Chapter 5: Explanations, Explorations


Spike’s first impulse was to walk out. But before he could do more than pull his boots in against the chair and stand, Oz was in front of him, crossing the length of the room to him first and directly, saying softly, “Hi, Spike.” Not offering a hand, just waiting for acknowledgement and acceptance by the dominant male of a subordinate.

Pack deference: good manners according to whatever passed for werewolf etiquette.

Didn’t matter that the next second the girls had all crowded around wolf-boy. And Harris, too, pulling him into a back-slapping hug. Head turned, Oz kept his eyes on Spike’s until Spike committed himself to the extent of a curt nod. Only then did Oz consider himself released to the greetings.

Didn’t change anything, really, Spike grumbled inwardly, pacing past the group hug he wanted no part of. Runt was still what he was: willing lapmutt to the Powers, running their errands, unquestioningly doing whatever they told him to--at last notice, through some medium or other in Anaheim. Oz showing up meant one of two things--that the Powers sided with that Acala and wanted them to back off; or that they didn’t, and wanted them to take on that Acala, that sparkled on the plane of the real the way Giles or Bit had (for instance) on the astral plane. That therefore wasn’t rightly, completely  here  and could call up swords out of noplace, manifest eighteen feet tall or thirty or a hundred (whatever he thought would look intimidating), and manipulate matter at will.

Spike had never taken to shape-changers. You never properly knew where you stood with them. And fighting them was a nasty, prolonged business: they’d take mortal wounds and just shift to a new, unwounded shape. Greasy, slippery, unreliable sort of buggers.

As bad as trying to fight water.

Not Oz, though, Spike admitted, coming to an indecisive halt in the kitchen. Hadn’t but the one shape to shift to and was a shrewd, fearless fighter in it, which Spike supposed was all right. And wolf-boy knew his place, had come to Spike first thing: the dominance had been settled between them on Oz’s previous visit, some months ago. Once put down, he  stayed  down, so it wasn’t a constant slap-and-turn battle of engagement and backing off, the way it was with Mike. And Oz didn’t carry a grudge about it, neither. Good natured, handy chap in most ways. Knew his showing up wouldn’t be welcome but still came to Spike first.

That did a lot to mollify Spike’s anger.

Besides, he was curious which flavor of bad news the mutt had come to deliver.

He glanced at the rear door, his intended destination, then made up his mind and wheeled to the refrigerator to grab out a six-pack of the minimally acceptable swill that was American beer. Pacing back to the front room, he twisted a can free of the plastic bands and silently offered it to Oz, who’d taken a place on the floor in front of the TV, by Dawn. Oz calmly nodded thanks and took it. Spike settled back into his chair, pulling out a fresh beer for himself and letting the rest of the pack dangle and drop into the gap between the chair and the weapons chest. If Harris wanted another beer, he could crawl and grope for one, or he could ask. Either would be fine with Spike.

Interrupting Oz’s dutiful account of his doings since they’d last seen him, Spike asked bluntly, “So what’s Bit’s mum want now?” and ignored the winces and disapproving looks that earned him. He didn’t care: he didn’t dance to the Lady’s tune and wasn’t shy about saying so.

Oz thought for a minute, likely getting together what he was supposed to say. “That she’s aware of the situation--far more than any of you. There’s a history to it, and I’m to explain about that. She says it’s a matter of complete indifference to her whether you engage or disengage but in either case, there are things you all should know that won’t be found in any arcane text, since they’re internal to the Powers.” Oz nodded apologetically to Giles, at that; Giles nodded to show he’d taken no offense and waved Oz to continue. Reverting to his usual brevity, Oz concluded, “That’s all. Except for the history.”

Giles started to ask for the history but Buffy intervened: “Let’s keep to the order. Willow, it’s your turn: exactly why did you go all Sleeping Beauty on us, with no notice, no anything? You said before that it was you, that set off the mystical alarms. Got chased back here by Acala, brought all that fun down on us. Why? Where were you?”

Nervously picking at sweater pills, seeming unaware of Oz’s steady, warm gaze turned to her, Willow replied, “I made a portal. To Quor’toth. It was easy. Flick of the fingers stuff. But I didn’t go except in astral form. Just hovered, using the portal as a target, still anchored back here. I thought that would be safe enough, and I’d be able to confirm, or not, that Rayne was there. Sorry, Giles: I overheard most of what you two said. No real way not to, it was leaking all over, but it was personal and I didn’t mean to.”

Looking horrified and constipated, Giles responded tightly, “I understand. Go on: did you confirm his location?”

Willow bobbed her head. “And I also know why he can’t get out: Quor’toth’s a magic sink. Natural or created, I don’t know. There are no rifts--none at all--but anybody can get in with the simplest portal spell. On that side, though, the magic can’t recharge. It’s sucked up the minute somebody tries any.”

“Magic sink,” Spike found himself clarifying. “Like what we done to Digger’s lair. That, with the silver.” Then he was annoyed at himself for contributing, for engaging, and downed the rest of the beer and crushed the can in his hand to make himself feel better.

“Yes, but on a grander scale,” Willow confirmed. “That whole dimension is magic-negative. There’s no ambient force to draw on, and it sucks in any that’s supplied from outside. That’s why it’s so easy to make an ingoing portal, I imagine. And why it was so hard for me to stay within it--not be pulled through.” For a moment, she looked pleased with her achievement. Then her face fell. “Then that thing, that Acala came, and it was so  big  It was like a near approach from the Death Star, and it was pushing me in! And I ran, I had to, and automatically homed in on the only connection I had--”

“Our conversation,” Giles supplied reservedly. “To me.”

“Yeah. And Spike, a little. Wasn’t listening in, not a bit! But you’re loud, Spike. Even though I don’t listen, I really don’t, you’re just blasting away like a rock station and I can’t help hearing even though I can’t make out the words.”

The comparison made Willow’s admission go down a little easier. Spike didn’t mind thinking of himself as a rock station, even though it meant he was spewing himself, uncontrolled, to the aether. Hadn’t had much chance to practice, had he? And that poet, that git William, was all about the fucking  effulgence  anyway, and on the astral plane he wasn’t to be confined, like a boy’s first visit to a brothal.

Spike was still uncomfortable and embarrassed about that side of it and kept still.

Willow went on, “Brought it right down on you. Had to get home, to get some leverage: shut it out. And it followed us back here, too. And then this morning. So it’s all my fault. I’m sorry. I thought…. I thought if I went, Spike wouldn’t have to. Again. It had hit him so hard--”

“S’all right,” Spike felt forced to say, gruffly. “Just wasn’t used to it, right at first, is all.” Not looking at the witch, he popped the tab on another beer. “Did better, a little, the second time.”

“Because I was there to keep you on track,” Dawn put in smugly.

“Maybe,” Spike conceded. “Maybe so. Teensy little thing, she was,” he told Buffy, remembering fondly. Likely it was the beer. “You should’a seen her. No bigger than this, and shining green, all tiny Tinkerbell.”

“Not my fault,” Dawn responded quickly, “you went all ‘bestride the universe’ hugeacious!”

“Never said it was, Bit. Guess things there are the size they think they are--right, Red? An’ when it comes to  size, I’ve never been one to be modest.” For that, he looked at Buffy a certain way, and it was possible he was smirking.

Oz choked on his beer. Spike sociably offered him another.

“I can see the Peter Pan part,” Buffy said, trying to cut him back down to size, the way she did, not admitting that she loved it except alone, and without words. “Some people never grow up. Not in a century plus. Always, the juvenile snark!”

“That’s all right.” Taking no offense, Spike waved grandly. She was being the Slayer, all business, and he always let her have her way about things then. It was when she was being merely Buffy that he’d lately had trouble giving way, wanting to settle the dominance there, demon wanting to enforce its rights on what, however beloved, was essentially a cow, and subordinate, to its perceptions….

Spike lost the next little bit, turning that realization in his mind, uneasily revolving and tugging at it, because that wasn’t what he meant to do, how he should feel toward her regardless. What he’d been doing, all the same, he now recognized: especially when the demon was all riled up and determined to settle things properly and to its own liking, brooking no opposition. That tussle in the hallway. And the bed-busting shagfest, after--hardly less aggressive, truth be told, but Buffy would put up with it then, at least sometimes….

William, resurgent, meant that Spike was losing control of his demon. Like he couldn’t contain both or control either. That bothered him.

When he’d followed that thought to no conclusion, it was apparently Oz’s turn again, and he was delivering the received wisdom of the Powers about that Acala--who was apparently a Power, too. No joy there, then. And not much surprise.

“They’re called the Guardians of the Balance,” Oz was explaining. “Seems there’s two ways of looking at them--that there are actually five of them, or only one with a fivefold nature, and the rest are avatars.”

Buffy said, “He called me that: an avatar. What’s that mean, Giles?”

“The Godai Myo-o. The Five Great Kings. Excuse me, Buffy, I was thinking. What did you say?”

“Acala. He said he hadn’t expected to run into an avatar of the Slayer. He meant me. What’s an avatar? What did he mean?”

Giles fussed with his papers, giving himself time to consider. Looking up, he replied, “I would imagine he meant that he considers there is only one Slayer, and each individual Slayer, like yourself, is simply that aboriginal, eternal Slayer in a new form. All basically the same, sharing in the nature of the unchanging Slayer essence. The Platonic Form, if you will.”

Spike drank beer, not letting on that he understood.

Giles continued, “For all I know, that may be a correct interpretation. When a Slayer is Called, certain abilities are added to her own and not merely awakened within her. She does, to some extent, partake in the uber-Slayer, with the occasional memories of other Slayers’ experience to call upon, the prophetic dreams…. So it’s a possible interpretation. And one that a being with indwelling avatars, different selves it could assume or send out independently, would be likely to adopt. An interesting question, but one that changes little, from our perspective.”

“Think you’re wrong there, Watcher.” Spike straightened in the chair, finally willing to commit full attention. “That Acala, he dealt with the Slayer with respect. Left off fighting when she did. Fixed her van, admitted junking it was a mistake he’d made before he knew who she was. May have next to no regard for Buffy, no more than he did for me. But the Slayer, or what he thinks is an avatar of the Slayer, that’s got some weight with him.”

“Oh, that was just because Frodo was nervous about offending our ‘august patron.’” Buffy dismissed the idea, but Giles looked thoughtful.

“I believe Spike may have a point. He was there, as I was not. And when it comes to matters of dominance, he can be an acute observer. Vampires are highly sensitive to matters of rank and hierachy. From the initial effort to suppress, subsume, the demon, one supposes. In point of fact, I've written a small monograph on that subject." Giles paused a second to look modest in a prissy, Watcherish way. When it was plain nobody gave a fuck about his scholarship, he went on, "Don’t take it lightly, Buffy--whether it is, in fact, true or not, it could be a basis for negotiation rather than unchecked battle, that Acala may have tentatively classed you as something like an equal. And it seems that he has: having delivered his warning, he disengaged without a fight. And also, unasked, put what you claimed as your property to rights.”

“’Frodo?” repeated Oz quizzically.

“Fudo,” said Giles, making a weary face at Buffy’s habitual mangling of unfamiliar names. “A designation of his principal avatar.”

“Oh,” said Oz, in a tone of discovery.

“You know of Fudo?” Giles asked.

“Sure. Pretty much the patron saint of the samurai. Bushido, the Way of the Warrior, and all that. ‘The Immovable.’ It connects.”

“Certainly. I’d forgotten that aspect of his legend. Willow, do see if the blasted internet is available yet. I must have my books!”

As Willow scrambled up to comply, Oz’s eyes followed her. Only when she was gone did his gaze return to his hands, as though surprised to find himself holding a beer. Then his eyes flicked to Spike--to see if his own interest had been noticed, most like. And Bit was looking too, catching the unspoken byplay. Quick little thing, couldn’t mostly get nothing by her. Spike turned a hand, indicating it was none of his concern if the wolf still fancied the witch, and Oz nodded slightly, relaxing.

Spike wondered what Bit made of that: she wasn’t as used to reading the wolf, and sex things frequently passed right by her unless they made loud noises or broke beds. The one exception. In that one respect, she’d held herself far short of seventeen. Maybe it was an awareness the monks hadn’t thought to build in, not expecting her to last long enough to need it. Maybe it was an effect of her keyness--to keep her ready and charged, like, rather than all hormonal and distracted like most teenagers panting after some git or another.

Not his problem. But hers, maybe; and Mike’s. And so out of step with the rest of her keen awareness, it worried him sometimes, not knowing how he should judge it, feel about it….

A break seemed to be commencing, Buffy standing down and asking Oz if he could stay to supper, Harris wanting to know what the Pacific Northwest was like, interlacing murmurs of conversation. Spike could take time out for a smoke.

That, as much as anything, had helped him push away impulses to turn astral just for the odd unoccupied few seconds, get back to the clarity and brilliance the poet and the soul seemingly couldn’t get enough of: couldn’t smoke there. And every time he gave in, the demon was more insistent on its rights when he got back. Unlike Red’s, his jaunts hadn’t yet been detected, that he knew of. And Buffy wasn’t shy about calling him on anything she felt as a separation; and she was right to. It was a separation. And when it came to abandonment, she had sensitive feelers everyplace, alert every minute for that. He couldn’t hope to get by with it, especially with the time not being the same there as here. An entire day could be a minute, or a few seconds could take seven hours in passing, this side.

That awareness didn’t make him want it less. It only made him circumspect, sneaky, and careful. But if he didn’t quit, eventually she was sure to catch him out, and then the blow-up would make their dance in the hall look like a picnic.

It was true: the Summerlands came at the price of all you had, and there was no peace afterward. Best to shut it away, try to forget. Be in the moment, in the body, and let the rest go. Not think about it…the way he was doing now.

Couldn’t smoke there. That was enough reason to stop.

Poking in a pocket for his cigs and lighter, he headed for the front porch and its safe evening darkness.

********

Since the power was still off, supper was a grill-out in the chilly yard with Xander, the self-designated Master Griller from the months when all the SITs were in residence, presiding, wearing two towels pinned at the shoulders into a kind of poncho to keep the burgers and hot-dogs from spitting grease on what he claimed were his “good” clothes. Maybe they were: Dawn had seen lots of his other clothes, and they were worse.

Happy and excited by the unusual circumstances and unusual company, Dawn drifted from one conversation to another, snagging a hot-dog and bun and slathers of mustard when tongs-wielding Xander announced the first batch ready.

It wasn’t Terminal Beach, but it was still fun.

Gesturing with her hot-dog, she asked Giles to write down the URL of his study on how dominating the new demon led to vamps’ preoccupation with one-upmanship, who got to boss around who, and he promised to do it once he could reach the CoW database again. The paper sounded interesting and might make better sense of the otherwise demented dance Spike and Mike were doing, that anybody sensible would have backed out of or declared a draw or even a victory, just to stop worrying about it, but not them!

She’d heard from Buffy about the bike-moving incident. If the phones were working, she was sure she’d have had a looong conversation of listening to Mike griping about how ill-used he was, that Spike wouldn’t go thirty feet outside to push his own motorcycle to safety, until it was her turn to try to explain why staying indoors, within the wards, was one of the more sensible things she’d ever known Spike to do. She wondered how badly Mike had been banged up by the hailstones and how long he’d therefore be in healing. If he could be wheedled into returning to the beach next weekend, say, assuming Spike could come out of his drifty funk long enough to open the rift for them.

Although Spike could eat human food, half-burnt burgers on buns weren’t high on his list of favorites. So he’d gone off on his bike, so conspicuously not saying where he was going that he was probably hunting, or scouting for vamps not where he thought they belonged on a Tuesday night, so they could be legitimately dusted per  Lex Spikus. Possibly both.

Dawn had wanted to pin him in a corner and quiz him about his new “catch and release” program that left the prey alive but marked in a way only the bravest or stupidest vamp would touch. She wondered if it was working better than the stinky lily perfume Willow had made up at his direction, that Spike had tried (with a notable lack of success) to train vamps to avoid. She thought she still had a couple of squeeze bottles of it someplace….

Obviously Mike had noticed Spike’s new street game, because he’d veered off, respecting the mark. She wondered what Mike thought about it--whether he resented the interference or was copying the strategy himself because Mike could stop, not drink the prey dead, if he really wanted to, since that was her condition for his visiting her.

She hadn’t seen him since yesterday afternoon, when he’d been summoned for guarding-Spike duty, and he’d been all business then, passing her taser back wordlessly before he left, down the tunnel. She wondered if he was mad at her about something she’d done, or not done, or their conversation on the beach….

She shouldn’t be obsessing about Mike. It was dumb.  Let him play his kissy-face games with Sue the Skank, it was nothing to Dawn…and nothing to Mike either, or so he said, and that was so gut-twisting frelling confusing…!

Passing by with a droopy paper plate, Buffy locked and burst out, “Dammit! It’s Tuesday, right? Dawn, is it Tuesday?”

“The last I noticed. Why?”

“It’s class night! I’m supposed to be at the Civic Center in…” (There was sleeve shoving and watch checking.) “…in twelve minutes! And I forgot to remind Spike, he won’t show up, I’ll be there all alone…!”

“Buffy. Buffy, wait before you totally freak out. It’s vacation, remember? As in, no school. Notice me not being in school. My own personal self. I don’t think exercising is high on anybody’s list right now. You might have two dorks show up, that obviously need a life, but--”

“If there’s two, even if there are only two, I have to  be there. They paid, and that’s like a promise, right? I could have canceled but I never even thought about it, not working has totally screwed up my sense of time, there’s still time to cancel for Thursday, I guess, and two, two wouldn’t be so bad, maybe I could manage two….”

Dawn found herself the trustee of Buffy’s droopy plate as Buffy raced inside to change. As she delivered the collapsing plate to the folding table near the grill, Buffy raced across the far end of the yard, dove into the SUV, and peeled out.

“What,” asked Xander, watching the brake lights and then the headlights come on, “the burger was too well done?”

“Her class,” Dawn sighed, sliding the plate into place near the monster jar of pickle relish. Anya had wangled them a case wholesale, last summer. At a discount. It was probably several lifetimes worth of pickle relish. Dawn was beginning to hate pickle relish, which would make it last even longer. Like those fruitcakes that were never actually eaten, just passed around from one unwary recipient to the next, getting staler and harder until they were the embodied inedible essence of all fruitcakes….

“Forgot, huh?” From sympathetic, Xander went to a slow, secret smile with a quirk at both corners. “And Spike went…where?”

“He didn’t say.”

“A-huh,” said Xander, rocking on his heels and happily gazing toward the street. “Do you want to make the popcorn for the show when he gets back, or should I?”

“You do it, if you want,” Dawn responded listlessly. “I’m all popcorned out.”

She scuffed away, only to be accosted again by the back steps.

“Dawn. Hey.” It was Oz, his head cocked like a dog’s. But that wasn’t fair or nice, all the things Spike called him, so Dawn tried not to think of them.

Another blow-up meant she probably wouldn’t get any sleep tonight, either. Maybe, though, lacking a free upstairs bed, they’d have the common courtesy to take their frelling make-up sex to the basement this time. That was a hopeful thought, but she didn’t feel hopeful about it. Everybody running away or unavailable had her feeling all depressed.

“Hey,” she responded politely to Oz's greeting. Suddenly, her duties as default Summers hostess crackled to life like a charge of static electricity. “Do you have a place to stay?”

Oz nodded toward the street, where something was maybe parked--Dawn couldn’t tell without the street lights. “The van. It’s fine. As long as we don’t get another storm like that. I grew up here, and that’s not normal weather for Sunnydale. Fudo?”

“Seems so.”

“Yeah,” Oz said thoughtfully, then mentioned, “I wasn’t done. I didn’t tell them about the history. Where have….” He paused delicately, but Dawn knew well enough who he was asking about.

“Buffy’s gone to her class, where there’ll be maybe two people. Spike’s gone to try his new brilliant plan of biting people on the neck to keep them safe from any vamp except him. I imagine he has quite a stable by now. Or a barn, considering they’re cows, not horses. I’m sure they’ll both be fascinated, though, when they get back. If they don’t bring down the downstairs hallway, ceiling and all.”

Frowning in puzzled concern, Oz took her arm. She yanked rudely away, screeching, “Leave me alone!” like she thought he was a child molester, and everybody looking at them, at her, and the only possible action was to race upstairs to the bathroom and lock herself in, running the shower so nobody could hear her snuffling into a towel. Spike would have heard her regardless, and cracked the locked door open if he had to, and not put up with her nonsense for a second. But Spike wasn’t here. Likely, after a hearty snack or five, he’d zip across to Never-Neverland, didn’t need her help to get there, he could do it just fine on his own, give the fucking poet a treat, another night out on the town. He’d been sneaking off: a minute here, five minutes there. Dawn knew from the dazed, blank look in his eyes afterward.

She wanted to run off, too. It wasn’t fair everybody could run off but her--even Willow. She’d have settled for being a green twinkle in Neverland, or for stomping and yelling in the soft warm sand of the changeless Terminal Beach. Those being unavailable to unaided Dawns, she took the next best choice: stealthily unlocking the door nobody had noticed was locked, racing to her room, diving under the covers, and turning the electric blanket up to 10 before recalling that the power was out in her room, too.

So she jammed on her headphones and turned the CD player (it ran on batteries) up to 10 instead. The rhythm and wailing of Nine Inch Nails (it was an “oldies” CD, one of Spike’s she’d borrowed without quite remembering to ask) almost drowned out the guilty sound of the shower she’d left running. Use up all the hot water: it would serve them right!

Wondering why she was the one who had to get stuck, why everything had turned so dismal and hopeless, Dawn yanked the covers up over her head.

**********

Methodically and rhythmically, Buffy thumped her forehead against the steering wheel. The fact that there were no street lights, no traffic lights, should have given her a clue. Out the windshield, the Civic Center stood dark and locked. Of course: no electricity. No heat. She was the biggest dunce on the planet.

Off down the street, a single light approached. Smooth as a bird, it banked into the turn, jumped the sidewalk, and came purring across the grass to stop about a foot from her door. Crooking a knee across the saddle (or whatever it was called), Spike lit a cigarette, all the while looking appraisingly at the dark building.

“Figured it’d be shut,” he commented, sliding his lighter away and breathing smoke with what seemed more relish than usual, “but I figured I better check, just in case they had a generator or something. Looks like they don’t, though. Anybody show up?”

Buffy practically fell out the door and onto him. Somehow, he kept the bike balanced and her as well, cupping an unembarrassed hand under her butt and lifting her until she was pretty much perched on his lap, which she considered quite a good place to be.

“Somebody been mean to my little Slayer, then?” Spike crooned into her ear. “So long as it’s not more’n twice as big as the Sears tower, you point it out and I’ll take it out for you. Just say the word.”

Buffy kissed him urgently, overcome that he’d remembered when she hadn’t, and moreover hadn’t said word one of snark about the depth of her dumbth. “I don’t deserve you,” she whimpered.

“So you believe it now, do you? About time.” Carefully he pushed and slid her forward, back onto her feet at the side of the bike. “Get yourself on proper: I don’t hold with that sidesaddle nonsense, not at ninety miles an hour.” As she looked in confused distress at the SUV, he directed, “Lock it and leave it. Expect all the would-be carjackers have been eaten--last night, now. Field day for vamps, it is, tonight. More hunting than finding, though, I guess. Didn’t see a lot of headlights, coming from home, did you?”

Thinking back, Buffy had to shake her head. The fact was, she didn’t remember seeing  any.

Spike commented comfortably, “Sensible people keeping to home, what with the dark and the cold. We should, too. Lock it up, ride with me: you know you want to.”

Buffy gave the smirk the kiss it expected and asked for, then firmly pressed the thingie that chirped the SUV’s doors locked. “That’s my girl,” Spike commended as she slid on behind him and clasped him tight around the waist.

“Go.”

“Where, pet? Straight home, is it?”

Buffy shook her head emphatically. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t see it--he’d feel it. He knew. He always knew.

He’d found the beach for her.

It would be freezing on the bike at even moderate speed. She didn’t care. Among his many talents, Spike made a fine windbreak. “Just go.”

“Scenic route it is then,” Spike responded cheerfully, letting the bike roll ahead, pushing the gas a little, leaning them into a perfect turn, smooth and rolling decorously across the parking strip and down the driveway, just a walking pace, maybe five miles an hour. Lifting his head, he looked halfway around, asking without words if she was set, ready. Her answer was to press her cheek to his back and hold on harder.

In under a minute, they must have been doing sixty and Spike was laughing, she could feel it, from the sheer glorious speed of it and still accelerating.

The bouncing headlight beam couldn’t illuminate the road ahead as fast as they reached it. But with vampire night-sight choosing the way, Buffy had no fear of potholes or downed tree limbs. No fear at all.

**********

Oz’s van was kitted out for flood, famine, or flaming doom. It had a generator. It therefore had lights and heat. It had a refrigerator, half filled (by no coincidence) with 20-year-old scotch and Jack Daniels. Bugger must have been told Rupert was likely to be in attendance. Also ice. Spike didn’t want his Jack diluted and took it neat, thanks. Didn’t want any ice: he’d already had hail. Ice enough, right there.

Spike was drunk and quite contentedly getting drunker. Eventually he’d probably pass out but until that happened, he had a lapful of sleepy, giggly Buffy and that was a bit of all right, and if they decided to do something about it, well, there was the basement and the bed just a short stagger away, since Oz had considerately parked the van right in front of their very own house. Convenient. Not Oz’s house of course, but Oz was all right for a werewolf. Most upstanding werewolf Spike had ever met, which actually meant something.

Spike wasn’t sure precisely what it meant, but there was definitely meaning in it, it tingled along all his nerves, made him feel completely wide awake and lucid, almost like on the other side, and he’d been right: live in the moment, be simply in the body, and love his lady if by the time they got done talking he wasn’t too drunk. Not that by that time she’d know the difference, poor cow. Never had held her liquor at all well, but at least was getting the loose and happy of it, not the suspicious and belligerent, like she mostly did.

The bait had even enticed Rupert from the cooling grill, and Oz had offered the hospitality of a bedroll, if the Watcher chose to accept it. Sitting with the rest of them in the back of the van, Rupert was pretending to savor the Scotch, rather than gulp it right down till the desired effect was achieved and then coast there, the way Spike did, poncy sod.

World must be ending: the git had undone his tie. Not taken his jacket off, though: Oz’s little Sterno heater didn’t crank out enough joules, or btu’s, or however they were measuring that sort of thing now….

Spike had a couple of Oz’s blankets wrapped around Buffy and his clasped arms holding them there, and liquor was anti-freeze, innit? So that was all right. She was all toasty again, not shivering at all.

Leaning back awkwardly and craning his neck, Spike looked out to see if there was a light in Bit’s window, then rubbed his face and damned himself for an idiot because of course there wasn’t. Bit wouldn’t have enjoyed this anyway, he thought, vaguely guilty. Couple of old Brits getting sozzled and talking about the old times, that would have bored her to utter tears. And nobody to snuggle up warm against except maybe Oz, whose eyes seemed to be locked on a different star. So maybe just as well to let her sleep. Felt vaguely bad about it though, he did.

Coming over all maudlin and sentimental. Cure for that was another drink. He latched onto the current bottle and poured another round, but barely a dram for Buffy or she’d rue it. Just enough to keep the buzz going.

Oz was telling them the occasionally interesting history of Quor’toth. How it was the nearest-adjacent place of a whole other universe, somewhere so distant even George Lucas couldn’t have come up with enough far’s. But distance didn’t matter so much because space was folded. Rupert nodded solemnly at that, just as if he had the least notion in hell what wolf-boy was talking about. Or maybe he’d only achieved the level of drunk where you nodded solemnly at things.

Anyway, the tale went that sometime in the Middle Ages (“Chivalry times!” put in Buffy wisely, then relapsed to petting and being petted), one Alfonso of Milan had discovered this neat trick. He already knew how to make portals, everybody and his bastard nephew knew how to make portals by then, it was in alchemical scrolls from the Second Dynasty or was that 2^nd Century BCE? The fucking Ptolemys, anyway, for God’s sake. The commonist of common knowledge among that era’s Illuminati, anyway. And Our Alfonso found whatever (like his servants, his pets, his assistants, his colleagues, and his ninth wife) he put through one particularly aligned and spelled portal never came back. Either he was an idiot, a truly advanced scientific thinker, a fair-minded man, or just missed wife 9 too much, but he finished up by going through himself and was not heard from further. However, his notes remained, and with the enthusiasm of first discovery, he’d named the realm Quor’toth. Or maybe Kartath. Or maybe….

Medieval Italian was so fucking hard to read. And the spelling of the same word could vary three times in the same fucking sentence. Bless the advent of movable type!

Giles nodded solemn agreement to that, too. Raising glasses, they toasted Herr Gutenberg and movable type.

All chums together, telling tales, each chipping in about whatever piece he had some knowledge of. Or nodding, if that did the job.

So it had naturally got a certain reputation, Quor’toth had (or Kartath, or Cartoth, or…) for being this super place to dispose of things. People. Whatever. According to Oz, some law firm had drawn up a contract for Chicago to dump its toxic waste there, back in the Daley era, and Spike was inclined to believe it. But not New York: New York didn’t play ball, went all haughty, and their people never did lunch with the L.A. people, so the deal never got done.

Then there was this baby….

“Shut up,” Spike said flatly, and was obeyed. Suddenly something approaching sober, or a lot less drunk, Spike checked: breathing, heart rate, smell. It was all right: Buffy was well and truly out, or asleep, or not about to pay any connected attention, anyway. Good enough.

Spike leaned back and shut his eyes for a moment. “Rupert, you breathe a word of any of this, I’ll do for you. Don’t care where you are, how many walls you got between--”

“I do take the general idea, Spike. I’ll be cut into collops and fed to the cat you don’t own. Now do us all the kindness of shutting your pie hole.”

“Just sayin’. Buffy don’t need to know what her true fucking Soul Mate’s got up to--”

Very quietly, Oz asked, “What’s it got to do with Buffy?”

“Nothing, then. Nothing at all.” It was safe to open his eyes and blink then.

Oz waited, puzzled. But if Oz didn’t know, Spike wasn’t about to enlighten him. Didn’t like the way the Watcher was looking at him though--like a bug on a pin. He’d already said too much. Wheels were turning there. Wheels were turning. But at need, he could handle the Watcher, if he had to. Handle Oz, too, if it came to that.

“Spike, I find your game-face distracting and unpleasant. Drop it, please.”

“I look how I want,” Spike responded sullenly, only then realizing he’d changed aspect.

“I’m sure you do. But in the interests of harmony…?”

It took Spike a couple of minutes to calm his demon down, send it back to drowsing. Wasn’t focusing all that well himself, truth be told. Demon, it was specially alert to anything felt as a threat at such times. Not even counting it’d got too fucking independent by half, the last few days. Have to do something about that, some way….

“Anyway,” Oz resumed softly, carefully, “there was this baby. Prophesied as ‘The Destroyer.’ Taken by its guardian into Quor’toth something like a year ago, I forget, to protect him from his enemies. He--”

“It’s a boy, then,” Spike cut in flatly.

“I guess. It seems the Powers are divided over him. Some want him kept until he’s full-grown, can defend himself. Some want him returned, maybe to give the enemies a fair shot. Derail the crisis, whatever future apocalypse he’s supposed to be involved in. Of course, getting him out at all would have to involve the Lady, and there’s been talk a deal has been struck, but the Lady says no, she’s made no binding promises.”

“‘Binding,’” Spike repeated, and this time did feel his eyes turning, could see the small corner lights, that illuminated the rear of the van, seem suddenly brighter. “Minces words real fine, she does. Which side is our Fudo on?”

“The Destroyer will upset the Balance. Fudo likes the Balance the way it is. It’s kind of his job to preserve it. So my best guess is, Fudo wants to keep The Destroyer right where he is, where he can’t affect anything, till he has a long white beard and is fed his supper through a straw. I’m not really sure about that, though,” Oz added apologetically. “The Lady didn’t say anything about Fudo being part of the equation.”

“She wouldn’t. The very skies would fall if she actually did anything,” Spike conjectured bitterly. “Hasn’t even sent me any dreams to get my head screwed around, point me in the right direction. Kept her hands completely clean, she has. Except…she shoved Ethan Rayne into Quor’toth. She must be so fucking pleased with herself!”

“Spike,” said Giles somberly. “You know, or guess, things you aren’t saying, about this. Don’t you.”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me what they are?”

“No.” Spike let the word hang there, undecorated.

“Will you help…distract, occupy, Fudo whilst I attempt to recover Ethan?”

“It’s the Slayer calls things like that. From where I stand, it’s still none of our concern. Not our apocalypse, here. Maybe never. For me, I’d love to take that thing on. Chop it to mincemeat until all the avatars are used up and there’s nothing more to turn into. Always wanted to take on a samurai…. But it’s the Slayer calls those things. For the both of us. Oz, you tell her your tale. Then, Rupert, you can ask her. An’ then abide her answer. Which is what I’ll do.”

As Spike stirred, beginning to gather Buffy up, Oz said, “One more thing. If you decide to go after Rayne, and if, while you’re there, you come across this baby, The Destroyer, and if you can set up something like a portal, then an arrangement will be made so you can use it. So you can get out. With the baby. And that’s the last of it.”

Spike laughed harshly, trying to figure and manage the logistics of getting Buffy out of the van and home, as drunk as he was. “That’s one thing, is it? Then I’d hate to hear what two would be. You delivered your message, pup. You can run along home now.”

“Well, actually, no. I stay until it’s decided. And if you go, I go with you. The Lady knows what a value you set on your independence. So she won’t do a thing to influence you. Not a single thing. She’s promised.”

“Yeah, fine.” Except start the whole thing going in the first place, Spike thought.  And then do her best to tangle us all up in it. Sure, she’s a fucking model of non-interference.

He was too drunk to think about it any more.

Wolf-boy could tell to Buffy in the morning--as much of it as he knew. Then the Slayer would decide.

**********


Buffy had a headache. Not a force 10, maybe a force 4 (diminishing to 3 after the ibuprofen kicked in). She’d awakened in the big new bed, which didn’t have the same worn-in comfortable hollows as her former bed (now an ex-bed, thanks to Spike) and produced stiff, achy places in her shoulders, back, and neck. At least that was what she blamed them on rather than an awkward sleeping position tucked pillowless under and around Spike, who was leadenly asleep, snoring, and just about immovable when she had to get up to go to the bathroom: up two flights instead of just down the hall.

The shower had apparently been running all night, so there was zero hot water. She turned it off, not even wanting to know what bizarre scenario had resulted in its being left on. She just didn’t want to deal with it.

Despite toothpaste and mouthwash, her mouth tasted as though something small and repulsive had crawled in and died. Her first cup of coffee (instant, in cold water: blech!) got her eyes marginally open, enough to search for yogurt in the dark, powerless, and ominous smelling refrigerator. While she was trying to determine if the yogurt had gone off, Dawn grouched in, complaining how yucky PopTarts tasted unheated and trying to make a case for suing the city for non-delivery of services--at least under Mayor Wilkins’ regime, the power had never gone off.

“You weren’t here then,” Buffy pointed out incautiously.

“But I remember!” Dawn hated to be reminded Buffy had survived all those years without a younger sister to torture her.

Buffy shut her eyes. “Whatever. I don’t want to argue about His Honor, the Giant Snakeness.”

“You started it!”

Without warning, the power snapped on. Everything lit up, popped, hummed, trying to make up for lost time. Buffy and Dawn both jumped. Downstairs, there was a bang, and cursing: Spike had fallen out of bed. Buffy had finished the dubious yogurt before he showed up, stalking through the kitchen to the back porch for his first cigarette of the day, protected by an overcast sky that didn’t show any sign of clearing soon.

Slowly remembering and resuming the rightful order of things, Buffy dumped her horrible cold scummy coffee and set up the coffee maker to brew fresh while Dawn gleefully played with the toaster, making sure it clacked and jumped properly before entrusting fresh pastries to it.

The milk had not survived the hiatus. By the time Buffy had poured all three cartons down the sink, the coffee was ready. Pouring two cups, she slid on the down vest hanging handy behind the outside door and carried the cups outside.

“Ta,” Spike said absently, accepting a cup.

Sipping coffee, Buffy put her back against the rail Spike was leaning on, facing the opposite direction. “It’s a judgment,” she said presently.

“What is, pet.”

“All this.” Gesturing vaguely with her cup, Buffy had the sense she was indicating all the weary, headache-producing, contrary things. “Cosmic payback. Because we had fun.”

That got her a quick, pleased look. “Did, didn’t we?”

“Ahuh.” She nodded heavily. “Universe pays you back for that, though. Not allowed.”

Spike put an arm around her. “Don’t you believe it. Doesn’t work like that.”

“Yes, it does.” Gratefully, she leaned. After awhile, she semi-asked, “Giles is still waiting for an answer.”

“Yeah. An’ dog-boy, he has a little history lesson you sort of slept through. He’ll want to repeat it, I expect.”

“You don’t want to get involved.”

“We’re already involved: I figure Fudo, he served notice. Don’t want to go haring off to Quor’toth, no. Don’t like the odds. Getting back seems real iffish. But you call it, pet. Whatever you decide, I’ll abide.”

“That rhymes,” Buffy noticed.

“Fuck. So it does.”

“Quor’toth, it’s a real place, right? My mystical aura mange not a factor.”

“Seems so. Portal entry, no rifts. But no way back without a major boost. Lady, she says she’ll do that on condition.”

“What condition?”

Spike was silent a long minute. Buffy studied his face--deliberately unrevealing, which itself told her he was trying to keep things locked inside. “Seems there’s a prophecy boy there. Called ‘The Destroyer.’ Seems the Lady wants him fetched back. More’n likely, why she stuffed Rayne there to begin with--to get us into it. On account of Rupert. Sneakier, even, than I’d guessed.”

“The Lady,” Buffy clarified.

“Yeah,” Spike confirmed glumly, finishing his coffee and setting the cup on the rail.

“I haven’t had any signs, dreams, anything like that. You?”

“Nothing. ‘F I had, I’d have said.”

“Would you?”

Another long silence. Finally Spike said, “I got other reasons for wanting no part of this. Sometime, if I have to, I’ll tell you.”

“OK…if the reasons are yours, nothing to do with me. Do they? Have to do with me?”

Spike quirked an uneasy smile, caught. “Maybe. Still my reasons, though. Leave a chap a little privacy.”

“This, from the guy who sleeps naked.”

“Well, yeah. Want a morning shag, less to get all tangled up with. Haven’t heard any complaints, ‘less this is one.”

“No complaints. Except you snore.”

“Do not!”

“Do too! I have witnesses!”

“What witnesses?”

“Well, Dawn. She knows you snore!”

“Hell, Bit will say anything to get a rise. Says you’re an ill-tempered dwarf: does that make it so?”

“She says what?”

Spike cut off further discussion with a sudden but lingering kiss, a time-tested way of stopping words altogether. At least an 8 on the hotitude scale. Buffy leaned into it, commenting intelligently, “Mmmmm.”

“Guys?” It was Willow, in fluffy chenille robe and slippers, holding a steaming coffee cup, leaning out the door. Buffy disentangled enough to look around inquiringly. “Phones are working again. Because it rang. It was Angel.” As Buffy moved, Willow said hastily, “He didn’t wait. He said don’t decide anything, don’t do anything. He’s coming. Then he hung up.”

“Shit!” said Spike concisely.