.............................

The hunger is not gone. It still gnaws at her gut, still rages its incessant demands in her throat. She realises now that the hunger will never be gone, that she will never be sated. But the cold pig's blood in her stomach has eased the desperation of it a little and she can see something beyond that clawing, red need.

She is calm, reasoned. She feels the pain in her gut, the raging of the dark, slithering thing within her as it throws the full weight of its corruption against the righteous fortress of her essence, but she is removed from it, almost serene in her cocoon of unnatural calm.

One thought is clear. One ever-repeating phrase that her mind declares over and over: "I am that which should not be." This handful of simple words is the only certainty she understands. Later, the thought will bring with it despair, perhaps again the raging madness to which she woke, but, for the present, they are merely a curious and inescapable truth. "I am that which should not be."

Her cotton wool mind has enough clarity now for her to understand that she entered into this rashly. With the arrogance and indestructible vanity of youth. She had thought this act a noble sacrifice of love, something heroic and courageous. Now she realises it was not; it was ugly and foolish and maybe even at its core selfish. Certainly it was ill-advised.

He is coming back. She can sense him moving towards her. He is above her now and to her right, but he is moving this way, and that thought brings a warmth to her belly that reheated animal blood could not. With his return she feels the thing within her focus its will on him. He is more necessary to it than the violence and destruction it craves, even more compelling than its red raw thirst. He is sire and he is coming to her again.

He is also Spike, but that seems less important now. That she loved him as a man just days ago is irrelevant: this is something more than love. Love is a fragile, transitory thing compared with what she feels now. She is his, bound eternally to him. Or is this something less? There is no free will in this, no choice. She has sold herself to him for a few sips of his blood. Abandoned the soul he loved so much in her and subjugated herself to him, his grateful slave and possession. As this temporary coherence of thought slips away, to be replaced by the mindless peace of sedation, she thinks briefly that perhaps he will hate her for that most of all.

………………………………

Carlotta is unmarked and quiet when they returned. True to his word, the boy had kept the watcher and his witch away from her, and true to their word they have been able to calm her.

She watches him through her lashes, eyes hazy with magic and intense with devotion. She watches him as he moves tentatively towards her, afraid to move to fast, to make a noise or gesture that will send her again into screaming insanity.

"Anjo?" Even that whispered question sounds loud and jarring in the stillness of the basement. "Lotta?"

She bows her head and lets out a low submissive growl. It is instinct, an almost involuntary reaction to her sire's presence, and he struggles to beat back the rising tide of despair. He tries to focus on his love for the woman she was, but his demon too is reacting to their kinship. She is his, she exists because he created her, she is unformed clay and he the potter. He takes a step back. This is not how it should be, she had been his love, his saviour, the only woman in the world who could have rescued him from the emotional sinking sand that was loving Buffy Summers, the only person since his gentle mother who loved him simply for himself.

Buffy is talking with the witch in agitated whispers. He could easily hear them if he were not so consumed with the knowledge of losing Lotta. Ironic how it is in the moment that he recognises she is his forever that he realises he has truly lost her.

"Steph won't last more than an hour, Buffy." Willow's voice rises and he can't help but hear them now. "We have to do the spell now."

"Willow, we can't." Buffy's voice is torn, her desire to spare him warring with the gravity of the slayer situation. There is no need for her to suffer this moral dilemma. Nothing will change within the next few hours or days that will make this any easier. It is time for them to reap the rewards of Carlotta's sacrifice.

He holds out his hand without looking at the girls, and it is Buffy who understands, always seems to understand. She places the syringe, warm from having spent the last few minutes clutched in Willow's moist palm, in his hand and steps back, ushering Willow and the boy out of the basement. This is something he must do alone and, again, she understands that.

Lotta growls weakly in her chest when his hand touches the cold skin of her arm, and he almost shrinks away from the clammy lifelessness of it. How could she bear to touch him before? How had she, so full of warmth and life, been able to stand the feel of his dead skin against her own?

He ignores the repulsed shudder that runs through his body and strokes the underside of her elbow. "All right, pet," he coos softly, and is at once vividly reminded of taking care of Dru all those years. "Just a little prick." He slides the needle into the clotted vein, watching her intently for signs of fear or distress. She doesn't seem to notice the needle as she slips deeper into the witch's magical sedation.

A small frown flashes across her forehead, but the expression is gone in an instant and her face is blank as she blinks her vacant eyes once and tells him in a soft, unemotional voice, "I am that which should not be."

…………………………..

The spell had worked. With a few drops of Carlotta's demonised blood, Willow has stripped the girls of their power just as easily as she had granted it two years before. Almost immediately, the few slayers still in the early stages of the disease had been cured, many more began to show improvement, and three of the sixteen coma victims were awake within the hour.

She had entertained the hope that the spell would also be Carlotta's saving, that she too would be robbed of the slayer within. She'd be a vampire then, but at least she would be sane. Of course it hadn't.

Spike had been subdued when she'd joined him again in the basement as he watched over Carlotta with forlorn eyes. Numbly wiping away the thin line of spittle that occasional ran over her sagging lower lip and onto her chin, or adjusting her uncoordinated body in its chains enough that he could make her comfortable on the old cot they had salvaged for her from one of the hotel's outbuildings.

His touches had been gentle, and his softly murmured words: "There, luv, let's clean that up for you." "Come on now, pet. Lie you down here, all comfy like." "There, much better. Pretty as a picture," had been full of heartbreaking compassion.

But it had been impossible not to notice that he never let his eyes linger on her face, that for all the gentleness and sympathy of his hands when he touched her, there was no tenderness in the gestures. Gone was the reverent care with which he had handled her dead body, replaced with an almost professional detachment that no amount of murmured endearments could conceal. She also noticed that he didn't once call her by name, or his preferred "Anjo."

She had offered her support, silently asking him with a gentle brush of her fingers over his hand if he wanted her to stay. He had shaken his head and given her the glimmer of a smile that didn't get near his eyes and she had left him to his grief.

"Another girl woke up." Angel's voice pulls her attention back to the present and she frowns as she tries to focus on what he is saying.

"Who?" She doesn't look at him as they both potter about their room, going through the robotic routine of getting ready for bed.

"I think Willow said her name was Cassy."

Cassy: rude, lazy Cassy who had always treated her calling with contempt. Sulky, unhelpful and graceless Cassy is awake, and is going to be fine. Well, isn't that fan-fucking-tastic. She wasn't even half the slayer—half the person—Carlotta was. Cassy is going to be fine. Carlotta is chained in a dank basement dribbling on herself, but Cassy is going to be fine.

"Great," she bites out, not bothering to hide her disdain. Wow, isn't life just the fairest thing?

She sees him approach in the mirror of her dressing table, so she is ready when his hands land on her shoulders and she can clamp down hard on the instinctive desire to tense under his touch. She has been neglecting him. She knows that since Spike came back, even before this awful business with Carlotta, she has been treating him badly. She remembers how, confused and insecure by the arrival of Spike and his beautiful girlfriend, she had blown hot and cold, one minute clinging and desperate for reassurance, the next withdrawn and crabby.

Since Carlotta's death. Can she call it that? She feels she must. She saw her body, after all. She has barely spent more than an hour or two with Angel, so preoccupied has she been with Spike's needs. So when his touch on her neck turns sensuous in intent, she fights down the urge to pull away and turns to face him with a welcoming smile.

"You okay, baby?" he asks, soft and concerned, his voice and expression inviting her to unburden on him, to let him in, to let him help. She can't. This terrible thing is Spike's and his alone, so she simply nods sadly and allows him to lay his lips over hers.

It is strange, and she has thought this for a long time, that Angel seems so much smaller than Spike. She can't remember now if it has always been this way, if in Sunnydale all those years ago, arrogant brash Spike had seemed to fill the room, with his bravado and gruesomely imaginative threats, while deep soulful Angel had blended almost invisibly into the shadows.

Certainly she has felt this way since Angel's return to humanity, and she feels it now as he lays her back across their bed and covers her body with his own. He is small and fragile and human. She could break him so easily in accidental passion, but she is by now so used to restraining herself that he is probably quite safe.

She long ago stopped fantasising about Spike when she and Angel are together. Between Spike's demise in the hellmouth and Angel's Shanshu, she had taken a few lovers, most notably The Immortal, and had never once slept with one of them without wishing, fantasising, that it were Spike in her bed. But with Angel it had seemed wrong to give herself over to the comfort of those illusions. Not just unfair to Angel, whom she had always loved, but somehow a disservice to Spike. He had, after all, hated Angel with a fiery passion.

So she had learned to keep her fantasies for late night patrols when she would slip into some abandoned crypt that smelt of old earth and let her own hands, chilled by the night air, become his against her skin.

But Spike is back, real and alive, and she has felt his lips on hers more than once since his return, has felt his cold hands skimming—oh so disappointingly briefly—over her skin. It is impossible now not to think of him as Angel moves within her, his back hunched so that he can reach down and trail uncomfortably hot kisses along her throat.

Impossible not to remember how much better Spike's slight body fitted in the cradle of her own slim hips. How when they lay together she could look into his stormy eyes rather that find her nose pressed against a bulky chest. Impossible not to marvel at how small this huge man feels in comparison to her skinny 5'10" vampire.

She feels him begin to tire and can't help but notice the unease in his eyes when she flips them over with an effortless flick of her powerful hips. She slows her pace, going deliberately, frustratingly, slow and gentle, and is too slow to banish her adulterous wish that it could be Spike beneath her.

He comes without warning and pulls her body down against him with a sigh. Surely he knows that something is wrong, has been wrong from the start even when she had been so sure that all her wishes had come true. She sighs in response and realises that she will have to let him go.

He is a good man and he deserves better than half a heart. He deserves a real love, not this illusion of memory and affection. Tonight she will let him hold her; for once, she will enjoy the warmth of his body rather than retreat from it. Tomorrow she will let him go.


.............................................

-------------------------------------------

"I love you." She hates to break the kiss but she simply must tell her lover how she feels; she is so relieved that they can be together again. "I'm so glad you're okay now."

"Me too." The dark eyes sparkle with jubilation. "All thanks to you. You're so clever. I can't believe I'm lucky enough to have you."

She feels herself flush at the compliment and looks coyly away. "Well, not just thanks to me. Really it was Carlotta." Guilt clouds her good mood and she sighs heavily.

"Then I'll make a point of thanking her personally just as soon as you and I make up for all that lost time while I was sick." Kennedy's kiss is sensuous and joyful, an expression of life that she wants nothing more than to lose herself in completely. There has been so much death. Would it be so bad to celebrate life here with her girlfriend?

Guilt twists again in her gut and she slumps away from Kennedy's searching hands. "What's wrong, baby?" Concern narrows her eyes and a small frown mars the perfect skin of her forehead.

"You can't thank Carlotta." She shakes her head and chews on her lip nervously. What will Kennedy think of her now? "Well, you could, but it wouldn't do much good. Carlotta's gone insane."

Her girlfriend shakes her head uncomprehendingly and she rushes on with the explanation. "Carlotta turned herself into a vampire to save you—all of you. But she's mad now. We've got her sedated and chained in the basement."

For long moments Kennedy just looks confused, blinking and shaking her head. "How could she do that? I mean, make herself a vampire? Surely Spike wouldn't have helped her. He loves her."

"No, Spike didn't help her." Deep breath and come clean, that's all she could do now. Kennedy would find out one way or another anyway. "I did. I know it was an awful thing to do, but she knew how to stop the disease and I was so scared for you."

It seems to take a few moments for her words to sink in then Kennedy is on her feet and backing away eyes full of disbelieving anger. "You did what?"

"I helped her" she rushes the confession. "I had to, it was the only thing that would save you. I didn't want to but she was going to do it anyway and I had to help her, I had to save you" her voice is a pleading whine even in her own ears as she leans forward to try and grasp her lovers hand.

Kennedy snatches her hand away and stares at her with flashing tear filled eyes. "God Willow how could you?" she shakes her head and takes another step back. She was a slayer, don't you have the slightest idea what that means?"

"Please baby, don't be mad I had to do something for you. I did it for you"

"And it makes me sick. I can't even look at you." Kennedy's disdainful expression is painful to see after everything she went through to save her. "I'm going don't follow me"

The tears come as soon as the door closes, pain, rejection and guilt making her eyes flow with tears. Now that the manic worry is gone, now that Kennedy is okay, there is nothing keeping her from the reality of what she has done to Carlotta, and there is nothing to do but bury her head in the pillow and cry.

…………………………..

"I'm not certain how much more we can do." Giles' voice is weary and it's understandable that he doesn't have a lot of energy left to think about this. The slayers have been stripped of their power. Only the immunes—those truly destined for the calling—have retained their strength. She isn't clear on the details of the spell Willow performed, and she's fairly sure she doesn't want to be. Someone tried to explain how the power in Carlotta's vamperised blood—and that thought alone is enough to make her shudder—was used to stabilise the imbalance of power within the infected slayers. She doesn't understand but she suspects the spell was done in desperation rather than confidence, and it was probably more due to luck than judgement that it hadn't killed them all.

"Well, we have to do something." She may not be a slayer anymore but she still has the confidence and authority of the calling. "We can't leave her—what, did Buffy say? —comatosed."

"I'm with ya, man." Faith, leaning languidly against the far wall, adds her husky drawl to the cause. "We owe this chick big time."

She turns her face expectantly to Giles. If anyone can find a solution it is the watcher; she has learned to respect him over the last three years and has complete faith in him now. "Do we know why she's so crazy? Maybe that's a good place to start. If we understand that, we can help."

"I really don't think you can. Carlotta is insane because of the essential opposition between the powers that her body now houses. There can be no amity between her demon and slayer parts. The demon is essential: it keeps her alive, or undead. And if the spell that saved you didn't remove the slayer essence, I doubt there is anything else we can do."

"We have to do something," she repeats more forcefully. Willow did this terrible wrong to save her, and it is up to her now to right it.

"She's right." Buffy's voice, calm and sure, brings the room to attention and she finds herself reminded of Sunnydale. Of Buffy, the chosen one, alone and detached, a strong and commanding general. How has Buffy slipped back so seamlessly into that old identity while she is still floundering in her lack of power?

"We do have to help Carlotta. Kennedy, go and get Willow. We'll need her for this." Buffy must misread her hesitation as an attempt to protect her girlfriend, because her mouth hardens and her eyes flash dangerously. "Get her, Kennedy," she orders curtly. "She did this; she's damn well going to help fix it."

"Buffy." Giles stands and faces her; the watcher at least is not cowed by his slayer's authority. "I appreciate what you are trying to do, and doubtless we have an obligation—a debt of gratitude—to Carlotta, but perhaps the more pressing matter is that we now have only a handful of slayers left. It is not unreasonable to expect a demon backlash after such a long period of slayer domination."

"We've got fourteen." Buffy dismisses his concerns. "That's still twelve more than there used to be. Faith, can you and Robin cover getting the girls organised? Contact Mr Patterson in London. I know he's unbelievably stuffy but he's good. He can sort things out on the Europe side. I think he's got two girls out there, and Maria's dying to go home; she can take Emily back with her, too. That leaves you eight fully-fledged slayers to share between Cleveland and the rest of the Americas."

"I got it, B. You and the old guard just concentrate on paying our debt, okay?"

Buffy smiles gratefully at the dark slayer before turning to Giles again, obviously satisfied that slayer business is taken care of.

"Buffy—" She interrupts the blonde before she can speak. "What about the rest of us?" Buffy surely doesn't think it is over for them. "I mean us, us non-immunes. What about us?"

"You go home, I guess." Buffy looks as if the answer were obvious. "You got un-chosen. Congratulations, you get to have a life."

"I don't think so." She is suddenly angry with the elder slayer. Does all they've contributed in the last three years suddenly count for nothing? "We may not be super strong anymore but we're still slayers. I can't see many of us walking away from the fight now. Normal life? Are you joking? What would any of us want with one of those?"

Something she has said has struck a nerve with Buffy: her pretty face is creased with deep thought. The faint lines around her eyes and mouth that mark the passage of time are cutting deeper. Then she seems to come to a decision, or perhaps it is a realisation. She nods once and turns again to Faith. "Talk to the ex-slayers, get volunteers. Those who wanna keep fighting can form tactical support groups for the slayers."

"Buffy, really, I think…" But Buffy isn't about to listen to her watcher's protests.

"Faith and Patterson can handle it." Her voice brooks no argument. "As soon as we've found a way to help Carlotta, we'll join them." Again she turns to Faith. "I know you and Robin like to do your nomad thing, so as soon as I can I'll come to Cleveland to take over the hellmouth."

This more than anything stuns Giles into silence and he looks for a moment like he will continue the argument. She must admit she is as surprised as the watcher. While Buffy has been active since the destruction of Sunnydale, she has been a figurehead, a guide and mentor. That she is so willing to return to the frontline is something of a shock.

"Buffy—"

"Later, Giles." Her voice is unnecessarily harsh; she seems to realise it immediately and softens as she turns to him. "I'm sorry, Giles. We'll talk about it later, I promise. Right now, we need to concentrate on helping Carlotta."

"I'll get Willow." She is ready for action. They need to do this and quickly; the thought of leaving a fellow slayer to such a fate is abhorrent to her.

"Thanks, Kennedy. Get Dawn, too, and Xander."

…………………………………………….

She's a coward. She should have done it this morning when they woke up. She had been resolved to. It was time to make a break. Better for both of them if she made it quick and clean. But then Angel had woken up and smiled lovingly at her and thanked her for a wonderful night, and he had told her she was everything to him and promised her things would work themselves out.

He'd looked so happy, so full of renewed hope, that she had turned tail and fled like the big emotional scaredy cat she was, unable to face the agony of breaking his heart. She'd longed to go to the basement, had wanted to be close to him, even though she knew nothing could happen between them, even though she didn't know even how he felt about her now. She had wanted so badly to go to him, just to be close, close enough to know she could reach out and touch him.

She sighs and glances round the room: they are all here, rallying round, searching for the solutions just like the old days, but not. Xander's jokes are tired and jaded, and his eyes are hollow. Giles looks just plain old; his hair is more than flecked with grey now and the lines around his eyes which had lent him a rakish older man attractiveness are now just weathered creases in his skin.

And Willow. Even as she hates Willow for what she has done, still she can't help but understand. Flawed as her actions have been, her motives are all too easy to understand, trade a loved ones life for a stranger's? No contest really, she herself would have let the whole world burn to save Dawn not so very long ago. It is these moral inadequacies that make us human she supposes.

No it is not Willow's actions that keep the anger burning in her it is her refusal to truly accept any blame. She has mumbled excuses, "Carlotta would have done it anyway", "It saved them all", "I had no choice". She twists and turns and tries to wriggle out from under the weight of her culpability when she should at least try and bear the responsibility. Surely she owes them all that much.

With a sigh, she gets up and wanders to the adjoining library. This book isn't helping; none of the books are helping. This is unprecedented, unimaginable. No one has experienced or hypothesised about a slayer vamp. They are treading new ground with this. And it feels like quagmire under her feet.

"Buffy?" Giles' voice startles her from her thoughts and she spins to face him. "I wanted to ask you if you are quite sure about your decision to return to Cleveland. Even in the current circumstances, there are still enough slayers that you could—"

"Giles." She cuts him off and gives him a wan smile. "It's okay. I should go."

"My dear," he remonstrates softly. "I don't think even now anyone could doubt that you've earned your retirement. Let Faith and the others carry the torch. There's no need to disrupt your life any further."

She feels a wry smile tug at her lips as she flashes back to Kennedy's words. "My normal life?" She can't help but chuckle. How come Kennedy got it after such a short time and she'd been so wrong for so many years? "What the hell would I do with one of those?"

He seems to be having trouble understanding what she is saying, and she can understand that. Even she hadn't understood that the normal life she'd craved was not for her until she'd walked a mile in those comfortable but unfulfilling shoes.

Giles is speaking again and she focuses on what he is asking her. "Have you spoken to Angel about this?"

And suddenly he's exactly the right person to tell, quiet and non-judgemental, he is just what she needs. She also knows that if she tells him now then he'll know and she won't be able to back out later.

She shakes her head slowly and takes a deep breath. "No, I haven't." Meeting his eyes, she knows she won't have to spell it out. Giles is perceptive enough, he'll get it. "It won't affect Angel; he won't be coming with me."

"Oh, I...er..." A moment of confusion and then the expected understanding nod. "Ah, I see. And can we assume this decision has something to do with Spike's return?"

She gives him a rueful smile and shakes her head again. "Everything and nothing." He sits down on the steps to her right and she follows his cue and joins him. "There's nothing going on. I mean, with Carlotta and everything, and it's been years and I don't even know if he…" She closes her eyes and sucks in her cheeks in an effort to stop the flow of words. She really hadn't realised how desperately she needed to talk about this to someone. It should have been Angel or Willow, but neither of them could have her confidence in this. "I was losing him anyway, Giles. Angel, I mean. I've known for a while that it wasn't going to last. I love him, you know, with that little bit of me that's still sixteen years old and all starry-eyed."

He inclines his head and silently tells her he's listening. So she studies her nail polish and continues more easily. "But it's not real. It's not me. Not anymore. I've died since then. I've lost people. I've faced the worst of myself and the people I love. I've faced everything the hellmouth can throw at me and I'm still standing. I'm more the slayer now than I've ever been. The hellmouth—any hellmouth—is always going to be where I belong. It took me a while, but I'm okay with it now."

"And Spike?"

"I love him." A momentous confession, and yet it slips from her tongue with almost careless ease. "I always did, I think. Took a while to realise it, but I think I did." She slips into contemplative silence for a while but he doesn't ask her to say more, merely waits for her to continue. "It was okay when I thought he was dead. Well, no, it wasn't; it was terrible, but I could just love the memory and the grief and it was okay to carry on because, trite as it sounds, that's what he wanted for me. Then I saw him again and it wasn't okay anymore. It wasn't fair on Angel, or on me. I haven't told Angel yet. It's so hard, but I will. I'd rather be on my own than with the wrong guy."

"My dear girl" she hadn't realised she was crying, soft unobtrusive tears, resigned and subdued under the rough pad of his thumb as he wipes them away with fatherly care..

"It's okay Giles" and her smile is sad but genuine because perhaps it is okay. Okay to love and loose. She is reconciled to live without love, to offer up friendship and support in its stead and ask nothing in return. She is in the mood for letting things go. There is after all nothing worth having that can be held in place by force.

"I'm gonna check on Spike and Carlotta. You guys keep working on it."


------------------------------------

...............................

He was sitting on the floor outside the basement door when Buffy came to him, smelling faintly of tears, and the smile he had tried to welcome her with had come out as a grimace. He'd had to leave the basement. Hadn't been able to stay there a moment longer with her vacant eyes on him.

He'd loved her for so many reasons. Loved her in gratitude for all she'd given him. Respected her strength and wisdom the uncomplicated morality that made it so easy for her to live with loving him and with her calling. The way she saw him in vibrant colours when he'd been convinced he was nothing more than a spectrum of lusterless grey.

Buffy is settling herself next to him, side on against the wall, her head tilted to lean against the plaster as she watches him. It has always been different with Buffy; never in all the years that she has captivated him has he been able to think of a single good reason for loving Buffy Summers. Oh, he could fill pages with reasons not to. Could list her faults for days and give a million reasons why he should hate her. But not one single reason why he should love her. Why he does love her still with such all-consuming passion?

"How you doing?" she asks, and even though she's been so good to him since his return he still finds himself surprised by the gentleness of her question and the depth of concern in her pink-rimmed eyes.

"You been crying?" It's not really a question; he can smell the linger scent of salt water on her skin.

The surprise registers in her eyes for just an instant and then she nods, making her hair ruck up against the wall. "Yeah. Got all weepy on Giles." She tries to lighten the mood but it's half hearted at best. "He did pretty well, considering he's British. Didn't clean his glasses once."

It's a sham, this light banter, but God knows it's better than the alternative, so he joins in. "Spent too long in the colonies then. Next thing you know he'll be all talking-about-his-feelings and great nauseating group hugs."

"I think he's got a long way to go before he talks about his feelings. But he can listen now without mumbling 'oh dear' and 'quite, quite.'" She attempts a British accent and it's a poor enough effort to make the vampire smile slightly.

She waits a moment, her sparkling green eyes locked on his, just staring into him as if she's trying to decide something about him. It's not as disconcerting as he'd have imagined; it's actually strangely comforting.

"You should take a break. You've hardly slept in days. Come and get some sleep. She'll be okay for a couple of hours; I'll have Xander check on her." She stands up and offers him her hand. It's tempting; he's so tired, bone achingly mind numbingly tired. And did she say come and get some sleep or go and get some?

She's looking expectantly at him, her little hand with its girly sugar pink nails still stretched out to him. "Come on," she invites more forcefully. "You kinda need to shower, too."

He takes her hand and she hauls him to his feet with that effortless strength that always made him feel deliciously weak and incredibly powerful all at once. "You just come here to criticise my personal hygiene, pet?" he asks sardonically, and she gives him a cheeky grin.

"That's kinda the idea. Come on, stinky." And with that she leads him away by the hand.

…………………..

Her mind works quickly as they climb the back stairs. Spike needs a shower but she can't take him back to the room where he and Carlotta stayed together, certainly can't expect him to use that bathroom. She isn't sure which of the free rooms have running water, not to mention towels and soap. They could just start wandering from room to room but she doesn't really want to draw his attention to where they're not going.

That leaves her own room. Her and Angel's room, she corrects herself mentally. She can't take him there; it wouldn't be right. But it's not like Angel would know. He's gone into town with Kennedy to get supplies and sort out travel arrangements for Maria and Emily, and won't be back for hours. Damn it, she's even thinking like an adulterer now. He's just coming back for a shower and a sleep. Perfectly innocent. He can do that in her room.

"Your room, pet?" he asks as they step inside, and she's glad she changed the sheets this morning, would hate the room to reek of her and Angel having sex.

He looks uncomfortable so she plays it cool and lets go of his hand as they enter the room. "Yep," she throws over her shoulder with deliberate casualness. "I gotta get a change of clothes. You go shower. It's through there." She points to the bathroom without turning to look at him. Perhaps her room was a mistake. He might read too much into it, might think she wants something from him.

She turns around ready to apologise, to suggest they look for a free room, but he is already disappearing into the en suite and she can relax and flop down on the fresh linen of her bed.

A moment later she is waking up without having been aware of going to sleep, and he is in front of her, crouching by the bed in just his jeans, smelling of steam and soap. Her eyes latch on to his and she feels a shudder of fear ripple through her body.

He has been so sad and vulnerable, so human in his grief, that she had almost forgotten that he is soulless. She remembers now that he is a hundred percent demon. Perhaps the shower was a mistake. She had hoped to give him distance, even a little respite. What she has given him is time to think. She dreads to think where his mind has gone as she takes in his coiled muscles and hard, glinting eyes. There is nothing vulnerable about him now.

"Spike?" she questions softly, and his eyes flash with danger. She can almost see the anger burning just beneath the icy calm of his exterior. He is compelling like this, with ice-cold fire in his magnetic eyes. It is like this that he first captivated her, even while she denied it with every fibre of her being. And now she must admit to herself that while she loved him in that last year in Sunnydale, it was in spite of and not because of the convenient excuse of his restored soul.

"I could kill the witch," he tells her in an almost conspiratorial whisper. "Been thinking about how best to do it. Don't want it all over too soon; gotta see she suffers."

"You won't," she replies, her voice sounding with more conviction than she feels. "And even if you tried, I'd stop you."

His lips curl into a disdainful sneer. "Course you would." She can almost feel his anger redirecting on her. It's okay, she can take it; will willingly do so if it could help him even for a moment. Her mind flashes back to a dark Sunnydale alley, what had he said? "Put it all on me, that's my girl."

She stands, forcing him to straighten and step back. "Defender of all things pure and innocent. That's you, luv, ain't it?" He pushes her hair off her face in a parody of tenderness, his eyes flashing poison, his hand rough in the tangled strands.

"She's not innocent." Where the hell had that come from? She was supposed to be defending her friend, not condemning her. But the voice of the slayer within her, dark and primal, calls for vengeance as surely as his demon does. The witch wronged all slayers when she did this.

"But you'll protect her anyway, 'cos she's human and we're not." It's not a question, but his hard eyes demand that she answer.

"Yes." And it's true. Despite that she loves him, despite that at this moment she hates Willow, it's true.

"Still as sanctimonious a little bitch as you ever were." His callous words are like physical pain in her chest, but she can't back away from his anger. It calls to her with an irresistible, primal attraction. He pushes forward again but she's not about to step back from him like some frightened little girl.

"I do what I have to, what I was made to do. You know that." Her voice is low and sure, and even she can hear the power in it.

"Don't we all." There is venom in his voice and she knows what is coming even before she catches the movement of his arm in her peripheral vision. She'll let this one land, then all bets are off.

Her cheek stings with the force of his unrestrained backhand as she flies back across the bed. That's it, baby, lay it all on me. She understands him in this moment better than she has ever understood another person, understands his pain his brutally violent ways of dealing.

The bed is between them as she rises to her feet, and he is eyeing her with malicious intent. The pain in him is like poison in an open wound. It must be drawn out before it gets too deep and kills him the way it almost killed her.

"So that's it? She's gone, so you may as well stop caring about anything. Right?" She hates to have to attack him when he is hurt, but he needs this. A creature like Spike can only grieve for so long before he must let rage take over in order to survive. It's used to frighten her.

"Right." He surprises her when he lunges across the bed, lightening-fast hands grabbing her throat and pulling her across the innocent white linen until she is kneeling, facing him. "You try to be better, to be something, and the powers just bloody shit on you. I'm done with caring about anything; it's easier not to fucking bother."

The 'F' word surprises her more than it should. It's not like soulless demons usually watch their Ps and Qs; she's just unused to hearing him use it. "So you just stop? Just like that?" His hands are gripping her slender neck with choking force and she's forced to respond. Her forehead hits the bridge of his nose with a sickening crack and he rears away from her with a roar.

Regaining his equilibrium quickly, he throws a jab that has her own nose spilling a fine rivulet blood over her lip. He freezes suddenly, nostrils flaring, eyes riveted to the sluggish trail of red. She should wipe it off but the intensity of his stare is paralysing so she continues more softly.

"If it was that easy," she murmurs, and his eyes flash from her bloodied lip to her eyes just for a second. "If it was that easy, we'd all do it."

She comes to her knees on the mattress again, bringing their bodies closer together. He is still fixated on the trickle of blood that is almost running into her mouth, his hooded eyes dark with rage and hunger.

She shouldn't do it—it won't help either of them—but she remembers vividly how easy it could be to bury the desolate pain of loss beneath an avalanche of wanton sensation. Maybe she can give him a few moments of distraction, of hard and violent comfort. And, weak as she is, the prospect of that closeness—of any closeness with him—is too much to resist.

Slowly, deliberately, she licks the advancing stream of blood from her top lip, pulling her tongue slowly back into her mouth under his avid gaze. This time his growl holds no threat, only possessive hunger as his hand comes up around her back to grab a handful of her thick blond hair.

"I hate your games, slayer," he tells her in a deadly soft voice that is like a bucket of cold water on her lust-filled senses, and she would pull away but his hand is still gripping her hair. A quick rough jerk and she is off the bed and trapped between his body and the bathroom door and he is sucking the blood roughly from her upper lip.

She responds, just as she always has, pushing against his mouth, hard and demanding in a ruthless attempt to kiss away the pain in him. She shouldn't do it. It's wrong on more levels than she can count. Could hurt so many people. Will without doubt hurt at least the two of them, but she can't help it. It is part selfishness, part weakness and all lust, and it is wrong.

It's so wrong. It's not real. Her mind desperately tries to exert control. This isn't real to him, it's only so much cold comfort. But at this moment she doesn't care. If it's what he needs then let him take it from her body; she owes him that for all the times she took the same from him.

His hands are uncharacteristically clumsy as they find their way up beneath her shirt, rough unsophisticated caresses that at any other time would be anything but arousing. But it's him and even if his touch is artless and his kisses boorish they are his and it's still the only thing she wants.

God, she should stop this. It isn't even real: she could be anyone, any port of comfort in the emotional storm that has battered him ceaselessly for days. She almost pulls away but can't deny herself even this misbegotten scrap of intimacy.

"Buffy." There is desperation in his whispered voice, her name almost a plea, a cry for help as his rough careless hand pushes into the waistband of her jeans. She tastes tears on their joined lips and knows she must stop this. It's cheap and ugly and it will only make things worse for him. But her legs open of their own volition and she tugs at his belt loops with undignified neediness.

He stills suddenly and she can't stifle the frustrated noise that escapes her throat, then the sound of someone clearing his throat renders her equally immobile. It's Giles. She'd know that gruff sound anywhere. Saved by the bell then. Saved from herself. Spike pulls away and turns to face the watcher, leaving her leaning heavily against the wall for support.

"We think we may have something," he informs them calmly, as if he did not just find her crawling up his body like the high school slut on prom night. "Perhaps if you two could come to the library we could fill you in." Thank God for British reserve; she didn't think she could have taken a confrontation at that moment, and would have done anything to spare Spike one.

"We'll be right there, Giles. We'll just check on Carlotta on the way down"

....................................................

...............................................

"Well, that was bracing." He steps back and regards the dead demon. Strange to think that this revolting thing might hold the key to Lotta's sanity.

"My God, it stinks." Buffy's bruised face is scrunched up in disgust. She tosses him her carved dagger without taking her eyes off the stinking mass of mutilated flesh at her feet. "You can get it. I'm not touching that thing."

"A minute ago you where hacking through its arm, now you can't go near it?" he asks as he drops to his knees by the creature's head and begins to dig at the bright blue crystal in its brow.

"Well, a minute ago it was trying to pull your head off. And, by the way, you're welcome." She sounds peeved but he knows better; she enjoys a good tussle as much as he does and that was quite a fight. The demon had been disinclined to die easily and they had virtually minced it with their pair of western broadswords before it finally keeled over. Strong, too. Probably would've removed his head if she hadn't stepped in. He grunts his appreciation noncommittally as he hacks at the leathery skin of its forehead.

"Hurry up," she gripes, impatiently tapping her booted foot. God, she's infuriating. But that's a thought he should avoid because that will inevitably lead his mind back to how infuriating she was in her room earlier that day.

He'd been so angry. Not with her, just with the unfairness of life, and of course with Willow. He'd been angry and she'd been there, all infuriating and beautiful, and there was only one way that could end. She'd felt so vibrant in his arms, so wilfully alive. All the things he has loved and hated in her for so long, all the things his Anjo has lost.

A sudden tide of grief makes his movements jerky and the knife slips across the crystal's hard surface to slice his other hand. "Bloody hell, that hurt." She's at his side in a moment, unbearably concerned as she gently takes the knife from him and resumes the task of prising the crystal from the unfortunate Rashmack's forehead.

Watching her now as he bandages his hand untidily in his own t-shirt, he is painfully aware of how much he still loves her. How, despite that everything is different now, nothing has really changed. She still shines brighter than any other woman he has ever met. Poor Lotta. She had shone, too—a different kind of brightness, warm and mellow, subtle shades of dancing lamp night to Buffy's scorching desert sun, but she had warmed his skin and illuminated his spirit just as surely.

His mind wanders to the Fortaleza club where they met, how her dark hair had sparkled like black gold under the flashing disco lights. He remembers all the thousand ways her ebony eyes had shone. With passion, love, and anger, with violent glee and so often with that guileless wisdom and understanding that was so uniquely hers. It is something she and Buffy have in common. Had in common. Lotta's eyes don't shine now; they glow with feral gold, or glint with madness, but they don't shine and he doubts even if they can restore her sanity that they will ever shine for him again.

"Ha!" A triumphant sound followed by a wet pop signals that the slayer has freed the Rashmack crystal. "Got it! Eww, gross. You take it; I'm not putting it in my pocket."

……………………………………….

"About earlier." Oh no. Damn it, he always has to do this. Can't just let her pretend nothing happened, never 'let's her hide from all the scary emotion she's become a master at avoiding.' "I…"

"No." She cuts him off. Whatever he has to say, it won't be good. "Don't. It's just… Forget it, okay? It was my fault." She can't bear the thought of hearing him say he's sorry. Doesn't want for him to be sorry. Sorry means wrong and she doesn't want it to be wrong.

"Bloody right it was." Her head snaps up in surprise, but there is melancholy teasing in his eyes. "Taking advantage, that's what it was. Flashing your blood at a vulnerable bloke. It's not nice. You should be ashamed."

She laughs and it's not as strained as she would have expected. He's letting her off again. Even now when it's his world that's crumbling, he's considerate enough to try and spare her feelings. "Yeah, well, I'm a minx like that."

"Ain't you just." It's a half-hearted leer but at least he's trying. Trying to re-establish their shifting roles.

She sidesteps the expected response. Their roles have changed. She doesn't want to play the stuck up bitch to his lecherous pig anymore. "You think it'll work?" she asks, gesturing towards his pocket with her broadsword.

"Guess we'll see." His voice holds a hopelessness that is out of place with the positive turn of events, and she struggles to understand it. Giles had been certain that the balancing properties of the Rashmack crystal could be used to create an equilibrium between Carlotta's dissonant natures. Willow is more than powerful enough to perform the blessing. She shudders slightly at the thought of her friend once again casting her misused magic over Carlotta, but they have little choice. There's no one else who can do it.

All in all it's looking a thousand times rosier for Spike and Carlotta. And she is glad about that. He just doesn't seem to be.

…………………………………….

Latin words wash over the suddenly quiet room, coating the raw silence left by the cessation of Carlotta's tortured cries with magical balm. She shivers with sensation as the energy makes the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She used to be so fascinated with magic, had watched Willow and Tara with awe as they wove their spells.

Thinking of Tara now makes her sad. So few of all the many people in her life that have loved her have actually been her friend. They had all been Buffy's friends, not hers. Oh, they'd cared about her—that was undeniably true—but only Tara and Spike had actually liked her back then.

Carlotta had liked her, too, and she'd liked Carlotta. She'd been so happy to be able to make friends with Spike's girlfriend, had pictured spending time with the couple when it had all been over. Messing about with Carlotta, teasing Spike. The two of them had even gone so far as to make plans. "You must come to South America," Carlotta had told her. "Spike and I have rooms on the jungle's edge. You will come and stay with us and I will show you the forest. And also the night life. We will go to Rio and dance with all the pretty boys." They'd laughed; it had sounded such fun. It wouldn't happen now.

Carlotta is quiet now and deadly still, and the bright blue crystal around her neck is glowing softly at its centre. They're all so sure that this will work and she hopes to God they're right. She didn't deserve what has happened to her. Nor does Spike.

A glance at the vampire tells her all she need to know about his feelings. His face is a mask of stoic calm, his posture rigid. She's seen him like this before and that thought is enough to bring the shudders back. She'd seen him like this when Buffy was gone.

Buffy's with him now, of course. Standing close by, her hand grasping his in a gesture of support. She knows the others wonder at her motives but she already knows. Has known for years, probably even before Buffy herself knew, that she is in love with Spike. She prides herself on her perception.

The crystal flares once with bright blue light then fades quickly to mirrored topaz. Lotta looks around them and her eyes say that she is sane.

……………………………………..

"Anjo?" He hates the hoarse hopefulness of his own voice. Hates that he has allowed himself for even a second to believe that she might be restored to herself again.

"Spike," she whispers, her voice filled with confused devotion. "My love, my sire."

He shouldn't have hoped, should have known she would be changed. Buffy's grip on his hand tightens and he feels a rush of love for her. He had been so wrong to think there was no reason to love her. She's been amazing since he came back, and he can almost imagine that this is what it is like to have real friends, people to support you when life pisses in your A Positive.

It's almost enough. To have her close to him like this. To believe that in some small way she has come to care for him. It's not the intense, burning love he feels for her, but it's something. He grips her hand tighter, trying to steal some of her incredible strength through the warm skin of her palm.

Carlotta tips her head to the side as if listening to a far off sound, her eyes distant, distracted by what she hears. "It is quieter now."

"The crystal around your neck," Willow explains, nervously gesturing towards her chest where the crystal hangs inches below the butterfly jewel he had given her that fateful night in that jungle town when Giles had come to destroy their carefully constructed lives. "It helps you keep balanced."

She looks confused for a moment then looks down at his stolen gift. "I will never take it off." She looks at him and her eyes fill with sadness. "You remember how we danced that night you took it for me?"

"I remember, luv." His hand slips from Buffy's as he steps towards his child, and he immediately feels the loss of her support. "You gotta keep the other one on, too, pet. It'll keep ya from going fruitcake on us again."

She nods pensively and moves weakly against the chains that bind her wrists. "End me."

For a moment he doesn't understand, just continues stroking her frigid cheek, then he realises what she is saying and denial rises in his mind. No. She can't be asking that. She's calmer now, better, the spell has worked. "Pet…"

"End me, I beg you," she implores, and he can't look at her, can't deny her anything and can't give her this. "Please. As you created me, you can finish me." She pauses for a moment and he finds himself captured by her pleading eyes again. "'And make a heaven of hell, to die upon the hand I love so well.'" They had read that play together one day in August, lying side by side on their love-jumbled bed, reciting lines, interrupted by kisses and playful arguments.

"No." He can feel tears escaping his eyes as he steps away from her, shaking his head in fearful rebuff. "No, please, Lotta."

He can hear the tell tale sound of Dawn's grief over to his right, soft almost silent sniffing, and when Buffy comes again to his side, key in hand, she, too, has salt-water crystals on her cheeks. It is as if his pain in the room is a physical thing, wrapping itself around each of them like a spider's web spun in mournful silk.

"Leave them," Lotta orders quietly when Buffy moves to release her chains. "At least until I have fed and rested. Leave me now, please, all of you. Let me sleep."

.................................................

...............................................................................

"Spike." He stiffens at the sound of his name. He just wants to be alone. He's pretty sure he hurt Buffy's feelings earlier when he'd snapped at her to "leave me sodding be, woman!" He hadn't meant to, really; he knew she was trying to help, but at that moment her fussing had been just too much.

"Spike." That voice again. Absolutely the last person on the whole bloody planet he wants to speak to right now. Right at the moment that the last embers of hope are dying in his too oft broken heart, he can think of nothing he'd rather do less than make nice with the son of a bitch responsible for most of the fuck ups in his pathetic excuse for an afterlife.

"What the hell do you want, peaches?" He doesn't turn around as he addresses his grandsire, just keeps staring out of the darkened picture window and nursing his last Marlboro.

Another pack lands in his lap and he can't help but look up at the man standing at his shoulder. "Was in town," Angel explains dismissively. "Figured you'd be nearly out."

It's as close to an apology as he's likely to get, and somehow this awkward olive branch is far more touching than any eloquent display of repentance. "Cheers, mate." He curses the swell of emotion in his chest at the consideration. It seems that with Angel it will always be this way. He can hate the wanker with every fibre of his being, but even that can't stop him craving his affection and approval. Ain't family fantastic?

"Buffy told me what happened." Straight to the point. Humanity hasn't changed the old bastard as much as he'd probably like to think.

"Yeah?" He leans back against the sofa's leather back as Angel sits next to him and regards him with practiced disinterest.

"What will you do?" The sixty four million dollar question. What the hell can he do? Lotta isn't a horse with a broken leg; she can't just be put down. But when she had looked into his eyes and begged for death he'd known that –sane as she was- she had meant it, had wanted it.

"Buggered if I know." No way is he going to talk about this with Angel of all people. "She's not Lotta anymore, I know. But she is as well. You know?" Sod it. He's started now, may as well go the whole hog. Angel might be the right bloke to talk to after all. He is the only person here with even the slightest inkling of what it means to be turned.

"I know." He looks pensive for a moment then shakes his head, his face reflecting deep regret, and he knows what is coming. "Perhaps you should do it. She shouldn't have to live as one of those things."

"Charming." He lets out an offended snort. "Might wanna consider your audience before you start preaching that one, Angelus." He uses the name deliberately to wind Angel up, and takes petty pleasure in the human's almost imperceptible flinch.

"You know I can't," he continues. It's reminiscent of his year in LA, uncomfortable camaraderie interspersed with bitching and quiet moments of complete understanding. "While any part of her is still Lotta, you know I won't."

"I know." He finds himself looking up again as Angel stands. "You'll do the right thing." And he shouldn't be so happy about that tiny sliver of respect, but despite himself, he is.

………………………

"Is that the last of them?" Her voice startles him from his thoughts. He'd been thinking about the slayers, the ex-slayers. He'd been thinking about Carlotta still chained in the basement until they can be certain her reclaimed sanity is permanent. He'd been thinking about Buffy most of all. About her decision to return to active duty, about her self-destructive love for Spike. Even now the temptation to interfere is undeniable. She doesn't think straight where the vampire is concerned. She never has.

He could so easily destroy her. Could so easily turn her love against her. He doesn't worry for the world: if there is one thing he has learned about Buffy, it is that she is steadfast in doing her duty. But he worries for her. She isn't as strong as she appears.

"Earth to Giles." She waves a hand in front of his eyes and grins at his comical start. "Have they all gone?"

"Er, yes." The last of the slayers had left with Faith less than an hour ago, heading north towards the hellmouth.

"And the potential—um, ex-slayers. Whatever." Her expression of annoyance at her own confusion fills him with a familiar feeling of fatherly affection. He loves her so very much, wants so much more for her than Spike could ever give her. But he knows better than to say anything. She's a woman now and her choices are her own. "What's the take-up rate? Anyone sign up for a post slayer life of do-gooding?"

"Er, yes. Remarkable, actually." He can't help but smile proudly at the response from the girls. "Over eighty-five percent have volunteered for further service. Quite extraordinary dedication. I must admit to being quite surprised."

"They're good girls." It's not as trite a statement as it might sound. Her voice holds respect and he knows she feels the same glow of pride in these extraordinary young women.

"What about you, Buffy?" he asks, regretting that he must. "It seems Carlotta has been helped as best we can. There's really no need to maintain this facility any longer. What are your plans?"

"Hellmouth," she shrugs. "I just wanna be sure Spike's okay first. Spike and Carlotta, I mean." She shakes her head and her lips quirk, and he recognises instantly the moment she is about to make an honest statement. "I haven't told Angel yet," she confesses. "It's hard. I don't know how to start."

"The sooner the better I think, Buffy." It's clichéd advice but that doesn't make it less sound. "It'll be harder the longer you leave it. For both of you."

She nods. "Yeah, I know. That doesn't…." She stops mid-sentence and her whole body freezes. Motionless but humming with contained energy, it's amazing that he still finds himself surprised by the intensity of these moments of preternatural alertness.

"Buffy?" he whispers, but she just shakes her head, concentrating hard on some sound or sense that is beyond him.

She turns towards the lobby moments before a loud crash has him spinning around as well. Spike's body lands hard on the floor amidst the shattered glass of the window through which he's just flown.

Demons—Phlengrag, if his memory serves—pour through the shattered window. To the right, more demons—some Reckiv and a handful of Magic Eaters—burst through the open door, their leader dragging an unconscious Angel, whom he tosses at the Slayer's feet.

"The Age of Slayers is ended," it says through a mouth filled with flat, square teeth like crooked tomb stones. "Now let us take our bloody vengeance."

………………………………………

Through the tiny crack in the door, she can see that the fight is not going well. She can make out Buffy, obviously tiring, where she stands back to back with Spike in a circle of snarling demons. They're barely holding their own and the others, for all their bravery, have been of no help. Angel lies motionless against the far wall, blood pooling in his dark hair. She can't wonder now if he's dead or alive; her brain can't begin to process any question so massive with the fight still raging in the centre of the room.

Giles is out, too, slumped on the floor behind Buffy, barely conscious. Xander, gutsy as ever, is still fighting, but he won't last long now that a second demon has focused its attention on him. Kennedy had been fighting alongside him, but she's down now, too, thrown by a single careless backhand to her lover's side.

Willow, perhaps the only one with the power to help, them is no more use than the others. She had tried, had thrown back her head and unleashed the full force of her awesome sorcery on the enemy, but it had done no good. Demons, small and bony with bat wing skin, had stepped up and simply absorbed her power until their bodies crackled with energy and the witch lay motionless at their feet

Her eyes travel back to the melee in the room's centre in time to see her sister taken down by sheer weight of numbers. "Buffy!" Spike's cries, too, are lost as he disappears beneath a tide of demon claws.

There is no one left here with the power to take on this many invaders. No one except… But that's insane—she couldn't do it even if Dawn let her go. There'd still be too many. Spike's agonised cry and Buffy's desperate "No" are enough to make up her mind, and she is flying towards the back stairs.

Carlotta is already struggling against her chains when she arrives, her face a Halloween mask of ridges and fangs. "Release me." She growls the demand through jagged fangs, but then her struggles cease and her eyes turn brown and pleading. "They're hurting him."

There is no time to reconsider the decision. The fight is already lost above them and the key turns easily in the shackle on her right wrist. Before she can move to the left, Carlotta puts two hands on the chain and yanks it free with terrifying force. Then with a growl she is gone up the stairs in a burst of inhuman speed.

…………………….

He is going to die. He's going to die. Again. And she still hasn't told him she loves him. He burst free for a moment but there's so many of them that he is soon swallowed up again just as she is. She can hear his ferocious growling turn pained, even as blunt, jagged claws tear into the flesh of her back and she unleashes her own scream. They're all going to die and there's not a thing she can do about it.

In the chaos and confusion of the battle, it is strange that she has time for so many regrets. Not just Spike and Angel, but everything. She could have been a better sister to Dawn. Perhaps even a better Slayer: all the people she didn't save, all the demons she didn't stop play through her mind in perfect detail. Perhaps she should have forgiven Willow, thanked Xander. Told Giles one more time that he was all the father she'd ever needed.

She feels herself begin to give in, feels the strength beginning to fade from her battered body, and grits her teeth as she calls on every ounce of strength that remains. At least she's going down fighting. Him, too. He always said he would. She hears him growl and a demon lets out a piercing cry of agony. "That's right, baby," she thinks as she manages to snap the neck of one of her attackers. "Let's take some of the bastards with us."

……………………………………

Blood runs into his eyes and he isn't strong enough to raise a hand to wipe it away. What point is there anyway? They're not going to win this one. He'd warned of a backlash once the demon world got wind that the slayer army was no more, but even he hadn't anticipated the sheer weight of numbers in which they have attacked.

He can just see Buffy in front of him, battling valiantly as always. His wonderful girl. He'd called her a miracle once and he still believes it. No watcher—no father—could be prouder. A table shatters under her small body when she is thrown, rag-doll like, against it. She's slow to rise, too slow. She's tiring fast and the vampire is doing no better.

All is lost. After every apocalypse they have faced, the gods and paragons of evil she has defeated, she is to finally be beaten by a vengeful mob. It isn't right, it isn't fitting, and he won't watch it. He closes his eyes, letting the nausea swim over him, and readies himself for the inevitable.

One sound penetrates his semi-conscious mind, clearer than all others. A growl, louder and more savage than the combined snarls of the demon mob. It is chilling in its ferocity and it holds a power that would cow the bravest spirit.

His eyes open with pained foreboding and he sees, through a red veil of blood, a scene that for all its gruesome horror brings with it a glimmer of hope that they may yet survive.

Even in their supernatural world of extraordinary power, she is freakish and terrifying, wielding in easy swings of her arms a savage strength that send her enemies flying, swatting flies. In all the years he has fought the forces of darkness, he has never witnessed a battle so graphic. There is gruesome glee to this mayhem. She is lost in the glory of killing, a fox in the hen house.

Buffy and Spike stand by, motionless, their faces set in twin expressions of fascinated horror as she fills the room with cries of fear and agony. Tearing limbs clean off with short hard jerks or squeezing heads till they break like eggs in her hands and gore oozes out between her slender fingers. Fingers that reach through leather-armoured chests and stomachs to pull the contents free and leave clawed hands clutching hopelessly at spilling guts.

Her hands are implements of gory death, but it is her fangs that she favours. She rips the leader's throat out and spits chunks of his flesh over his crumpled corpse before turning to her next victim, mouth opening wide, impossibly wide, a gaping trap of jagged, blood-stained fangs that in a single bite takes the unfortunate creature's face clean off, leaving it gurgling its agony as it clutches at the ruined mess of blood and cartilage that were once its features.

The rest run. They're not stupid and their leader is dead, their forces destroyed. They run—those that can, those that she has not left crippled and dying amongst the dismembered remains of their comrades.

She watches them go, then turns with menacing slowness to face the exhausted pair of blonds. He cannot see her face from his position on the floor, but he can see theirs. Buffy's eyes are wide with fear, Spike's horrified and disbelieving. He knows both of them well enough that he can guess what they have seen on the lost slayer's demon face. The delicate balancing power of the Rashmack crystal is broken, no match for the bloodlust thrill of the kill. It is the demon, now, that rules in her fractured mind.

..................................................................

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There is nothing of his lover left. Those tiny fragments that remained of the girl who loved him are buried now, too deep beneath the mindless savagery of the demon to be recognised.

She focuses on Buffy, feral eyes flashing gold in her blood-coated face. He understands what drives her now, has felt the same many times before. Before Buffy. Their kind cannot help but recognise the slayer for what she is, just as she will always know them. And with that recognition comes a compelling need to destroy. He felt it himself before, acted on it more than once. Of course, that was before Buffy.

His instincts have spun a hundred and eighty degrees since then and he places himself bodily between Buffy and the advancing threat. "Lotta, listen to me…" But his words are wasted. He doubts she can even hear them, let alone find reason in them. She tosses him aside, sending him skidding along the floor on his already shredded back and moves again on the slayer.

She is dauntless, his fearless Buffy: she has never faced an enemy she cannot defeat, has never once hesitated to enter the fray, and this is no different. She attacks first—well, it's her bloody style, ain't it?—launching herself at Carlotta with a barrage of fierce blows. She might as well have tickled her for all the effect her attack had on the slayer vamp, and she is soon thrown against the wall, the sickening crunch as her head connects with the stone filling the sudden strained silence of the room.

She's dazed, staggering to her feet as he comes to his, one hand braced weakly against the wall in an attempt to pull herself upright. Dawn is a little to his left. Behind Carlotta he can see the open door of the old dining room. Perhaps he can still help Buffy.

"Barricade the door, bit," he orders, not taking his eyes off Carlotta as she takes slow, measured steps towards the struggling slayer. "Don't open it, no matter what you hear."

With a battle cry that is more desperate than fierce, he charges full tilt at Carlotta, colliding with her side on and sending them both sprawling through the open door, praying all the while that Dawn will have the sense enough to do as she's bloody well told.

He hears the door slam shut and breathes a sigh of relief; then she is on him.

……………………………

"Get out of my way!" It's an order, there's no mistaking the menace in her voice. She knows that every nuance of her posture conveys angry threat. So why the hell aren't they getting out of her way?

"Buffy, no." It's Dawn who tries to reason with her. "He said to keep it shut."

"I don't care what he said. Now move, all of you, or I'll make you move."

She hates the quiet coming from behind the locked door, hates it even more than the dogfight growling that preceded it. Although that was short lived, whatever fight there had been hadn't lasted long.

"Buffy." Angel's between her and the door, standing guard with Giles and Dawn, one hand clutching a balled up rag against his still bleeding head. She's so very grateful to all the gods she can think of that these three people who mean so very much to her have made it through the fight alive. But she'll thank the deities later; right now, she's crazed with worry and it's making her angry.

"One more time." Her voice is low, but the step she takes towards her pseudo family is distinctly threatening. "Move."

"Ya better get outta the girl's way." Xander, sounding groggy and swaying on his feet, steps up behind her. "I think you're making her cranky."

"Spike said—" begins Dawn, with tears in her eyes, frightened and conflicted, trying desperately to keep her sister safe.

"Yeah, well, Spike's an egotistical drama queen with a hero complex." He gives a choking laugh that turns into a gurgling cough. "But he's not as tough as he thinks he is. I reckon he might need a bit of help in there."

She will make a point of thanking Xander for everything before the next apocalypse, but for now all she has time for is an appreciative glance as she pushes past Dawn and into the silent dining room.

………………………………….

It is a scene from Greek tragedy, or perhaps from heartbreak. A wretched tableau of regret and forgiveness. She is huddled against the wall, curled up on herself like a frightened child as she stares in wide-eyed horror at the broken body of the man she loves.

There is enough sanity in her eyes that she must surely know what she has done and to whom. Guilt, too, in her tear-filled ebony eyes as she rocks herself and shakes her head in a slow motion denial of her own deeds.

And dear Lord, what she has done? His cloths are shredded, exposing flayed skin and blood flowing freely—it seems from every inch of his body. His bare torso is a mass of deep gouges, gruesome signatures of her blood-caked nails. His face and hair, too, are so coated in his own blood that one can barely make out the blond, but it is his throat that has received the best of her attentions.

Where there should be smooth white skin there is instead red, mangled flesh. Severed tendons and arteries hang from the wound and blood bubbles like a gurgling crimson brook from his torn oesophagus. It is a small mercy that he doesn't need to breathe; his airways are ruined and a human would be dead from that if they were not already long dead from blood loss.

He rolls towards her, a gurgling mewl emanating from his tattered voice box as he stretches a hand towards her in plaintive conciliation, and he must acknowledge that for all his many, well documented faults, Spike has an amazing capacity for forgiveness. She watches his hand with conflicted eyes, horror and fear at what she has done, what she has become, warring with the instinctive desire to go to him.

Buffy makes the decision for her. He will wonder years from now if that tiny moment was perhaps more pivotal for all of them than they could ever have imagined. Perhaps, he will ask himself, if Buffy had remained still and silent, frozen like the rest of them in shocked horror, she would have taken Spike's hand. Perhaps they all, Buffy and Spike in particular, could have been spared the pain that followed. But for now he watches numbly as his Slayer lurches forward in ragged ungainly movements, her natural grace sacrificed to fear and pain.

She drops to her knees at his side, hands hovering in undecided concern over his wounded throat, lips mumbling nonsense pleas that he find the strength to be okay. It is enough to jolt the frightened girl into action and with one quick panicked glance around the room she makes her choice, bursting past them in a lightning quick run and throwing herself through the window, and after the crash, silence, bare feet quiet on gravel, and over the hotel's manicured lawns as she makes her escape.

"Leave her," Buffy orders when Xander turns to follow the girl. "We have to get everyone to the infirmary." She pulls the barely conscious vampire to his feet, despite what it must cost her battered body in effort, and leads the slow procession of walking wounded, all of them leaning on one another as so often before. He follows behind, head spinning with pain and confusion, and wonders what the hell they will do now.

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She isn't sure if she finds the silence of the low-lit infirmary room comforting or troubling. Would the rhythmic beeping of an ECG monitor ease her worries with its grating lullaby? Probably not. And she needs no electronic trill to tell her Spike is still with them: he isn't dust and that is proof enough.

This won't kill him. Head still attached, no pesky splinters in the heart; sure, he's a mess, but this won't kill him. Somehow, though, that knowledge doesn't quell the sea-sick worry in her gut.

He's unconscious and for that at least she's grateful. Perhaps he'll stay that way until he's healed, until the jerry-rigged IV can pump enough stolen blood bags into him to heal his mangled body. Her own body aches in sympathy with his, stinging gouges and hastily dressed wounds sending out painful reminders that she too should be resting.

"Hey." Angel's soft voice doesn't startle her, despite that she hadn't heard him come in. She doubts there's enough adrenaline left in her exhausted body to muster up anything resembling a start.

"Hey." My God, was that her voice, so hoarse and lacklustre? She doesn't take her eyes off her vampire. She doesn't really want to deal with Angel now; she has a vigil to keep.

"How you doing?"

"Same." She lets her fingers ghost over the healing cuts on Spike's exposed forearm. "He hasn't woken up, but I think the blood's helping. The minor stuff looks like it's healing at least." She shakes her head and removes her hand. "I think he'll be okay. I just hope he doesn't wake up until he's healed up a bit more."

"That's great." His voice is softly amused, warm and affectionate as it wraps around her tired mind. "But I was asking about you."

"I'm fine." There is a briskness to her own voice that she hadn't expected, an almost dismissive curtness.

"No, you're not." He hasn't moved from the doorway, but suddenly he is oppressively close and his presence has ceased to be a comfort. Now she just wants him to leave. "You're hurt."

"Giles patched me up." She doesn't look at him and she knows she isn't being fair, but she's tired and sore and desperately worried for Spike. "I'm fine." And it strikes her that she's been using those two words as a shield for half her life.

"You need to rest," he insists gently. "Come to bed."

"You go. I need to stay here." She can be dogged when she has a mind to be.

"Buffy, don't be silly. What you need is to sleep." There's a slight exasperation to him now that he is perfectly entitled to feel. He's entitled to be confused and worried and jealous. She's supposed to be his girl and she can't even look away from her vampire for a moment to acknowledge him. "Buffy, there's nothing you can do here."

And just like that it is suddenly time to do it. She's been stalling, waiting for a good moment, just the right time so that she could soften the blow of their break up. But now, in this worst possible of moments, when they are both hurt and weak, she finds she can't hold off an instant longer.

"That's not why I need to stay." She doesn't doubt that he will understand exactly what she is not saying. He's far from stupid and he knows her as well as anyone does. "I'm sorry." The finality of it is at once heartbreaking and relieving, and she's certain he hears it all in her voice.

"Buffy?" And she hears in his voice, too, that this is agony for him, that he resist this knowledge even as he can't help but know. "Buffy, please, let's talk ab—"

"No, Angel." She shakes her head, eyes still riveted to Spike's disfigured face, still so handsome in her eyes, even through purple bruises and swollen lips. "There's nothing to say except that I'm sorry."

She hasn't looked at him once since he came into the room. She didn't know she was such a coward. But even without looking she knows that he is crying silent tears that seem to scent the air with salt, drowning out the pungent stench of antiseptic and stale blood.

"You love him." A fact, not a question, and all she can do is nod and tangle her fingertips in his bright blond hair.

"Yes," she murmurs, a breathy confession, an excuse—maybe even an apology.

"How long?" There is, she thinks, a sickness in all of us that makes us do this. Makes us pick at scabs and wobble teeth and court the pain of knowing every detail of a lover's defection.

She lets out the breath she'd been holding in a long defeated sigh. "Long time. Before…"

"Before us?" So few words to communicate such an awful lot of hurt.

"Yes." She looks at him now, faces his pained, betrayed eyes, his tear-stained face. "I'm sorry. I thought…" She scrunches up her face against the flow of unmeasured words and tries again to explain better that which she knows to be unexplainable. "I really thought it would always be us. I swear I did."

Suddenly a handful of words and heavy telling silences are not enough, and the words come in a jumbled stream of explanation. "I think I was still clinging to the dream of us. All those years I was so busy looking for you I just didn't see him coming. I honestly believed it was gonna be us." It is suddenly important to her that he know he had not been second choice, that when he had stood before her in that bright Roman sunlight, she had truly believed that she had finally been granted her happy ending.

She frowns and bites her lip. How can she explain to him that in her naivety she hadn't been able to see beyond that sunlit reunion kiss, that like a fairy tale princess she had believed the story ended there. Truth was, that's where the story should have begun, but she'd had no script for it and the ad-libs of life had not gone as she'd expected.

How can she tell him that she no longer believes in soul mates, that she has come to understand that love is not the perfect union of two hearts but a daily struggle of joyous and ignoble compromise? That she has grown to know that there can be more love in a raised voice or wounded jibe than in all the moonlight and roses in the world.

Would he understand what she now understands: that the true measure of love is that it endures, not just through easy, sun-filled days, but though harsh and angry reality. That in the moments that he makes your blood boil with rage, or when every little thing he does grates on your nerves, even in the moments when you utterly hate him, still you know you must love him, still you are only a look, a word, a touch away from love.

She has identified in the long hours of insomnia that have plagued her since Spike's death the very instant at which she first knew that she loved him, even as she had buried the knowledge beneath a torrent of denial.

It was not a huge moment as she would have expected. Not the first time they made love, not when he took the worst of Glory's torture for her or gave her the strength to face the First. It was not in the jealousy of watching him sleep with Anya or the pain of his failing as he pressed her into the cold tiles of her bathroom floor.

It was instead in a moment of mundane irritation on an inconsequential night just days before Warren had tried to make her believe that it was she who had killed the unfortunate Katrina.

He'd followed her on patrol again. Had interfered in a fight she was perfectly capable of handling, and had pissed her of royally with a spiteful comment about her choice of fragrance: "eau de doublemeat." He'd been annoying her to the point where she was ready to punch him and risk igniting the fire she was so carefully trying to control, when his mood had done a sudden one-eighty and he'd asked with obviously feigned nonchalance if Dawn had gotten through her history test okay.

She, of course, had forgotten about the test entirely, had once again neglected her sisterly responsibilities and not remembered to ask Dawn when she had bounced in from school that afternoon. Naturally, anger at her own shortcomings had turned to annoyance at the vampire, even as her heart had warmed with his capacity for consideration, and she'd punched him once hard in the nose and flounced off without a backward glance.

An inauspicious beginning for a love that would eventually eclipse even Angel in her heart, but a beginning none the less.

"I'm sorry, Angel." No, she won't be able to make him understand, and even if he did it would hardly bring him any comfort, so she keeps her explanations to herself and offers him only her regret and wishes that her eyes were not so dry when his are wet and red.

"Buffy." His voice is stronger now but rising with emotion, and she prays silently that he will let it go. "You deserve better than him, better than this."

Probably, but she wants nothing more. "So do you, Angel." And she is sincere in that sentiment, believes it deeply. A man such as Angel, who has done so much to become the man he is, deserves at very least to be loved without exception. "Can we talk about this tomorrow when we're not both so tired?"

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