“Well, who does nowadays?” she asked him.
A moment, and she used both hands to rip the blade upwards. His dark blood splattered her face as she finished the job.
One half of Caleb toppled to the right, and one half to the left. Praise God Almighty, he was torn asunder.
Angel got to his feet, spinning around, furious, as he said, “Okay, now I’m pissed. Where is he?”
Buffy pointed to a spot on the floor to the left. Angel looked. Then a spot on the floor to her right. He looked. Then he looked back at her, impressed, and she smiled girlishly.
“He had to split.” She snorted with dorkish laughter, and Angel just shook his head. “I’m sorry,” she said, quelling herself. “I just, ahh . . . I haven’t had a good pun in a while.”
“That would still be the case,” he darted at her.
She feigned being insulted. “Hey! My kill, my word play.”
He reached to the sky. “I’m out of line.”
Well, I’m still glad you’re here,” she said adoringly.
* * *
From the shadows, Spike watched, his world shattering. The First murmured to him, “Yeah, she needs you real bad.”
He thought of how he had shown her his heart; truth time on the way out the door, bein’ terrified. Blowing up his barriers, letting her in and then . . . of course. Of course.
Angel.
As Spike looked on, Angel went into his expandable files and yanked out some papers, handing them to Buffy. She looked them over, nodding to him as she said, “I’ll have the guys run through this, see if there’s anything new.” She looked up at him. “Reliable source?”
“Not remotely,” Angel assured her.
She took a breath. “Well, any port in an apocalypse.”
“I brought you something else as well.”
He pulled out a tremendously gaudy amulet and held it out to Buffy, whose eyes widened at the sheer tackiness of it. Least, that was Spike’s best guess; he felt that he didn’t know this girl.
Ah, c’mon, mate. Sure you do. This is exactly what you expected.
“I can already tell you, I don’t have anything that goes with this,” Buffy said to Angel.
“It’s not for you,” Angel told her.
She and Spike both were surprised. As she looked up at Angel and said, “ ‘Splainy?”
Angel shook his head. “I don’t know everything. It’s very powerful and probably very dangerous. Has a purifying power . . . or a cleansing power . . .” He glanced at it “. . . or possibly scrubbing bubbles. The translation is . . . anyway, it bestows strength, worn by the right person.”
Buffy pondered that. “And the right person is . . . ?”
“Someone ensouled. But stronger than human. A champion.” A beat. “As in me.”
She gestured to herself. “Or me.”
“No,” he said firmly. “I don’t know nearly enough about this to risk you wearing it. Besides . . .” He grinned faintly. “You’ve already got that cool axe-thing.”
She gave the scythe a bit of a pat and said, “So you’re going to be with me in this.”
“Shoulder to shoulder,” Angel told her. “I’m yours.”
Bloody moron, Spike cursed himself. Blinkin, soddin’ fool . . .
And he left the tomb, left the lovers, got the hell out of there and off again into the world without her, world he knew so well . . .
. . . Hell.
* * *
Buffy looked at Angel warmly and said, “No.”
Angel frowned. “No, what?”
“No, you’re not going to be in this fight,” she said.
She turned to go; he followed, displeased. He stopped her near the entrance and said, “Why the hell not?”
“Because I can’t risk you,” she told him calmly.
He was confused. “You need me in this.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I need you gone.”
Yet more confused. “Why?”
She took a moment to collect her thoughts. “If I lose . . . if this gets past Sunnydale, then it’s days—or hours—before the rest of the world goes. I need a second front, and I need you to run it.”
“If I’m here we have a better shot at capping this thing,” he insisted. He gestured to the papers in her hands. “I’ve read the files—”
“I’ve lived the files,” she interjected, “and I . . . if I can’t win this . . .” She gazed at him, her eyes clear, her voice steady. “It’s my fight, Angel. It might be my last. But it’s mine.”
He looked at her, and she knew there was a whole lot he wanted to say. And she also knew he wasn’t going to say it.
Which was a good thing. Because she wanted Angel here. She needed Angel here. But she could not have him here.
“Okay,” he said, “that’s one reason. What’s the other?”
“There is no other,” she replied, but . . . there was.
There was . . .
She went outside into the graveyard, not knowing so much as feeling that there was.
“Is it Spike?”
How does he know?
She stopped and turned, not overly anxious to look him in the eye as he approached. Her heart began to pound. She felt on the verge of something, standing on a very different kind of threshold.
“You’re not telling me something,” Angel insisted. “And . . . his scent.” He gestured toward her body. “I remember it pretty well.”
She reddened; the nape of her neck was prickling. Everyone was into truth so much these days. “You vampires,” she said, trying to deflect, “did anybody ever tell you that the whole smelling everybody thing is a little gross?”
Angel asked her point-blank. “Is he your boyfriend?”
She raised a brow. “Is that your business?”
“Are you in love with him?”
That, she couldn’t answer. She looked down, away . . . anywhere but at him. Angel, her lost love, her soulmate . . . and she couldn’t answer him.
“Maybe I’m out of line,” he began, “but this is kind of a curve ball for me. We are talking about Spike here.”
“It’s different,” Buffy said. “He’s different. He has a soul now.”
“Oh.” Angel was astonished. “Well.”
“What?” she asked.
“No, no, that’s great.” He muttered, “Everybody’s got a soul now.”
Buffy frowned at him. “What, are you pissed?”
“No, it’s great,” he insisted, eyes wide and honest. “One for our side.”
“He’ll make a difference,” she said, feeling as though she were vouching for Spike, as if she had to defend why she . . . why he and she . . .
He muttered on, “You know, I started it.” He looked at her. “The whole . . . having a soul. Before it was all the ‘cool new thing’ . . .”
She blinked in amazement. “Oh, my god, are you twelve?”
He glowered, “I’m getting the brush off for Captain Peroxide, it doesn’t bring out the champion in me,” he informed her coolly.
“It’s not the brushoff,” she insisted, then added, “Having both of you here would be . . .” Confused, she searched for the word. “Confusing.”
He remained glowering and added skeptical to his facial repertoire. “For who?”
“Everybody!” she insisted. “Why are you so . . . are you going to come by and get all Dawson on me every time I have a boyfriend?”
“Aha!” He pointed at her. “Boyfriend!”
“He’s not! But . . .” She thought about it. “He is in my heart.”
“That’ll end well,” he drawled.
“And what was the highlight of our relationship?” she demanded heatedly. “The time you broke up with me or the time I killed you?”
He backed down, the fight going out of both of them. She leaned against a sarcophagus, placing the file atop it.
“I’m well aware of my stellar history with guys, and now I don’t see fat grandchildren in the offing with Spike, but
. . . I don’t think that matters right now.” She thought a moment, came to some budding conclusions . . .
“You know, in the midst of all this . . . insanity, a couple of things are actually starting to make sense. And the guy thing . . .”
He joined her, also leaning on the crypt.
“You know, I’ve always figured there was something wrong with me,” she told him, “ ’cause I never made it work. But maybe . . . I’m not supposed to.”
Food for thought; he chewed on it, and then said, “Because you’re the Slayer?”
“Because . . .” She thought hard. “Okay.” Gazed at him. “I’m cookie dough.”
He gave his head a shake. “Yet another curveball.”
“I’m not done baking yet.” She moved her shoulders. “I’m not finished becoming . . . whoever the hell it is I’m going to turn out to be. I’ve been looking for someone to make me feel whole, and maybe I just need to be whole.”
Her tone was wistful, hopeful, and determined. “I make it through this, maybe one day I turn around realize I’m ready. I’m cookies. And then if I want someone to eat me . . . or, to enjoy warm, delicious cookie-me, then that’s fine. That’ll be then. When I’m done,” she finished. She looked up at him to gauge his reaction.
He said, “Any thoughts on who might enjoy . . .” He frowned uncomfortably. “Do I have to go with the cookie analogy?”
She replied, “I don’t really think that far ahead. That’s kind of the point.”
“I get it,” he said. After a moment, he handed her the amulet. “I’ll start working on a second front. Make sure I don’t have to use it.”
His hand was on hers; he turned to go, and she gave his hand a little tug.
“Angel, I . . . do,” she said. “Sometimes.” She swallowed down some big emotion and said, “Think that far ahead.”
He stopped and smiled a bit as she added, “We both have our lives, but sometimes . . .”
“Sometimes is something,” he finished for her.
“It’d be a long time coming.” She looked excited, as if she were beginning to realize something. “Years, if ever.”
He walked backward into the dark, smiling at her.
“I ain’t gettin’ any older.”
He disappeared into the shadows, and she watched him go, remembering when they first met. He would glide away like that and disappear.
But he always came back. I thought he was gone forever from my life, and yet, here he is again . . .
Or rather, here he was again . . . I may die soon, and I will never see his face on this Earth . . .
She went home, walked through the front door and found . . . Dawn?
Her little sister glared at her; Buffy, in turn, gazed over at Xander, who looked pained and sheepish. Anya was rubbing his head; Giles and Willow were there too.
As Buffy looked back at her sister, Dawn silently kicked her in the shin.
Buffy said, “Ow.”
“Dumbass,” Dawn growled at her.
Buffy looked over at Xander, who simply threw up his hands and said, “Don’t look at me. This is a Summers thing. It’s all very violent.”
Buffy said to Dawn, “You get killed, I’m telling.”
And that was that.
Sensing the change in cabin pressure, Willow asked, “Did you find out anything about the scythe?”
Buffy seized the preening opportunity with glee. “I found out it slices, dices, and makes julienne Preacher.”
“Caleb?” Giles asked, actually excited despite being British.
“I cut him in half,” Buffy affirmed. “I’m not going to lie. It was pretty neat.”
Well, all right!” Willow cried.
“He had that coming,” Anya concurred.
“Party in my eye-socket and everyone’s invited!” Xander yelled, then winced and said, “Sometimes I shouldn’t say words.”
Buffy waggled the scythe and said, “I did find out some history on this puppy. I’ll fill you in. And I got some files, might be helpful.” She handed them to Giles. “And . . . this.” She held out the amulet. “Supposed to be powerful, don’t know much more.”
Giles looked at the bounty and asked, “Where’d you get all this?”
“Angel,” she said.
“Angel?” Dawn echoed.
Giles asked, “He’s here?”
“I sent him back to L.A.,” Buffy said. “To prepare.” She headed out toward the basement, turning back to add, “If we fail.”
Xander cocked a brow at her. “Operative word ‘if.’ ”
Anya added, “Operative word ‘fail.’ ”
Dawn chirruped, “Or, operative word ‘Wheee!’ ” Lowered it, cricketed, “Nobody gets me.”
* * *
Buffy went downstairs to the basement. Spike was sitting in the moonlight, shirtless, looking off.
“So where’s Tall, Dark, and Forehead?” he asked her.
“Let me guess,” Buffy said. “You can smell him.”
He tilted his head, appraising her as he said, “Yeah, that; and I also used my heightened vampire eyeballs to watch you kissing him.”
Oh, God . . .
She felt terrible.
“It was a . . . hello,” she said. “I was surprised.”
He gave her a look. “Most people don’t use their tongues to say hello. Or, I guess they do, but . . .”
“There was no tongues,” she said quickly. Then, “Besides, he’s gone.”
“Just popped round for a quickie, then?” His voice was harsh.
“Good, good,” she said sarcastically. “I haven’t had quite enough jealous vampire crap!”
“He wears lifts, you know.”
She shook her head tiredly. “One of these days I’m just going to put you two in a room and let you rassle it out.”
“No problem at this end.”
“There could maybe be oil of some kind involved,” she said, warming up to the idea.
He cut her off. “Where’s the trinket?”
She paused. “The who-ket?”
“The pretty necklace your sweetie-bear gave you. The one with all the power.” He gazed at her very calmly. “I believe it’s mine now.”
“How do you figure?”
“ ‘Someone with a soul, but more than human,’ ” he quoted her. “Angel meant to wear it, that means I’m the qualified party.”
“It’s volatile,” Buffy told him. “We don’t know . . .”
“You need someone strong to bear it, then,” he informed her. He drawled, “You were planning on giving it to Andrew?”
She hesitated. “Angel said . . . this amulet is meant to be worn by a champion.”
He deflated . . . until she held it out to him, and he understood: She was calling him a champion.
“Been called a lot of things in my time,” he said.
“I want you to be careful,” she said gently.
He smirked with self-referential irony. “You’re talking to the wrong guy, love.” He felt it. “This is powerful.”
A beat, as he turned it over in his hand.
“Faith’s still got my room,” she murmured.
He frowned at her. “Well, you’re not staying here! Can’t buy me off with shiny beads and sweet talk. You’ve got Angel breath.”
She looked down, accepting his decision.
“Won’t just let you whack me back and forth like a rubber ball. I’ve got my pride, you know.”
She got up and started to go.
“I understand,” she murmured.
He moved quickly to block her. “Clearly you don’t,” he said, “since that whole ‘having my pride’ thing was a smokescreen.”
She exhaled, very relieved. “Oh, thank God.”
He joined in the relief effort, saying, “I don’t know what I would have done if you’d gone up those stairs.”
She touched his face with great tenderness. “Let’s not find out.”
* * *
They slept spoon style
again, Buffy wrapped in Spike’s arms, facing away from him. He slept; she could not.
She looked at his hand, resting on the bed in front of her, running her hand along it. After a moment, he rolled over, and Buffy took the chance to sit up. Got up, and crossed to the window, looked out on the world bathed in moonlight.
“Pretty, ain’t it?” Caleb said right beside her.
She started, then recovered, reminding herself it was The First. “You’re not him,” she said.
“No, you killed him right and proper,” he answered. “Terrible loss.” He pulled a sad face. “This man was my good right arm. ’Course, it doesn’t pain me too much. Don’t need an arm.” He smiled broadly. “Got an army.”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “An army of vampires. However will I fight a bunch of . . . oh, right! I’ve been doing that for years!”
“Every day our numbers swell, he boasted. Then he sneered at her. “But then you do have an army of your own. Some thirty-odd pimply-faced girls who don’t know the pointy end of a stake.” He thought a moment. “Maybe I should call this off?”
Buffy asked, “Have you ever considered a cool name?” Since you’re incorporeal and basically powerless you could call yourself ‘The Taunter.’ Strikes fear . . .”
“I will overrun this earth,” The First proclaimed.
“You know how many people have said that to me?” Buffy shot back.
“I do,” he assured her. “Since they all had a small part of me in them. Whereas I have all of me in me, so I like my chances somewhat better.” His voice rose as if it were seeking the vulnerable, thin places in her soul to pour in his poison, and let it rot her from the inside out.
“And when my army outnumbers the humans on this earth, the scales will tip and I will be made flesh.”
“Talk on,” Buffy taunted. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Then why aren’t you asleep in your dead lover’s arms?”
His expression was cagey, his point . . . well taken . . . as she looked over at Spike and had no answer.
“ ’Cause he can’t help you. Nor Faith, nor your friends. Certainly not your little wannaslay brigade. None of those girlies will ever know real power unless you’re dead. You know the drill.”
Then Caleb morphed into Buffy herself and came in close, as close as possible, voice carrying truth.
“Into every generation, a Slayer is born. One girl in the all the world. She alone will have the strength and skill to fight the . . . well, there’s that word again. What you are. How you’ll die. Alone.”