadn't touched anyone else,
to be under an empty sky.  In her garden.

No matter that the ground was hard and rocky or that the plants were
used to being inside in Giles' indifferently maintained indoor herb
garden. She spent entire days there, digging, making paths with the
rocks she dug up with her bare hands, carefully planting and watering.
For hours she could lose herself in cool green thoughts as she caressed
each spiky leaf and gently murmured to each plant in a slow language
that came to her from the ground.  And her plants grew.

She found herself thinking of the old days as she planted.  Happy
memories that mostly felt like dreams.  Buffy and her and Xander at the
Bronze, listening to music and just being silly.  Goofy.  She could
remember being happy, but not what it *felt* like.  But every once in a
while, she'd think maybe, someday, she would be again.  Even if she
didn't know if she deserved it or not.

So much death and so much pain and her at the heart of it.  But no,
these were not garden thoughts, so she shook her head and went back into
the green place and her memories, and hoped that somewhere in between
she might find... something.  Not peace, she didn't deserve that. Maybe
just quiet.

More and more often, Faith joined her in the garden, just watching
Willow as she stroked the plants, a quiet, pensive look on her face.
Like today.

Still smelling of healthy sweat from her workout, Faith plopped down
next to her.

"You shouldn't be out here alone, you know.  Xander says he and Oz
killed something nasty yesterday morning.  There *are* things out there
that aren't afraid of sunlight, you know."

"I know," Willow murmured, thinking of Kendra, still amazed at how
freshly it hurt every time.  "Not everything bad happens in the dark."

"Yeah, well," Faith stretched out comfortably, "you can't live your life
in a cage either.  The plants sure as hell look happier out here." She
reached out with a fingertip and touched a plant.  "What's this?"

Willow also touched the plant, feeling the spiky leaves. "Rosemary."

Faith leaned closer and inhaled.  "It smells good," she said, sounding
faintly surprised.  "What's it for?"

Willow frowned, thinking.  "Remembrance."

"Of what, chicken dinners past?"

A laugh escaped before she knew it was even inside her.

"There," Faith said with satisfaction.  "I knew you could do that. Hey,
Willow."

Filled with shocked guilt that she *dare* be happy, even for a second,
Willow muttered, "What?"

"You can't live your life in the past, either.  You learn your lessons
and go on." And Faith grinned ruefully for a moment, shook her head.
"Take that from an expert."

"I don't know if I can," Willow whispered doubtfully.

Faith shrugged.  "I got time.  And hey, I got you to laugh."

Faith smiled confidently at her.  And this time Willow tentatively
smiled back.

*

Sometimes there were free spaces. Pauses in the wolf vs. man archetypal
struggle that had, interestingly enough, become his life. Agreements
about things, like the killing of demons being good, as was the
scent of warm, musky love and sex in the loft, and the light brushes of
touch Xander granted surprisingly often.

Though the last was currently up for debate at some unspecified future
date. There was nothing strange about his enjoyment at being touched,
but the depth of it was very surprising. Not sexual, or, at most, sex
was only small part of it, just... ecstatic.

If the wolf could enhance all of his other senses, why not touch?

Oz found himself wondering why dogs ever stopped trying to get petted.

Burnout, maybe. Too much of a very good thing.

Paused now, at an intersection. A car stuffed and strapped with assorted
possessions patiently waited for the light to turn green, despite -- or
perhaps because of -- the rather extreme lack of cars. Oz decided he
could relate. Xander tilted his head up, not so much scenting the air as
seeming to *feel* it. It was probably as unnecessary a gesture as the
patient obedience to traffic signals -- any large building could hold a
nest of demons, and most did.

It was also probably as vitally important as the same.

Another moment and they continued on, straight ahead. Oz realized he was
heeling Xander again and quietly continued to do it. The analysis of his
relationship with Xander was... pending.

And would most probably remain so for the immediate future. For as long
as his body could remember the taste of Slayer blood with joy, and
hunger. There were no pauses when it came to the killing of innocents,
nothing free.

And that was only right, but it wasn't... fair. The thought opened
something within in, some creaking mystery responding to his thoughts.

Oz tried it again: It wasn't fair. It was not fair. It wasn't fair at
all.

A dangerous taste to the words, temptation. But the mystery only basked,
heating him from the inside out. And there was Devon, finding him
unerringly at Hide and Seek, Dev's little brother crawling around on one
particular patch of lawn, day after day, until it was his own personal
dust bowl. David had always had a disturbing focus.

It wasn't fair.

It was, in fact, profoundly unfair. Perhaps not extremely unfair, or
magnificently unfair, but there was definitely a profundity to it all.
The woman who still had small fingers wrapped around a part of his soul,
who he feared and hated and desired with nearly the same intensity as
touch.

Willow, winding through wolf and man. Agreement, but no pause.

Another Slayer, another good scent. A hunger not unlike his own. She was
watchful of him, the knowledge of his crime, his crimes brashly, bluntly
readable across her face. She had reached out once when they were alone,
running callused fingertips over his face. Open curiosity followed by
the barest hint of a blush when she'd realized what she'd been doing.

And Xander.

At his side and almost entirely in his own world, runes flaring briefly
before sinking back under the skin, over and over. Hunting for the
battle. Only 'almost' because of the touches that were too... heavy,
somehow, to be unconscious. Yes, Oz wanted to say, I'm here.

Yes, I know that it's hard for you to look at my face.

Yes, please, give me your anger.

Please.

Xander had begun wearing clothes again, exactly what he would have been
wearing to school. Oz had not, and most probably would not until the
temperatures began dropping. Clothes seemed a betrayal of something, or
just a lie. Xander's clothes seemed as realistic as a paper doll's.
Perhaps they just felt good against his skin.

He was holding the bag, still, as well. It made Oz keep his distance in
a way he knew was foolish just as well as he knew it was necessary.

Brush to his shoulder, tickling the fur of his sideburns, too, and then
they were into the park, green and welcoming to all parts of him, though
much, much too small. Too tamed. He *was* free to go now, Willow having
released the spell as soon as she regained consciousness. His family was
out there, and blood...

Blood calls to blood.

Xander led him to a bench where they sat several minutes in silence.

"Oz..."

"Yeah."

"Eat a donut."

And it twisted inside him /Isn't he thoughtful?/ and Kendra and Xander
and Giles' mild, mild chagrin and it wouldn't change *anything*, not one
damned thing that had come before.

Not fair, Willow, you don't play fair and Xander...

His eyes, black as Oz's own, unreadable on their own, but Oz smelled
tears. And... something like hope.

He ate the donut, and smiled to himself, a little. Wondered if the apple
filling could be replaced with something useful, like chunks of steak.

And then he leaned back against the bench, and raised his face to the
sun.

*

Cordelia Chase stepped out of her newly refurbished office and surveyed
the scene from the second floor catwalk.

Now *this*, she thought, was what a lair *could* be with a little
effort.

And certainly her little army of minions had put in their fair share of
effort.  The place was not quite spotless but still, all the unclaimed
body parts had been moved out of her sight and the dust had been dusted
and the major holes patched.  Plus Gillian and Tina had found some
totally awesome office furnishing at the Ikea in San Ruis which made the
place look very upscale.

Have to reward them somehow.  Maybe after... well, *after*.  And the
thought made her vaguely uncomfortable so she just skipped over it, went
to the parts that were good.  Better than good.

Drusilla the Whacked was dead and she was alive.  Spike was probably
dead, too, though there was no good way to identify who was what with
the massive amounts of dust present. Apparently, there'd been a Slayer
here...

Which again brought her into the not-good and made her frown, which was
bad because now that she was immortal it was *really* important to
practice good skin care and... a minion approached, bearing a clipboard.

"Yes?"

"Sorry to bother you Mistr... uh, Ms. Chase but the car has arrived with
your... shipment."

"And...?"  Cordelia asked, hands on hips.  The minion cringed and looked
vaguely terrified.

"And...?"

"And... where *is* it?"

"You want them to... to bring it here, Mistress?"

"No, I want you to turn into a bat and fly down there and bring it up
yourself.  Of course I want them to bring it up, idiot."

"Yes, Mistress.  Right away, Mistress."

"Miss...?"

"Miss... Miss.... Ms. Chase!"  The minion babbled, backing away, then
turned and scurried down the stairs.  Cordelia smiled.  Snyder was
really too ugly and stupid to have risen as high as she'd let him, but
there was an undeniable satisfaction in the crawling.

A moment or two later and Snyder returned, leading three vampires with a
large, leather strapped trunk.  Cordelia directed them to put the trunk
on the desk in her office and then leave.  With the door closed behind
her, Cordelia contemplated her prize.

The trunk was about four feet long, two feet high and two feet deep. Not
Louis Vuitton by any stretch of the imagination and it irked Cordelia
more than she could say that all things vamp seemed to be old and
moldering and... gross.  There really wasn't any need for that. No
reason at all why a vampire couldn't be clean and well dressed and work
in a stylish office and keep up with current fashions.  No reason at all
and plenty of reasons *to*.

Dressing for success might be cliche, but it was cliche because, like so
many cliches, it was true.   Look what the Morticia Addams look had done
for Drusilla, the Leather Pony Boy look for Spike.

And okay, not that Cordelia thought her survival had been guaranteed by
wearing the right color of nail polish -- although Cappuccino Blush Melon
was a *bitching* shade of beige -- it was more that the kind of people
who wore the right color nail polish were the kind of people who
survived.

No.  Who did more than just survive.

And that brought her back to the box again and the not-so-happy
feelings.  Memories.

-- Pain and weakness and so much pleasure and the rich hot power of
power straight from the source --

She ran her fingers over the box lid, unbuckled the buckles. Unsnapped
the locks.  Rested her beautifully manicured fingertips on the lid of
the chest and tried to feel... something.  Like back at the schoolyard.
That big sucking draw that had tried to pull her in.  Called to her.
But there was nothing.  Just an old, dirty, ugly chest.  She opened the
lid.  Full of bones.

*His* bones.  The Master, and okay, the name and the thought of him did
give her a nasty little shiver in places where nasty shivers sometimes
went -- and she'd wanted them and wanted them since she'd first known
she could and it was the first real vampire-like order she'd given her
minions that didn't have anything to do with making things look good.
Because honestly, these really did *not*.

And, no, that wasn't the point, was it?  There was supposed to be
something more important about the bones than what they looked like.
Some power they would give her or create or *something*. He had been
calling her for all this time for *something*, hadn't he?

Cordelia looked down into the box,  Really, *really* ugly bones.  Yellow
like a smokers teeth, and chunky and crumbling at the edges and... ugh --
she wrinkled her nose delicately -- they *smelled*.   And sitting on
top, the empty eyed, bat nosed, fanged skull stared up at her all
pathetic.

"Well?" she asked.  "Haven't you?"

The skull didn't answer.  Cordelia poked at it, surprised at how small
it was.  Funny, birdy little thing.  Light as a feather really.  Not
filthy like the rest of the bones.  She reached in, picked it up, held
it at eye level. Powerful.  He had been.  Very.  Had taken out the
Slayer and everything. Was going to rule the world.  Someday.  But, you
know, she just couldn't deny the truth.  The Master had been, from head
to toe, one *ugly* vampire.

"And *you* didn't exactly survive, either, did you..."  And she felt
something melt inside her.  Just poof, fade away like a craving for
chocolate that suddenly passed when your period actually showed and
Cordelia smiled.

Pressed the buzzer on her desk.

"Yes, Ms. Chase?" Snyder's voice came through the intercom.

"I want a car," Cordelia said.  "The Cadillac, not the Lexus.  And make
sure there's plenty of Crystal Light in the bar and I want some
books..."

"B-books, Mistress?"

"Yes, books.  On Management and Business and Accounting and... and... how
to run really *big* things..."

"Big things?"

"Yeah," Cordelia said.  "Cities.  Countries.  Whatever is bigger than
countries."

"Yes, Mistress.  Books."

"And you better bring along some people to read them too," she added.
"But *only* A-list.  You got that?  And in the meantime, start packing
this place up.  We're moving the head office."

"Yes, Mistress," Snyder said, scribbling frantically.  "And to, uh,
um... to where?"  Cordelia , grinned at the light little ugly skull in
her hand, tossed it in the air and caught it.  There were lots of places
she could start, but ultimately it really wasn't going to make a
difference.  So this was just for her.

"Hollywood," Cordelia said.  "I think I'm going to *kill* in pictures."

In fact, she was sure of it.

The.  End.