TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #43 "The belly of the beast"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 43/?

RATING: R (For Series)

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did, what makes you think I'd share him with you?

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

The security guards were no problem. He walked past them at a brisk stride, and no one even looked up. But the hallway was filled with people coming and going. Wolfram and Hart was a large and profitable law firm, doing business worldwide. Hundreds of people poured through those glass doors every day.

He headed for the rear elevator, as per the map Lindsay'd drilled into his head, and encountered no resistance when he punched the correct floor without benefit of the correct fingerprints.

Stepping from the elevator, he passed a group of women in nice suits. They didn't seem to notice him, so he proceeded to the correct hallway.

When prompted for a voice ID, he pushed the button on the small device in his pocket, and Lilah Morgan identified herself for the computer. The electronic doors swung open, and Spike moved through them.

The archives should be located in the back office, on the right. He headed that way purposefully, the new black leather attaché case in his hand lending weight to his cover.

Lindsay's suit was more cover. It itched, and the slacks were a little bit too loose through the middle, but otherwise it fit him well enough.

He passed a full-length mirror and caught sight of his profile with relief. He appeared to be another young up and coming law-type, just another employee. Just as he should.

He walked right into the archives, and smiled at the pretty receptionist as he entered the room.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

He gave her his most Williamesque smile.

"I certainly hope so."

He put forth his hand, and announced himself.

"Debrett. From accounting. I need some financial records. Nothing major, you understand. Billings, mostly."

He smiled sheepishly.

"That time of the year again."

She laughed, and smiled back at him.

"Oh, yes. Tax season. My favorite time of the year."

She showed him to where the tax records were kept in hard copy, and then left him alone.

He put the briefcase down, and popped its latches. Carefully he removed the pistol from within, placing it inside the waistband of the slacks, under his belt. He pocketed the ammo, and rechecked his other weapons. Stakes, grenades, and crossbow. All fine, and ready to be used if the opportunity warranted it. A small handheld tazer he slipped into his other coat pocket. Then he removed a yellow legal pad and an empty file folder, then shut the case and locked it.

Slowly he moved out of the financial records, heading for the rear wall. He caught sight of the security cameras mounted at the corners of the large room, and hoped Lilah was correct about having disabled them.

Lindsay had minimal knowledge of this area, but Lilah had been more helpful. Early in her career, she'd done many hours of research in the firm's archives.

A computer terminal under the window greeted him cheerily, a screensaver of swimming fishes moving before him. He sat down before it, and said a quick, silent prayer.

`Hey, you. God. S'me again, Spike. Er...William. If you could be so good as to help me do this and get the hell out in one piece, I'd be much obliged. If its not too much trouble."

Then he started working the computer system.

It'd been some time since he'd had good access to a network, but fortunately Wolfram and Hart's mainframe was as old and revered as its name. He knew the ins and outs of such a system well, and within minutes he had filenames of an inventory for the archives.

Then he was prompted for a password he'd already located in the machine's files, and supplied it.

The rear wall slid away, and a dark stone stairwell with metal torches came into view. An antechamber held a small shelf, with several boxes on it. He rose from his seat, and moved into the passage. He carefully selected a pair of rubber gloves from the box on the shelf, observing the rules clearly posted on the wall above. Then he took a torch from the wall, startling a bit when it ignited instantly for him.

He descended into the darkness, wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into this time.

It was a long stone stairwell, winding down deep within the earth. His heart thudded in his ears, and his mouth tasted like cotton, as he made his way.

In his ear he heard nothing. Either the earpiece wasn't working, or they had nothing to report to him.

Finally he came to a long hallway, as unlike the stairwell as possible.

It was white, resembling nothing so much as a hospital corridor. It was lined with doors, and each door had a number designation on it. But they were not in order, it was not "1, 2, 3", etc...rather one door displayed "7860", while its neighbor was labeled "6".

Horrible memories of the initiative complex made his breath come short.

`Relax, mate. Relax. Nothing will give you away so badly as fainting on their floor."

He tried the doors, but they seemed to all be locked. He felt inside his pocket for his lockpick, a last minute addition to this morning's arsenal, and was glad again Gunn had suggested it.

He picked the lock of the first door on the right, and it swung open, revealing a storeroom. The walls were lined with books.

He'd never find it this way. His heart sank.

But he moved into the room, anyway, his eyes darting around for telltale clues. The prophecy was very important, and whatever it was, it had inspired recent activity in multiple accounts. So Said Lilah, and so he believed her. Surely it would be more noticeable

then.

He commenced his search.

The room held books on the occult, of various ages. Some of them appeared to be no less than ancient; paper scrolls flaking in his hands, in languages he could never hope to read. Some of them were written in dark ink that resembled blood, and he noted with distaste the feel of a strange sort of vellum that bound some of the better-preserved tomes.

He'd seen it's like in Nazi Germany, and he shuddered.

It looked as if Wolfram and Hart had laid hands on the holdings of the Library of Alexandria. He pondered for a moment the Council of Watchers, and wondered what price they would pay for access to this quantity of occult literature.

He was stumbling blindly through medieval texts, and records on the early Inquisition, when he became aware of a presence in the room with him.

He turned slowly, a parchment still in hand, and regarded the mild mannered man behind him.

"Can I help you to find something?" he asked, but his voice was not friendly, not helpful. Instantly Spike knew this man to be dangerous.

"Just having a look-see." Spike smiled maliciously back at the fellow, who touched something on his wrist and spoke too softly to be heard, before turning back to him.

"Backup has been called. But I think I know why you're here."

Spike's voice lilted with anger.

"Do you, now? I wonder."

The gentleman smiled kindly.

"You're looking for the millennium prophecy, I gather."

Spike just watched him. Then men dressed as police officers began coming into the room. But they were armed with wooden stakes and tazers, which were not regulation police gear the last time Spike checked. Well, anywhere but Sunnydale, anyway.

The gentleman was still smiling, and as the armed guard surrounded Spike he noticed the rip in the older man's throat.

"So sorry I failed to introduce myself. My name is Holland Manners." He said softly. Then he enquired quite politely, "And who might you be?"

Spike gave him a "Big Bad" grin.

"I'm nobody special."

Then he went into action. He kicked the legs out from under the nearest guard, and managed to snag his tazer. Then he tazered two more of them, stepping on their prone bodies as he hastened to reach the door.

One of the guards managed to get a purchase on his shoulders, and a second rammed a wooden stake into his chest, puncturing his lung. He gasped for air, bleeding, as he broke the second guard's neck.

"He's human," somebody said.

Manners voice was pleased.

"Excellent!" he said.

It took four more men to restrain him, but Spike finally went down amid kicks and punches, and the occasional tazer.

"Get him up, boys."

He was lifted, and hung between two guards. They shuffled him over to Manners.

His hand came up alongside Spike's cheek, pinching it gently.

"You wanted the Millennium Prophecy, yes?"

Spike was too wounded to argue, too wounded for a cutting reply. He hung there wordlessly, desperately clinging to consciousness.

The man turned, and they followed him into the hallway, then down the corridor.

He stopped at a white door labeled "7890a", then ordered the men to stand back, as he produced keys and unlocked the door.

His hand on the door handle, he turned back to Spike.

"I think we can oblige you in your search."

Spike summoned his strength enough to mumble a question.

"It's in there?"

Holland nodded.

"Yes. We keep the Millennium Prophecy in here, under very tight supervision."

He opened the door and the guards threw Spike inside, upon the floor. Then they closed the door and locked it.

He sat up in the darkness, looking around.

This room was unlike the other. Not a library, not a storeroom, this was a cell. The floor was dirt, the walls smelled of dank mold like the staircase. And somewhere in the room, on the far side of it, he heard a familiar snuffling sound.

Weeping.

Then the laughter followed it, and he choked on his words as he called out pitifully to her.

"Dru?"

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #44 "Terrible Lucidity"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 44/?

RATING: R (For Series)

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did, what makes you think I'd share him with you?

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

"The line's dead, Angel. There's no signal." Wesley reported, as gently as he possibly could. Beside him, Gunn fiddled with the equipment knobs futilely, then raised his head to back Wes up.

"Everything checks out, equip-wise. They just tampered with his reception. I think we gotta assume they knew about us this whole time, man." His cool calm was a façade; he had like and respected Spike. Now he feared the worst.

The dark vampire sagged visibly at the news. Behind him, his new childer moved in close, offering him the comfort of flesh, as they pressed their hands to him. Lindsay patted his shoulder, and Lilah took his hand.

"Do you want to go in after him?" Lindsay's question was honest. He didn't like Spike, didn't share his maker's affections. But the man was blood, of a sort- Family. And if Angel sent him in there after the human, Lindsay would go willingly.

He just hoped against hope that wasn't the way things worked out.

Angel shook his head.

"No. No, we do what we discussed. We wait."

And they did.

Her muffled laughter helped him to find her in the darkness. He crawled to it, choking on the blood in his mouth, wheezing from his lung. The useless gun in his belt dug into the flesh of his belly, pressed up against the dirt floor.

He'd never even had a chance to draw down on them.

His hand contacted her shoulder first; cool hard skin against his palm. Then her hair, as she turned her face towards him, giggling.

"Spike. My Spike."

The giggling stopped short, and her voice was brittle.

"No. Not my Spike. Not mine. Nevermore."

She hissed at him, drawing farther into the corner.

"Warm now, and dying. Your blood dripping out your chest like raindrops. Do you eat raindrops, William?"

She laughed again.

"They taste like moonlight."

His hands searched her, and he realized she was naked. And he realized she was drawn and thin, as he traced her ribcage, her collarbones, her hipbones.

She was doubtless weaker than she'd been in years...

Weaker than after Prague.

How long since they'd fed her? He wondered, and the thought made him angry. How dare they do this? She was one of an ancient and powerful bloodline. She was respected and feared throughout the world; her name alone provoked terror among fledglings. Drusilla the Mad, child of Angelus. It was a name used to cow your rebels, a cautionary tale told to your young ones.

And she was locked starving in a damp cell underneath a prosperous Los Angeles law firm.

The indignity was not to be borne.

Her silence couldn't disguise the hitch of her sobs as they shook her.

"Ssh, pet. I'm here now. Spike's here. I'll get you out of this, I promise."

He just wasn't sure how he'd do that right now.

He settled for pulling her tight against him, and holding her, stroking her the silk of her hair. She clung to him, her hands tracing the wounds on his skin, memorizing them.

She was murmuring again, quietly; unintelligible words that sounded like music in her singsong lilt. He thought carefully over their options.

Somehow, she was the thing he'd been sent for. The irony of the situation was rich; he'd spent hours looking for something in a book, or on a scroll. But it didn't exist in that form.

"Dru, love. I need to talk to you, baby. I need to know about the prophecy you gave these people."

She ignored him, twisting her hair into a ring around her finger.

He kissed the top of her head, and listened to her ramble, mixing nursery stories and poetry, a weird amalgam of ideas and nonsense.

Her tone changed, becoming clear.

"Not prophecy, lovely William."

She continued, in all seriousness, " Your fish's tail, which amongst us is considered so beautiful, is thought on earth to be quite ugly; they do not know any better, and they think it necessary to have two stout props, which they call legs, in order to be handsome."

He felt her eyes upon him in the black room.

"But you've lost your fish's tail, Spike. If it cost not your tongue, it cost your spine... When she loves someone else, and not you, Will you turn to foam and slip back into the sea?"

She licked her lips softly.

"You'll make such lovely foam."

His jaw tightened, and he tried to avoid her question.

"Drusilla, WHAT DID YOU SAY TO THE LAWYERS?"

She crawled up him, and his heart sped up. The blood. She could smell his blood, and she was hungry.

He had never feared Dru, and the emotion was unnerving. But she was sniffing him, and for the first time, he was perceiving her as predator. He backed up slightly, his pulse thrumming in his ears, his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest.

She crept forward, on him again, plaintive and whining.

"I don't want an immortal soul."

She threw her head back in an ugly laugh as she added,

"I should live three hundred years and then slip back into the sea foam."

It was coming together for him, now. He was badly out of practice with Druspeak. She was babbling bits of "The Little Mermaid". Not Disney's blighted kiddie version, but the darker Hans Christian Anderson tale. An ugly little story about a mermaid who wanted a human soul, and a human husband. She failed miserably, and was given the option of ending herself, or her beloved, redeeming

herself when she apparently chose Suicide. All very depressing and silly, if you asked him.

It was a story right up Dru's alley, but he failed to see how it related to himself, or to Angel.

She petted him gently, her hands sliding over his hair, stroking the planes of his face. She climbed astride him, as his lung whistled and sucked.

"I've missed you, Spike."

She brought her lips to his ear, and he shivered, but not in anticipation.

"Mummy's missed her beautiful boy. All my babies are gone."

Her voice was mournful in this disclosure. She licked his chin, where the blood had pooled and crusted.

"The Order of Aurelius is cursed, my lovely. We are blighted before our kine. Humanity creeps in the blood. Immortal souls infect immortal flesh, and we are hated by our own, and hunted by our gods."

Shoving futilely at her, he struggled to make sense of her words. The Order is cursed. Was this the prophecy? How was it cursed?

"It creeps, my knight," she whispered, " It draws near to Daddy, and his newborn. It took you from me, but I shall have you back."

He pushed frantically at her shoulders, as her head came down to tear at his throat. He understood her all too well now, and the prospect horrified him.

She was offering him everything he'd lost. In a matter of hours, he could be himself again. He could stalk the night, fearless and proud. He could be William the Bloody; he could be Spike the Vampire, once more.

It astonished him how wholly unappealing the offer was.

"Dru, No. Don't do this, I beg you. Please, I can't."

Her fangs entered him, and the sensation was exquisite. She was killing him again, draining that powerful demonic blood that still moved inside his veins.

He was losing himself, slipping under. Soon she would give him the blood, and he would be too weak to stop her.

Everything he had gained, he would lose. He understood Angel now. He finally appreciated the gift of his mortality, now that he was about to lose it.

"Dru, No. I won't- I can't- do this."

With his last reserves of strength, he pulled her hair, hard, and somehow disengaged her head from his neck. He could smell his blood, dripping off her fangs onto his forehead.

"Raindrops, my Spike. They're like warm raindrops."

He scrambled to escape her, but she came after him.

"You're dying, pretty. That mortal heart is beating too quickly, now, and you search for breath like a flopping fish on the sand. Your wicked blood is running out of you like seawater... All gone... You'll be foam and slip away."

She had her singsong "I know a secret" voice going, now.

"Let mummy kiss it better."

It was the same this time, yet it was different. She was soft and willing, offering deliverance from his pain and his suffering. But a hundred years ago he had nothing left to live for.

Things were decidedly different now.

She was leaning over him, close enough that her fetid, bloody breath overwhelmed.

"No, Dru. I don't want it. I don't want you."

"But you will," she promised. Her hair brushed his face, as she leaned in close over him.

He reached into his belt.

She cried out in anguish, pulling away as the pistol exploded. He'd hit her, somewhere in the chest, or maybe the midsection. Wherever, he'd got his shot in, and she was wounded now.

"I don't want to hurt you again, baby. But I won't let you do it to me. Not again, not this time. You get near me once more, and I will blow your damn head off."

She laughed quietly.

" So lost, now. Slipping away....taking your immortal soul and turning to foam..."

He felt around for the door, and after several minutes he found it. He could still hear his Black Beauty across the room, going on about souls and darkness, about mermaids and legs. He tuned it out, as he fumbled for his lock pick, and scrabbled at the lock. Luck was with him, and it swung open with a soft whine.

He peered out, still crouched low. It was terribly bright outside, in the hallway, after the blackness of Drusilla's cell.

"She doesn't love you, Spike. And you shall be hunted, to the ends of the earth. You and all our ilk. We are accursed. We are accursed."

He didn't look back, only crawled out on his hands and knees, gun clutched in his fist. Whosoever should be unlucky enough to cross his path was going to be shot; he'd had enough of this place, these evil people. He considered the Drusilla problem and left the cell door open.

Let them deal with her. Hopefully she'd feast on them.

He dragged himself along the wall back to the stairwell, and began inching upwards. He was lightheaded from the blood loss, and just staying awake was an arduous task.

Spying the security guard before the security guard noticed him could be chalked up to divine providence. He screwed the silencer in his jacket pocket onto the end of the pistol, and one careful shot took him out of the picture.

But how to get out of here?

At the top of the steps, he saw another guard. This one was reading a magazine as he stood blocking the exit. Spike took careful aim, and cut a neat hole through the fellow's forehead.

He pitched forward, falling down the stairs. Spike grabbed the body as it fell, and hauled it to one side. He hurriedly stripped his clothes off, and the guards. Then he dressed in the uniform, taking care to switch his weapons.

He heard Drusilla down the hall, singing, and knew his time was running short. She would surely draw their attention, now that she was loose. He had no time to lose.

He moved out of the stairwell and into the library archives. He took note of the window over the computer desk, and considered his options.

Could he get back through the building unmolested?

His choice made, he picked up the computer monitor and tossed it through the window, breaking out leaded glass. Then he peered out into an alleyway some three stories below.

He could see the car. Hot damn. He could see the car.

Behind him, he heard alarms going off, and the door opened. More guards in uniforms like the one he was wearing, began coming into the room.

"She's out of her cell," he said.

When several of them moved into the stairwell he thought his cover might have worked. But others moved in to flank him, cutting off the door.

There were too many; he didn't have that many shots left.

He took a deep breath, and threw himself out the open window.

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn # 45 Fallout

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 45/?

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you?

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Willow's eyes were wide, taking in two carats of marquis cut solitaire glinting on her friend's hand.

"It's gorgeous," she breathed.

Buffy grinned.

"Ya think so? I dunno. I mean, it's definitely better than the last one."

Willow confused expression slowly turned to understanding, and she blushed.

"I'm really sorry about that"-

But Buffy intercepted her, laying a gentle hand on her arm.

"Teasing, Wil. I'm just teasing you!"

A small frown creased her brow, and she grew serious.

" You know, though- If you hadn't done that spell, maybe things wouldn't be this way now. I mean, maybe that whole thing let us think about each other in a different way. So in a way, we really ought to thank you."

Taking in the dark cast of Willow's eyes, Buffy's rushed to lighten the mood.

"Hey, maybe you're so powerful with the witch-foo, maybe we're still spelled. D'ya think?" She beamed.

Willow's eyes searched Buffy's for reassurance.

"Are you happy, Buffy? Really happy? I mean- Does Spike make you happy?"

Buffy smiled softly, her face suffused in warm pinkness.

"Yeah, Willow. I think maybe he does."

"Help me get him out of these clothes."

Angel was frantic, pulling at the policemen's uniform with both hands, in the back of the van, as they sped down the street.

Lindsay pulled at the sleeve, sliding it off of the broken body. Up over a badly mangled arm, down a limp and misshapen wrist, he tugged. Below him Angel settled for cutting the trousers off legs too badly mangled to bend properly.

"What are you doing?" asked Cordelia indignantly.

"He can't go to the hospital dressed like this, it will raise too many questions," came Lindsay's irritated answer.

"Oh, and I suppose hauling him Buck-Naked into emergency is a better option?"

Together the vampires answered her.

"Yes."

She gave up and took the clothes as they were offered to her, rolling them into a ball and stuffing them in between a pair of seats.

"I don't think we should have moved him," she added.

Angel's voice was terse.

"We couldn't exactly hang around waiting for an ambulance, could we? Any minute, those guards would have followed him out onto the street. Did you find anything in his clothes?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing. Whatever it is, he didn't bring a copy out with him, and Gunn didn't trace any uploads. I- I don't think he got it, Angel."

His groan wounded her. He was disappointed, but it was more than that. They had wasted this opportunity. Spike was hurt badly, maybe dying, and the mission had failed. They would not get another opportunity to locate the prophecy.

Angel was berating himself silently for having taken such a chance. He was used to thinking of Spike as unconquerable, undefeatable. But mortals have their limits. Somehow he'd convinced himself Spike would come out of this whole thing all right.

Tracing his hand over the bruised flesh of Spike's face, Angel remembered. And if the memories stung his eyes, they also served to balm his heart.

His boy was a firebrand. Surely a little thing like falling out of a three -story building wouldn't keep him down long.

Up front, Gunn rotated the steering wheel sharply as he cut into and out of the downtown traffic, headed for University Hospital. Beside him, Wesley argued into the phone.

"Look, you silly little- I don't care what he did to you. You get those papers and you get over to university hospital....PUT A HAT ON OR SOMETHING. For God's sake, woman- If Angel can go about in the daylight; there is no earthly reason why you can't... Call a taxi, then!...Listen, there's a motor garage adjacent to the hospital. You need never even SEE the sun...Harmony, Stop your whining. If you want to be taken seriously as a member of this team, then you'll have to pull your own weight. That means putting aside your personal differences and working with the group. Get his papers and get over here NOW."

He hung up on Harmony with a slow hiss of exasperation.

"She not coming?" asked Gunn.

Wes looked over at him.

"She's coming. I just wonder how much it's going to cost us. The last time I asked Harmony for a favor she mixed out my credit card."

"It's very pretty, Buffy," said Tara quietly.

They were gathered around in the Bridal Salon, watching Buffy try on discount dresses. The current choice was a frilly white concoction with too much lace and too little neckline.

"I don't know. I think it's too froofy. What about you,

Willow?"

Willow made a face.

"You look more like the cake than the bride."

Buffy sighed, and stepped down off of the riser in front of the mirrors.

"Maybe I'm not white wedding material."

Anya jumped in, from the rack she was thumbing.

"I like this one. Why does it have to be white, anyway? I mean, you're not exactly a-"

Willow cut her off.

"Anya- No ragging on the bride, okay? This is a happy day. When you get married, you can have a white dress too, if you want."

Anya shook her head.

"But I like the pink one better."

She held up a monstrous prom dress with an enormous butt bow.

Buffy shook her head, smiling.

"Nah, definitely nothing with a butt-bow. Here, somebody get me out of this thing."

They waited in the corridor for word, watching time tick past on the wall clock.

"Why are hospitals always done in green?" asked Cordy, as she flipped through a Mademoiselle magazine.

"Green is supposed to be soothing," Angel commented absently. Beside him, Lilah dozed, her head against Lindsay, sitting to her other side.

Harmony ran up to them, huffing and puffing with lost breath she didn't need. She wore a large black hat, with a veil, black gloves, a wool cape, and dark clothes.

"He's not dead yet, Harm," shot Cordy acidly.

She rolled her eyes at them under the veil, then realized they couldn't see it. So she pulled the veil back and glared hard at the other girl.

" I'm just trying to keep out of the sun, okay?"

She scowled.

"It's just not natural, this whole `keeping human hours' thing. It's gross. I haven't had enough sleep. You don't even want to know how long it took me to do my makeup -"

"Harmony, where are the papers?"

Angel's question was direct. Harmony groaned painfully and shoved the parcel into his hands.

"Here. Take your stupid papers. I don't know why he needs them anyway. A driver's license, his wallet, green card..."

Gunn jumped in, leafing through dollar bills on his money clip. He gave her a dazzling smile well suited to melt knees.

"Harmony. Here, go get us a couple sodas, sweetie, please?"

She took the money and smirked.

"See? Some people know how to ASK for a lady's help."

She waltzed off, towards the coke machines. Behind her Wesley gave a low moan of exasperation.

"You didn't really want a coke, did you?"

His friend chuckled, shaking his head.

"Nah man. I just like to watch her walking away. It's always a better view."

Angel was leafing through the folder, pulling out information. It was all there. The phony id's, the phony green cards... All the necessary information for Spike's mortal paper trail. If he lived through this, his real records would begin here, in this hospital. Where they were already astonished at his resistance to injury. After all, people falling out of third story windows usually exemplify more of the splat factor.

He was too nervous by half; the waiting was intense. Hurriedly Angel pushed the papers at Cordelia.

"Here. Hang onto these, put them in your purse. They'll need them later for the paperwork."

She nodded, and Angel turned to his childer, stretched on the couch.

Lilah sat snugly against the curve of Lindsay's side, one leg curled up beneath her. Her dark locks fell over Lindsay's arm, pillowing her head. Lindsay stroked it occasionally, as if for comfort, as he waited with his maker.

Angel placed a hand on his shoulder, tenderly.

"Lindsay, you don't have to stay here like this. You can go ahead and take her home if you want to."

He stroked a fallen lock back into place behind her ear, his eyes meeting Lindsay's above Lilah's head.

"I know you're both exhausted."

Lindsay looked down at his sleeping companion. God, but she looked innocent in her sleep. All softly pretty.

How deceptive looks could be.

He raised his head back to Angel, and shook it.

"No. You stay, we stay."

Hard resolve in his voice, he added,

"We're family."

Behind them, Cordelia interrupted.

"Um? What is this?"

She had Spike's wallet, open now in her left hand. With her right she held a small slip of paper, roughly 3X4 in diameter.

She studied it carefully.

"Is this what I think it is?"

Gunn snatched it from her hand easily, and brought it close enough to view.

"Hey, I think this is one of them baby pictures. Ultrasound."

He turned it slightly.

"Is that supposed t' be the head?" `

He flipped it.

"Or is that?"

Angel walked over and put his hand out. Gunn handed him the picture, and Angel raised it to his face.

It was definitely an ultrasound picture; the black background interrupted by a triangular patch of grey, with a very small dark something in the center.

The name in the upper left corner was quite clear, even at this small size and with such low resolution.

`Summers, Buffy. 00010209.'

It was dated two weeks ago.

He studied it carefully, but couldn't make much of it. Two small blobs, one perhaps a head, one maybe a torso.

"or else its Siamese twins," he mused.

"What?" exclaimed Cordelia.

He looked back over at her.

"Nothing. Never mind. Did you get this out of his wallet?"

She nodded.

"I was looking for his insurance card."

He handed the ultrasound picture to her.

"Put it back where it was."

"What is it that you want me to say, Buffy?"

Giles was obviously angry, but Buffy pressed on. She had to convince him, had to help him see her side of things.

"I was sort of hoping you'd just be happy for me. You know, the whole `congratulations' thing."

He sighed, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he looked at her.

"I can't say that, Buffy. I wish you well, but I cannot say that I think this is the right decision, for either you, or your..."

"Baby. You can say it, Giles. `Baby'. It's okay."

He shook his head at her.

"Are you even certain of that, Buffy?"

Her confusion was evident. He tried to explain himself.

"I realize that Spike is mortal- er, Human, now. But surely there is the possibility for... difficulties. Buffy, his body was `dead' for well over a hundred years. You must have considered the possibility of chromosomal defect, of tissue damage-"

She cut him off.

"No. I do NOT consider those things. We've had an ultrasound; the baby is fine. I'm fine."

She perked up, shoulders lifting.

"My doctor is even pleased with the weight I'm gaining. I've packed on one and a half pounds between my last visits."

She said this last as if it were a colossal achievement. Given her waning appetite, she rather felt like it was.

He sat back against the sofa, his hands shaking. Buffy reached to still one in a gentle grip.

"Giles, He loves me, we're getting married, and we're having a baby."

He squeezed her hand back, and her confidence grew. She resumed the speech she'd practiced on her way over here.

"You're more than just my watcher, Giles. You're my friend, probably my best friend. You've been a father to me; you've held my hand and helped me grow- you've made me a better person. I understand how you feel about Spike; I get that. But I want you to realize how much it would mean to me, if you would give me away at the wedding. Not for Spike; for Buffy. Because it won't be right, it won't be as special if you aren't there beside me."

She watched him struggle to put his words together, and his thoughts were so clear they seemed etched in ink on his forehead. He didn't WANT to give her away, and certainly not to the likes of Spike the Ex-vampire, William the bloody awful Bum who drank too much and had held his job for less than a month.

"Buffy, I appreciate the honor of your request. It's touching that you feel that way about me, that-"

"I LOVE you, Giles. Don't mince words. I love you, and I want you to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day."

He turned to her, in earnest seriousness.

"Buffy, how can you forget what all he has done? How can you, of all people, pledge your heart and soul to a soulless demon? Make no mistake, Buffy. He's mortal now, but the demon is still there. He doesn't deny it. If there's a soul in that godforsaken body it's a demonic one. How can you forget that? How can you forgive it?"

Buffy watched his face closely, as his differing emotions flitted across it. She had to help him get through this. Things could not go on as they were.

"Giles, you told me once that people are not forgiven because they deserve it, but because they need it. Well, Spike needs it. No, he doesn't deserve it- but he needs it. We need it."

She hesitated a moment before continuing.

"And you need it too. The way you feel about him is no good, for anybody. You hurt yourself, with all this anger you have for him."

She lowered her eyes.

"And you hurt me, too."

He raised her chin with his index finger, looking into her eyes. His own were full of pity and sadness, but he nodded.

"I can try, Buffy. For you, I will try."

Angel watched the monitors. Blip. Blip. Blip.

That human heart was still demonically fierce; it thudded onward in spite of everything. The doctors were amazed. Mr. Walthrop had sustained "massive trauma and extreme blood loss." There was a vamp bite that had nearly severed his jugular in his neck, and his legs were fractured in sixteen places. He had major head trauma.

They were quite surprised he'd even made it to the hospital alive.

Suddenly Angel felt a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up, into the warm eyes of Wesley.

"Here. I've brought you something to eat."

He held out a thermos of the hot, life sustaining fluid, and Angel accepted it gratefully. He'd not fed since yesterday evening. Nor had he yet slept. Everyone else had gone home when they'd gotten Spike into a room and out of surgery, but not he. No, Angel identified himself as family. He'd signed all the paperwork; he'd given a statement to the police that was elaborate fiction. And now he kept vigil at the bedside, watching; waiting.

The chair squeaked across the floor tiles as Wesley dragged it over beside him, and sat down.

"Any change?" he enquired gently.

Angel shook his head.

"No. Nothing yet. They tell me there is sufficient brain activity, and that he can probably hear us."

He gave a wry smile and spoke up in his most commanding, `Sire' voice.

"William. Wake up, Now. Stop lying there like a corpse; you haven't been one in quite awhile. You've got work to do, boy. Get your ass out of that bed."

But Spike slumbered on, and Angel lowered his head into his hands.

Wesley wrapped an arm around his shaking shoulders as Angel's sobs wracked his body.

"It's my fault, Wes. I should never have sent him in there. I knew it was dangerous; I knew this could happen. But somehow I didn't think that it would. My pride, always my massive pride and ego. He's my boy; my blood runs in his veins. He's as much my son as if I'd born him- I thought that meant he was invincible. I mean, he always has been. No matter what I did to him, no matter how I wounded him, he always overcame, usually with a few cutting comments and some snide words."

He sniffled.

"God what I wouldn't give to hear him cut me down right now. Make fun of my hair, my taste in women, my clothes, my angst. I'd love to see him get out of that bed and pound the living Shit out of me."

He looked over at Wes, amusement glimmering in his damp eyes.

"He's the only child I ever raised who could do that, consistently. Win against me, that is. We've always been pretty evenly matched that way. I remember some fights that lasted for hours; we'd tear the house up and each other to ribbons, while the women watched and waited for us to get over it. A lot of the time, by the time it was all over neither one of us would remember what we were fighting about; and we'd just sit there laughing together, amid

the broken furniture."

Wes tried to be comforting; he hugged his mentor and murmured soothing words.

Finally Angel pulled away, as an idea hit him.

"Has anyone tried to call Sunnydale yet?"

Wesley shook his head.

"No, Angel. We thought- We thought it best if you did that."

His voice lowered, and he added.

"I really think the news should come from you."

Angel sighed, and sat up straighter.

"Will you sit with him while I go call? I can't use a cell phone in here, it will mess with the equipment."

Buffy rolled over and smacked her hand at the receiver, feeling around in the darkness until her hand found purchase, and lifted it to her ear.

"Hello?" she muttered.

"Buffy? Hi. It's Angel."

Her senses sharpened, and she sat up in the bed.

"Angel? Hi...What's wrong?"

His disconsolate silence unnerved her. Finally he took a deep breath, and began.

"Buffy, Spike's here in the hospital. It's- It's bad."

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn # 46 "Admissions"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 46/50

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you?

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Buffy sat quietly in the seat alongside the bed. The magazine in her hand only nominally held her attention; she'd reread the same paragraph on spring flowerbed arrangements twice already, and still didn't know what it said. In the corner of the room, perched on the heat register, Dawn painted her toenails with black polish inside their brown sandals. At the foot of the bed, Angel paced.

Irritated at him, Buffy glared. He ignored her.

"Would you please stop that? It's not helping anything."

He gave her an apologetic half-shrug.

"Okay."

He stopped, and stood sentry at the foot of the bed.

Things had been tense between them every since she'd arrived this morning, and they didn't look like they were going to get much better. Initially, she'd argued with him, but he failed to give her the answers she was looking for. Finally she'd settled upon cool disdain. It seemed to be working- She certainly felt better, and the shame in his face every time he looked her way mollified her.

"Why don't you go on home, Angel?' she asked him again. It was the third time. Again he shook his head no. He'd been here since they'd brought Spike in, and he would not leave before his boy woke up. Angel cared a great deal for Buffy. But he owed this to Spike, owed him his presence, and whatever comfort he might derive from it. Buffy didn't realize the familial bond, but he did. Spike was no longer a vampire, but he had more than a lifetime's experience as one. He still carried much resentment over his "abandonment". Angel was determined he not feel abandoned again.

Buffy resumed her reading. Moments later, Dawn cursed quietly as she knocked over the polish.

"Shit."

"Dawn!"

Buffy gave her a shocked look, but it failed to move the girl. She scooped up the bottle quickly, before the liquid could run out. As she bent, the leg of her jeans crept up, and Buffy could see a small tattoo peeking out at her.

"What is that?" she asked coldly.

Dawn gave her a blank look.

"What?"

Buffy pointed.

"On your leg. That thing."

Dawn lifted her brows nonchalantly.

"It's a tattoo, Buffy."

Her sister continued to stare at her.

"I know that, Dawn. But what is it doing on your leg?"

Dawn grimaced. She'd hoped Buffy wouldn't find out, and she'd been very careful so far. It was just bad luck this should come out right now, at a time like this.

"It's just a tattoo, okay? Lots of people have them."

Buffy looked slightly uncomfortable, but not enough to let the matter drop.

"Did I SAY you could get one? I don't think so. And where did you get the money for it?"

"It was my birthday money from Dad. You said I could spend it on whatever I wanted. So I did."

Buffy got up, and edged past Angel, who smirked a little at their exchange.

"Let me see it."

Dawn grabbed the fabric at her left knee and gave it a tug upwards, exposing the picture on her calf. Buffy leaned over to look at it.

It was a small key, with an ornate handle, very Victorian in design. It was in three colors; blue, red, and indigo. Very pretty, if it wasn't defacing her little sister's body.

"I can't believe you did that to yourself."

Dawn just shrugged.

"I dunno- thought it was kinda cool. Sorry you don't like it."

She left off the words, "too bad," but her tone implied them.

"We'll discuss this when we get home, Dawn."

"Yeah. Okay- Whatever." She resumed painting her toes.

Buffy stood next to the bed, watching Spike sleep. The bruises on his face were turning to a pale yellow, and preliminary x-rays suggested his bones were healing at the same accelerated rate.

He was healing like a slayer. The irony was not lost on her.

Angel watched as Buffy traced a hand over Spike's cheek, along the lengthy bruise. Her gesture was tender, and answered many questions for him.

"You love him, don't you?" he asked.

She stared up at him, annoyed.

"That really is none of your business, is it, Angel?"

In the back of a van moving inexorably along the highway, three captives traveled under the watchful gaze of minions.

"Are we there yet?" asked Willow of the one referred to as Moog.

His warty face shifted into a warm and childlike smile.

"No, Miss Willow. We are still many miles from our destination. The magnificent Glorificus commands us to observe the speed limits."

She edged a worried glance over to where Xander lay, bound and unconscious, beside her.

"I don't think he should lay like that, really. I mean, it looks uncomfortable."

"Yeah! It's not bad enough you three beat him to a pulp, but you've tied him up badly. And he even was knocked out at the time. Can't any of you do a halfway decent job of a kidnapping? I mean, when I was a demon, I'd have-"

The second minion smiled apologetically at Anya, and lifted the sleeping boy into a sitting position, propping him against the side of the van. He stuffed Xander's jacket underneath his arm to keep him upright.

"Is that better, Miss Anya?"

She sniffed slightly.

"A little."

Dawn flipped through the pages of People magazine, trying hard to ignore the Springer show segment unfolding in the room with her.

"For the last time, Buffy. I don't have a problem with it. You chose Spike- Fine. I get that. But I don't-"

"You don't what? Like it? Tough."

He sighed wearily.

"No, Buffy. I wasn't going to say that. What I don't get is WHY you chose him."

He shifted uncomfortably. There was a good possibility Spike was hearing every word they said in here. If he could just get her to say it, maybe it would help.

She glared back at him.

"Why wouldn't I?"

He shook his head.

"Buffy, the way things are now, it makes sense. He's human; he's as strong as you are. But you were with him when he wasn't human. And I don't understand why."

She laughed at him, an ugly laugh with none of the warmth he used to love in her.

"You think you're pretty special, don't you Angel? I mean, The Powers that Be chose you, out of all the vampires in the world, to have a soul. They sent you back from hell they liked you so much. But you know what? Spike got "Redeemed" all by his lonesome. Nobody gave him a soul. Nobody sent him visions to tell him what to do. There was no Special Prophecy to guide him. Only his heart. He fell in love with me, and decided to be a better person."

She looked at him squarely.

"Isn't that reason enough to choose him?"

Angel relaxed. Even if she couldn't say it out loud, her answer was crystal clear about how she felt for Spike.

But she went on.

"What do you think happened to him, Angel? Do you wonder why he became human again?"

He looked back at her. What was she intimating?

She continued.

"Here's what I think. So you're supposed to be the "Good" vampire. You get chance after chance to get it right, and still you fall off the wagon occasionally. What? You think I don't know about Kate? Or Darla? Please. Cordy's faster than a fax. I know it all, Angel. But I think maybe that God got himself a new "good" vampire. I think about all the decency and kindness Spike is capable of, and I think that Maybe you won't get to be human after all. `Cos Spike's already done it. He's already "Shanshu'ed or whatever. He got your

prize, because he's a better person than you."

Angel stepped forward; close enough to nearly touch her.

Nothing she said was anything he hadn't already thought of.

"Tell him that you love him," he said quietly.

She scoffed.

"Why? So you can believe it?" she asked.

He shook his head at her.

"No. So he can."

They unloaded Xander with the utmost care, and Anya felt just a little bit better. If not for the goddess, she thought maybe she and Willow could take them- the little scaly minion guys were fairly peaceable acting.

She and Willow stepped out into the sunlight, blinking a little.

"Oh, Wow." Said the witch.

They were faced with a long line of armed guards. Men in nice three-piece suits raised large guns and pointed them in their direction.

Glory stepped up to them, positively radiant in a Norma Kamali number with spaghetti straps.

"Guys! Long time no see!"

She gave Willow a sympathetic grin.

"Gee, sorry about your girlfriend. She put up a good fight, though. Real Butch, that one."

Willow bit her lip tightly, and wondered where Tara was right now. In the melee, she'd gone down mumbling when Glory grabbed her head. It was too much to hope she was alright, but she could not let this bitch see her cry.

The bitch in question snaked a hand out to rub the knotted cord wrapped around Willow's neck.

"Looks so simple, doesn't it? Braided rope and twine. But it works well enough, doesn't it?"

Willow tried not to think about it. Whatever the item was, it made her slow and groggy; it made it almost impossible to concentrate. If she were clearer headed, she might be able to figure out what sort of magic it was, but unfortunately all cylinders weren't firing right now.

She looked up, and realized they were in the parking lot of a hospital.

"Let's go get my key!" Glory bubbled.

They headed for the front entrance.

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #47 "Hospital"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 47/50

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you?

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

The first thing he was aware of was the unpleasant olfactory trio of unwashed skin, mothballs, and wet dog. As he blinked his eyes open, the world came into a shaking focus.

Oddly enough, the world seemed to consist of moving colored tiles. They shifted before his eyes, moving upward and out of his vision, always to be replaced by new ones of similar design but with a different spatial arrangement.

Xander Harris came slowly to his senses over the shoulder of a small demonic minion. His face was up close and personal with the minion's rump, and the smell of mothballs seemed to be coming from the minion's robes.

Some days it just didn't pay to get out of bed. His head ached, and from the numbness in his hands he assumed his wrists were tied.

Ooh, yes...Tied wrists. It was all coming back to him, now. He'd been snuggled into bed after a long, and satisfying, session with Anya, when their home was violated. He'd heard a noise in the living room, and, disregarding everything every horror movie he'd ever seen in his life had told him, Xander carefully picked up a lamp and charged into the living room, half-naked and half alert.

He never even had a chance. A few whacks up side the head with his furniture, and he'd gone down for the count. Anya had gotten better licks in; at least she had broken a vase over one of their heads before they got a squirming hold of her.

Damn. That vase and the end table still weren't completely paid for yet.

He could tell they were moving down a long, tiled corridor. And he knew Anya was still near; her cloying "Chantilly no. 5" hung in the air like noxious cloud. Between his splitting headache and all the awful smells, it was a struggle not to throw up where he lay.

He pictured the minion, covered in goo, and thought about it. Then he realized anyone who smelled this bad probably wouldn't object to smelling worse, so he scrapped the puking plan and settled for covertness: he'd continue to play faint, for as long as he could get away with it.

Spike became gradually aware of the pain, mostly in his chest, but also in his face, and his legs- even in his arms. He sort of hurt all over in a generalized ache. Groggily, he lifted heavy eyelids and strained to focus.

She was asleep in the chair next to him, her blonde hair spilling over his arm, as she slumped forward, resting her head on the bed. He wished he could touch that gold silk, but there was an IV line taped into that arm making movement impossible.

"You're awake."

Angel's voice was carefully neutral, but Spike saw the relief in his eyes, and was a little surprised. For so long, they had been estranged. He had thought his grandsire had no love left for him, as recently as last year. Had he been blind to it all this time? Had he let his insecurities and his anger get in the way? For better or worse, Angel was blood. Even when he'd hated him, he'd been unable to kill him.

He thought about the whole Amara deal, how he'd hired the best professional torturer money could buy. If he'd truly hated Angel, he'd have simply dusted him. Instead he'd hired Marcus. While the ordeal was under way, he'd studied Angel carefully. At the time, he'd convinced himself it was all about getting the gem. But it never really was, and he saw that now. It was about proving himself to Angel; it was about living up to an image his "father" had set for him.

It was an image that had never been truly real. Oh, make no mistake. He'd reveled in being the "Big Bad." But it was always a role, always something apart from what he thought of as himself, the real William, the real Spike. It was a protective shell for a gentler nature he could rarely afford to indulge.

Oh, they were quite a pair, the two of them. Maybe they could get family therapy. Maybe throw in Dru and Darla as well; get a discount rate. They could cry and argue, and toss the accusations around. In the end they could eat the therapist.

Well, he couldn't. But he could watch.

`Spike, my good man, what kind of drugs are you on?' he asked himself.

To Angel he lolled a slow grin.

" Eh, mate... Good to see you."

Angel's face relaxed into a broad smile.

"It's good to see you, too. You don't know just how good."

Willow stumbled along the green hallway, ahead of the red clad goddess and her minions. Beside her, Anya walked with her head held high and proud. Willow wished she could do that, but it took all her concentration to keep her feet moving in the right direction and not stepping on each other.

Armed guards brought up the rear, behind the minions. They moved in exorably down the hallway.

Glory held a leash in her hand, and guided the biggest and ugliest dog Willow had ever seen. It was longhaired and black, and stood approximately ribcage-high.

"Lovely hellhound, wherever did you get him?" asked Anya amiably.

Glory smiled, petting the dog affectionately.

"Oh, we summoned Brutus here right after I came back. I should never have begun with that snake. Reptiles are so- Stupid. But Brutus,"

she scratched the animal behind the ear, and he whined.

"He's a real team player. He's gonna sniff out my key for me."

"How do you know its even here? Or what it looks like?" Anya asked.

The goddess looked her over; as if she was deciding whether or not Anya might be good to eat. Finally she answered.

"I felt its presence when I came back again."

Her eyes misted, and she a soft smile crossed her face as her voice lowered, becoming husky.

"It tingled...I knew it had to be close."

Her eyes hardened along with her voice.

"Then I was back in this damn body and I couldn't feel it any more. But I was in the room near your Slayer girl, and her baby sister. So I know it's near you guys. And Ben seems to think its in human form. So maybe it IS one of you guys. And very soon, I'm going to have it back."

Xander listened attentively to everything that was being said near him. He was putting things together, now. It was a good bet they were in whatever hospital Buffy had gone to, to be with Spike. And any minute now, that hellhound would get wind of Dawn, and it would all be over.

His mind made up now, he aimed for the police officer shoes some two feet beyond him, and hurled.

"Where's the Nibblet?" Spike asked. The first thought he had was of Dawn. Even unconscious, his worry about her had gnawed at him. When he'd gone out that window, he'd wondered who would look after her without him around.

He loved Buffy, but she could take care of herself. He was positively terrified for Dawn.

Angel reassured him with a warm laugh.

"She's gone home to Cordy's place for the night. I tried to get Buffy to go with her, but she refused to leave your side."

"Does Cordelia know about- I mean, is she prepared if"-

He intercepted the questions with a raised hand.

"She's safe there, Spike. I wouldn't have sent her otherwise."

Slowly Buffy stirred, raising her head. Spike greeted her with affectionate eyes.

"Hey, cutie."

She smiled at him, and the pure joy in that look made his heart leap.

"Hey yourself."

Angel spoke up.

"I'm going to go tell the nurses you're awake now. They wanted to be notified of any changes."

Spike nodded, and as his sire left, he turned back to Buffy. But she didn't look quite so joyful now.

In fact, if he had to put a name on it, he'd say that look was "highly ticked." The glare in her gaze was damn close to a glower.

"How do you feel?" she asked coolly.

He considered his choice of smart remarks, and opted instead to be pitiful. Pitiful might not get him in as much trouble.

"I hurt all over. Can I have some painkillers?"

She ignored him.

"I can't believe you did this. Coming out here without telling me. Lying to me about what you were doing here."

He tried to explain.

"Baby, I-"

"Don't you, `Baby' me. You lied to me. You said it was a buying trip."

"Well, it was. Sort of. I did plan on hitting several dealers while in town."

She rolled her eyes at him.

He lost it.

"What was I supposed to do, Slayer? Tell you, `Yeah, sorry, my Poofy Sire called, `seems I have to go risk life and limb this weekend. Call you when I get back.' ...I couldn't tell you that."

She regarded him levelly.

"At least it would have been the truth." She said.

He sighed.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you what was going on."

She raised an eyebrow.

"And?"

He cocked his head to one side.

"And what?"

She tapped her fingertips on the metal bedrail as her eyes searched the ceiling.

Hmm. She wanted him to say something.

"I love you?" he offered tentatively.

She smiled back at him, warmly now.

"Love you too."

Then she leaned over and kissed him.

A moment later, she pulled back.

"I promise I won't do it again."

He'd promise anything if she'd kiss him again.

She tugged the blankets up over him and smiled indulgently.

"That's okay. You won't be able to."

He watched her cautiously, and asked,

"Er...Why not?"

Still smiling, she fluffed the pillow under his head.

"Because if Angel ever gets another harebrained idea like this one, I'm going to stake him."

The guards jumped back, but he managed to hit them anyway. His head ached horribly, and now his mouth was vile. The world shifted as his minion turned around to investigate the commotion. He could see the girls, now, standing ahead of the group. Which had now ceased walking and come to a complete stop.

The goddess turned around, and he saw her hips and legs. They were nice legs. He'd never seen them this close before.

"Eeew! Gross."

Something dug painfully into his scalp; he realized it was her nails. She lifted his head up, and the look on her face was not pleasant.

"You barfed on my guards, and my minion."

Then to the minion, she added,

"Drop him. He'll have to walk."

Pain in his legs when they hit the floor; his feet were asleep and tingly. But he got vertical and caught Anya's eye. She looked at him with concern.

Behind him he heard the angry guards, cursing. His distraction hadn't lasted long; soon they'd be on the move again.

He tried stumbling, but the gun barrels pointed in his back kept him going. He had to get away, but a run likely wouldn't work. And where the hell were all the people? This was a hospital, where were all the orderlies and nurses, where were the doctors?

He thought about rotting flesh and Anya's cooking, he thought about three day binges and hangovers from hell. He thought about Buffy banging exDeadboy, Jr....

He leaned forward and got both of Glory's other minions in the next wave of nausea. Then he staggered, falling to his knees. The enormous dog loped over to lick the side of his face.

"I thought I made myself clear. No More Sicking up on the Minions!"

She slapped his face, and his vision garbled.

"Hey, Stop that! He's sick, you can't treat him that way!"

Anya struggled, and broke free of her guards, rushing up to him, shoving the dog out of the way to put her face against his. Her arms were bound at the back still, so she settled for kissing his cheek.

Xander pressed his lips to her ear.

"Don't let them reach the Dawnster." He breathed.

The irate Goddess wrenched them apart, but Xan saw understanding in Anya's eyes.

"We've got these two for hostages. Leave that one; I don't think he means much to the Slayer, anyway."

That bit stung, but his plan was working. He lay sprawled on the floor, and they stepped over him and continued onward.

Seconds later, he was on his feet, and found out why no one was stopping them.

In the rooms, patients lay unmolested, but at the nurse's station he found three corpses, with small holes in their foreheads. They'd been shot where they worked. He turned away, and nearly stepped on a doctor's prone body, with a single bullet wound to the chest.

He became grateful for his empty stomach as the dry heaves began. He took a deep breath, and wished he hadn't as the smell assailed him. Blood, fresh blood. It was appalling.

He gently moved one of the nurse bodies away from the computer terminal, and began looking for information.

They had a hellhound. Xander had Microsoft. It was a race to see who'd get to Dawn first.

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 48 "Flight"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 48/50

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you?

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Angel interrupted them suddenly, his urgency all too apparent.

"We have to get out of here, now."

He began tugging at Buffy's arm, even as Spike tried to sit up in the bed.

"What are you talking about?" she asked him. Then she noticed Spike yanking his IV lines out, and pulling off the monitor feeds.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Spike ignored her, his eyes seeking out his Sire.

"Is it bad?"

Angel nodded and Spike groaned. He slipped his legs, cast and all, down over the side of the bed.

"I'm numb all over, don't know how well I can stand up."

Fierce determination fixed his face; he grabbed Angel's wrist and caught his eyes again.

"Get her out of here. Keep her out of harm's way."

"Spike, I-"

"Just do it, Angel. For me, alright? You owe me this."

Angel nodded, and moved towards Buffy.

"Spike! Angel! What am I, invisible?"

She was annoyed and a little angry with them now. Looking back at her fiancée, she tried logic. It had never worked before, but `Hey- there's a first time for everything' she told herself.

"You can't travel like that. Look, whatever it is, I'll go take care of it."

Her words were meant to reassure, but Spike didn't even look at her. She looked up at Angel again, and tried to question him about the danger. But he ignored her questions, his eyes still trained on Spike.

"She's pregnant, Angel. Don't let her fight." Spike stated bluntly.

"I'll keep her safe," Angel promised him.

Then he picked the girl up in his arms and made to carry her out. But Buffy was no delicate heroine, no damsel in distress. She took a good couple of whacks at him, and fought him every step. She was not leaving here without answers. And she was not leaving here without Spike.

Angel had his arms around her ribcage, just below her bust line, loosely dragging her towards the door. She couldn't prevent him carrying her, but she'd damn well do her best to prevent him hanging on. She squirmed and struggled, and finally threw her head back hard into Angel's jaw. It made a cracking noise and he let go, as Buffy slid to the floor and took up a defensive stance.

"That's enough of the he-man routine. In fact, I've had about enough of the pair of you to last me."

She pointed a finger at Angel.

"YOU. You make your plans and plot your stunts, and never tell me anything. It was bad enough when it was just me; but now you're pulling HIS strings and I won't have it. I will not be in that position again. He's not a puppet. He's not your puppy either, he doesn't have to come when you call him."

Then she turned her withering glance at her errant lover.

"Even if he hasn't figured that out yet. And YOU- Since when do you run this show, huh? Oh, I'm in a "delicate" condition, so you're gonna be all manly and "take charge"? You think you can make the rules for me now? Sorry Spike- I'm not that kind of girl. Never have been. Out here, get this straight: I'm the Top. You got that?"

Spike had the decency to blush slightly. Angel merely looked uncomfortable. Buffy resumed her Drill-sergeant routine. She looked Spike over calculatingly, then directed a question over to Angel.

"How many bones did they say he'd broken in those legs?"

"Sixteen." Came the response.

She touched Spike's arm gently, feeling along its length and flexing it at the elbow.

"and how many breaks in the arms?"

Angel shrugged.

"I don't remember. Enough I guess."

Her gaze sought Spike's, and she breathed a question.

"Do you trust me?"

His blue eyes were steadfast.

"Implicitly, love."

She brought her hands down hard, bladelike, onto the casts, first one, then the other. They cracked beneath the Slayer's strength, and she broke the pieces out with her fingers.

Spike winced under the blow, but the pain was receding already. She was feeling his leg now, along the bone, looking for the breaks.

"They set it fairly well, considering. But I think its mostly healed now. I can feel this one, and this one, but that's all. And they don't feel like breaks; more like, I don't know-"

"Yeah. I get that."

Spike stood gingerly, his hip smarting and his knee aching. But his weight held; he did not pitch forward; his feet were up to the task.

Buffy slid an arm under his shoulder, helping to guide him.

"Don't just stand there Angel. Help me get him dressed."

As they shoved his limbs into the fresh clothes Buffy' d brought, Angel apprised them of the situation in the hallway.

"Security was dispatched two floors down. It was politely suggested to me that we stay in here and lock the door."

Spike groaned.

"Eh, mate...How likely is it they've got a run-of-the-mill psycho down there? Or a drug bust type thing?"

Angel shook his head.

"I don't think so. This is too...Convenient."

He didn't tell them there were bodies already, that the police were cordoning off the building. They'd know soon enough, and he didn't feel like going into the details.

Carefully, they moved out of the room, and into the hall, towards the emergency stairwells.

Xander had never been particularly good with computers. Anya was, Willow was. But Xander knew just about enough to open up aol and send an email. That was all.

So hunting for patient records was a bitch and a half. And he didn't know Spike's name, didn't know where he might be, so he was hoping to locate "visitor" records. Yet not every visitor was required to sign in, it all depended upon which hospital entrance you came in by, and what time you did it.

It was pure luck he should find the drug release forms for "Walthrop, William." But there they were, lying neatly in a stack alongside one of the computer terminals. A quick perusal convinced him that this was his old enemy; his chart notes were full of handwritten comments about his amazing healing factor, and the speed of his recovery. The release forms were for high dose sedatives and painkillers; apparently the usual stuff wasn't even having an effect on him.

"It's just like when Buffy gets hurt," he said quietly, under his breath.

The chart notes provided a room number, and the computer provided a nice schematic. He had a good idea where he was going, now.

He started for the elevators, then turned back around. The pharmaceuticals were on this level; might there be something useful in there? Something to use as a weapon?

He wound his way to the drug room and encountered a little problem: passkeys. Apparently only certain folk had access to these medications. Disheartened, he turned around, and noticed...

The janitor's closet. It was half-opened, a yellow mop-bucket holding the door in place.

Solvents. He could use solvents for accelerant, if the opportunity arose.

He rushed in, and made his selections. Bleach. Ammonia. Polyurethane stain. Spray cleaners and aerosol air freshener.

He loaded up, using a fresh pillowcase for a sack.

Poking his head around the corner, he saw more police officers. He did not see Glory, but that didn't mean anything. She had cops in her employ; he knew that. These guys could belong to her as well.

He ducked back into the closet and waited until they worked their way past him. Then he headed out, sticking close to the walls, trying to meld into the shadows.

His head ached unmercifully, but he went on undaunted. He had places to go, gods to profane.

Willow sat heavily upon the bed, watching as the hellhound bayed at an empty chair.

"I don't understand," remarked Anya to her guards. She was standing uncomfortably to one side of the door, watching Glory get angrier. "I thought the hellhound was supposed to be able to smell it. The key, I mean. Is it...Is it the chair?"

Glory wheeled about.

"No, Silly! It's not a piece of furniture."

She patted Brutus' head affectionately.

"Good Boy. Maybe I'll give you a treat."

She eyed Willow slowly.

"Yeah, just as soon as we don't need her anymore, you can eat the witch."

The hellhound trained intelligent eyes on Willow, and trotted over to the bed. It sniffed her knees, and its perusal was discomfiting. It was as if it were tasting her already.

Glory straightened up.

"I think the girl was telling me the truth. I think she's the key. Somehow or other, she lived through the whole tacky little suicide routine. I mean, I know it’s not the Slayer. I know it’s not her little boyfriend. It's not either of you,"

She said this with an ounce of disgust, then went on.

"And it wasn't the pretty girl either."

She licked her lips unpleasantly.

"Although she was good. Very good..."

Her words trailed off as she remembered the joy of sinking her hands into that one. All the love and concern, all the gentle warmth of the girl, had flowed into her at that moment. She was happiness personified.

They always tasted better when they were happy. The element of surprise had let her avoid the taste of fear on the girl. When she'd crept upon them, neither witch had been prepared for her.

Fear had its own spice, but sometimes joy had a nice flavor.

Anya jumped in awkwardly.

"You mean Dawn? Oh, no. I don't think she's your key. For one thing, she's just a snotty fifteen year old."

Anya snorted disbelievingly.

"You really think an ancient and powerful being would reside inside a pimply teenager?"

But Glory was moving them out, now, back into the hallway. The guns at their backs kept the girls moving forward. But alarms were going off now, and a police bullhorn sounded on the floors below.

"Come out with your hands up."

Glory rolled her eyes.

"This is just Not My Day," she lamented.

Going down was impossible; all the doors into the hospital were locked from the inside. It made sense, for security reasons, and Spike felt like smacking himself for not realizing it earlier.

He hobbled, but kept pace with Buffy and Angel. They moved up the stairwell, towards the rooftop.

It was not quite dusk yet, but they'd deal with that problem when it arose. Should they run into real trouble, there was a decent chance they'd never get to the rooftop anyway.

Was it Wolfram and Hart? That Glory bird?

Or some new evil to confound them? Hey, he hadn't seen the SCA rejects since Sunnydale; they were overdue for their next run-in.

They came out not on the roof, as they'd expected, but in an empty half-level of the hospital used mainly for storage.

"How do we get to the roof from here?" Buffy groused.

Suddenly the trio heard a noise in the stairwell behind them, and turned around. Spike fell into place alongside Buffy; Angel stepped in front of both of them.

"Oh. Its you," he said, as a winded Xander Harris stepped onto the landing.

"Yeah. Me." He puffed. "Glory's here. Along with some demons, and about a squad of policemen. They're shooting people, they've killed-"

He broke off, despairing as he realized he'd lost count of the bodies when he'd pursued the gang into the staircase.

"Lots of people are dead. But Buffy,"

He licked his lips and tried to look away from her probing gaze.

"They’ve got the girls. They've got Anya and Willow."

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 49 "Fight"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 49/50

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did, what makes you think I'd share him with you?

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

"All right. How many more have you got?"

Spike was rolling homemade bombs, from Xander's chemical stash. Beside him, Buffy added fuses. Angel was trying to get his shoulder back in the socket; he'd forced their way in on the second floor.

"Here. Just two bottles. And we're all out of ammonia, now."

That was okay, though, thought Spike. They had a decent number of small "grenades" to throw. They wouldn't cause much in the way of explosion, but the smell they'd leave should be god-awful, and the smoke positively blinding.

Angel sighed and wished for a better weapon. All he had on him right now was Spike's handgun, liberated from his stolen clothing on the way to the hospital the other day. That and a half empty box of ammo seemed like a pitiful arsenal with which to take on a goddess.

He had no idea how he was expected to get the girls out of this.

"Here. I'm out of rags now." Said Buffy.

He watched them covertly, his ex girlfriend and his childe. They worked in tandem, with a natural ease born of experience. They were partners, these two, in ways he and Buffy had never been.

He realized with some surprise that it didn't hurt anymore to acknowledge that.

Buffy straightened up, and went to the door of the room they were using to base their operations. She peered out carefully into the hall.

"Too quiet out there," she commented.

Angel strode over beside Spike.

"I'm sorry I brought you into this mess," he apologized.

He meant he was sorry for dragging him here to L.A., for getting him into the fix with Wolfram and Hart. But moreover, he was sorry he'd let it all begin, back in 1880. He was sorry for the mortal lives he'd stolen, sorry for the blackness he'd brought into what had been an innocent life.

Spike rolled his eyes at him.

"Come off it, you wanker. Do I look like I'm holding a grudge, here?"

His words were harsh, but his gaze was loving. Angel spoke softly to him.

"I guess it’s just that I feel bad for getting you beat up, Spike. I mean, you went through all that hell, and we didn't even learn anything. We still don't know what the prophecy refers to. I wasted your time, and nearly got you killed for nothing."

Spike sputtered.

"Angel, I DID get the prophecy. Shit."

He gestured wildly with his hands.

"With everything that's been going on, I haven't really had an opportunity to tell you."

Angel stood stock-still.

"Well? I'm waiting, William."

He didn't sound too pleased, and Spike castigated himself mentally. Yeah, perhaps it might have been a good idea to bring this up sometime before now.

"Angel, they were holding Dru in that building. She's their prophet."

He gave a disgusted snort.

"Guess they figured out that if you keep her hungry and frightened, she'll have all the visions you can ask for. They'd gone and made a regular Pythia out of her."

Angel nodded. He knew lots of ugly ways to induce Dru's power. And he shouldn't be surprised that the lawyers would stoop to such tactics. But somehow it made him angry anyway; that someone should abuse his children.

Angelus always preferred to do that sort of thing himself.

"But what IS her prophecy then, Spike? And how did you get away from her then?"

Spike shook his head.

"I'll explain the escape later. But she's out now, I freed her."

He smiled grimly.

"I hope she ate a goodly number of the staff on her way," he added.

Then he started explaining.

"There is no hard copy of the millennium prophecy, Angel. They didn't want it committed to record, I suppose. And its not some easily repeatable bit of poetic nonsense such as she likes so well. Leastways, not that I gathered."

"Spike, Spit it out." Angel was getting testy.

"I am, Angel. I'm getting there."

Buffy walked back over to them.

"No one's in the hall, but there are police lining the front of the building."

Xander looked up.

"I just wonder if they're real cops, or if they're her cops," he speculated.

She shrugged.

Spike looked away from their interaction, back to his sire. He began anew.

"Anyway...I think the prophecy has to do with the timing of this whole thing. Millennium just means it happens to coincide with the new millennium. But it’s really about you, and the Wonder twins, and maybe even Dru, and me. Maybe even Darla."

Angel nodded. When would he get to the Fucking Point?

"Go on."

Spike took a deep breath.

"She told me that Immortal Souls infect Immortal flesh, and we are hated in the eyes of our kine. Humanity creeps into the bloodline. We are cursed."

"That would refer to the creation of Lindsay, and Lilah. Go on."

He shook his head.

"It refers to more than just them, Angel. Think about it. ` Humanity creeps into the bloodline'- that's me, and maybe you, later, if the whole Shanshu gig is still on. But maybe it means them too- All the rest of our line. Drusilla was not like herself, Angel. She was, I don't know- Not innocent. You know what I mean. She was more Lucid, and more disturbed. She cried on me, told me she didn't want an immortal soul."

He looked Angel straight in the eye.

"I think the prophecy means souls all `round, one to a customer for the line of Aurelius."

Angel took a minute to examine the theory. It made some sort of sense. It would explain the strangeness of Harmony, the odd humanity of the reborn Darla. She'd been different this time.

If Spike was right, it meant he was not alone, not unique. It wasn't just his curse; it was his fate- to be the father of a line of more human demons.

And the idea crept in, that that there was divine providence behind this. After all, Evil had been corrupting the agents of Good for eternity... Could the Forces of Good corrupt the agents of Darkness?

He could see why an old and respected group of Demonic Families would want to quash this sort of change, why they would work so hard to defeat it, and then, failing that, to contain all knowledge of it.

And he was entitled to a seat at that table, he reflected. He had a seat on the board of directors of Hell, if he chose to claim it.

That was why they worked overtime to take him out of the picture. The way Lilah explained it, they operated by their own rules at the firm- but they abided by them as well. If he showed up, they'd have to accept him. Oh, they might try to assassinate him. But they'd let him vote first.

It was rich. Maybe God was infiltrating the opposition.

They stopped on the ground floor, in front of a long line of armed police officers demanding they lie down and put their hands behind their backs, that the armed guards drop their weapons.

But Glory'd had enough of this nonsense. Her time was nearly up; soon the key would lock into its new state; immalleable. She gave the order and her men fired upon the officers. A number fell, and She moved into the throng, breaking necks and draining heads.

She'd never felt this good before, not since being confined in this wretched mortal prison.

Willow and Anya hunkered down behind the receptionist's desk, forgotten for the moment. Anya worked frantically at the knot around the witch's neck. She'd known the rope for what it was the minute she'd seen it; a binding cord. It was intended to restrain the witch’s gifts, to make her cooperative and manageable. It must be a very powerful item, she thought, taking in Willow's zombie like state.

But she didn't know the words of unbinding, not anymore. It was too long, and she was too powerless. There was a time she'd have dropped the thing off Willow without having to so much as look at it, but that time was gone. She was human now, a poor human girl with a human boyfriend and very ordinary human hopes and fears.

She feared for her friend. And it pleased her that she could call the witch that. It had been a long time coming, this trust between them.

She had to get her free, somehow.

Spike, Xander, and Angel crept silently down the stairwell, deeper into the hospital. Xander said there was a freight elevator that went from the basement to the ground floor. Angel thought it was their best bet for an unimpeded progress.

Behind them, Buffy crept carefully. She was ready to fight, wanting to fight. But she was feeling the fear again, the cool certainty that the situation she was heading into was Not Good For The Baby.

She passed a hand unconsciously over her middle, and said a silent prayer for the tiny sleeping life inside her, that it not be harmed in the coming battle.

They spilled out into the basement, and crept towards the mortuary. Beyond it, some fifty feet from the door, was the freight elevator.

Angel punched "L", and the doors slid open.

He stepped back as men in chain mail with broadswords moved into view.

Spike shoved Buffy behind him.

"Hide," he hissed. But she ignored him. These guys were human, and she'd fought them before.

She could take them.

Willow felt her mind clear, as the rope fell from around her neck. Beside her, Anya held a pair of nail scissors triumphantly.

"Who knew you could just cut it off?" she asked.

But now memory returned to the witch. She remembered waking to the feel of hands on her throat, a sick fear that she was being smothered. Then the fog began; she could remember bits of what had happened, but not very clearly.

Police officers. Glory. Doctors shot in the head at point- blank range.

She gagged at the images in her head.

Tara. Where was Tara?

Then she remembered, and her hands began to shake. Tara, seized sleeping just as she was. But instead of binding her, the goddess had plunged fingers into her beautiful head, on either side of her lovely face. The light had been blinding, but Willow had been too dazed to close her eyes to it. She'd seen the look on Glory's face as she drained Tara's mind, a look of nearly orgasmic pleasure.

And afterwards, when Tara had slumped away babbling, the look of satiety in the bitch's face.

Willow's heart hardened. She wanted the evil thing Dead. Not banished, not restrained... But painfully, horribly dead.

She vowed to see her suffer.

Buffy had two of the knights, and Angel and Spike were surrounded by a group of them, dodging down strokes and feints. Xander, already bleeding from two small wounds in his arm and shoulder, produced a bottle of air freshener and sprayed it into the face of his attacker, moving towards the throng around the other men.

Inside the circle, Spike got in several good kicks at knees, causing two of the knights to falter. As they stumbled, he kicked their heads and stepped on them. The line, he had to break the line. The knights stood between their group and the elevator door.

Buffy slammed one man into the wall, hard enough to crumble the plaster. The other one charged her, but she stepped out of his reach and watched as he lodged his weapon into the wallboard. It stuck, and his attempts to free it gave her the time she needed to knock him out.

As he slid to the floor, she pulled his sword free. It felt better to have a weapon in her hand. She noted the fine weight of it, the excellent balance. It had a cross emblazoned in the handle, and as she ran back to the fighting she heard Angel's hiss.

"Buffy! Get that thing away from me! It's blessed."

She moved away, cutting at their opponents. It was messy work, and she'd been told correctly. These knights did not stop. They did not fall back. They just kept on advancing as she cut them down. One fell, and another took his place. And another. And another.

Spike stood in the doorway of the elevator now, bleeding from his lip and nose. He held one of the swords as well; glistening red tinged the glint of its steel length.

"Come ON! We haven't got all bleedin' day, you know!"

He was keyed up and turned on from the fighting, shifting on the balls of his feet. One of the knights came at him, sword raised, charging into the elevator. Spike spitted him on the blade, and kicked his body out the doorway.

Angel's knuckles were bruised and bloody, his game face on. He just kept grabbing heads and slamming them together. He noticed Spike's brutality as he ran into the elevator.

"Why do you hate them so much?" he asked, as he kicked the legs out from beneath one coming at them.

"They tried to nab little bit at Revco last week. It was a slaughter."

Since they didn't value human lives, Spike didn't feel particularly obligated to value theirs. Whereas Buffy and Angel had been actively trying to disarm without fatalities, Spike was intent on skewering every knight in his way.

Buffy seized Xander up from where he'd fallen. He was stabbed through the shoulder, and bleeding profusely.

"Come on. We're out of here."

She ran for the elevator, and pulled him in after her.

The door closed on the scene of their carnage, and they went up to face the real challenge.

Willow needed materials, she needed time. But the gunshots whizzed over her head occasionally, and she knew the bitchgoddess was out there, doing her thing. Periodically she heard the crack of a broken neck and knew someone else had died.

It had to stop.

The elevator door dinged, and something whizzed through the air, landing off to their left with a bang.

Smoke and stink filled the air. Anya choked and tried to see over the desktop.

Spike and Angel emerged amid the cloud, bloody and terrifying. Spike was armed with a long sword, which he ran through a chanting demon minion. Beside him, Angel picked one up and broke his spine.

Behind them, Buffy came out.

"Xander!" shouted Anya.

She got to her feet and tried to run to them, but lost them in the smoke.

Suddenly she felt her feet give way, and she fell to the floor. She'd slipped in blood, near one of the downed minions. But down here she could see better. She could make out feet, not two feet away.

And she'd know those nikes anywhere. She crept towards her loved ones.

Behind the desk, Willow grew gradually more frightened. She wasn't safe here. The bitch might come back, and she already knew she was excellent in the role of the hostage.

So she took a chance, and darted the direction of her friends.

Spike looked over in time to see the witch running straight at him, in terror. Behind her, a man raised his gun and aimed.

"Red! Drop!" he cried.

Amazingly enough, she did, and he felt the bullet meant for her imbed itself in the firm flesh of his upper arm.

He dropped the sword, unable to maintain its weight. It skittered forward, clattering to a stop just in front of Willow.

Red heels came into view, as the girl looked up. It was her, it was the goddess. Willow felt around for the sword; she knew it was there, just above her head....

Her hands connected as the bitch grabbed her by the hair, pulling her upwards.

"Not leaving so soon?" she crooned apologetically. She raised her other hand and slapped Willow across the cheek, hard.

With both hands behind her head, Willow brought the sword up in an arc, with all the force she could muster. But she didn't know how to hold it. Instead of plunging into the woman's midsection, it continued its cutting stroke, pulled down by gravity.

It was with no small sense of satisfaction that Willow took in the sight of the blood spraying.

Warm, wet blood, dripping onto her face, showering her like rain.

The goddess staggered back, and Willow saw that her aim had been true after all, true and horribly appropriate. Her arms were severed midway to the wrist, both of them. The blood sprayed out, and she screamed in agony.

Willow spied the hands, white and harmless now. She picked them up, and stuffed them furtively into her dress pockets. Then she crawled backwards, as another round of explosives shook the room.

She felt strong arms hauling her upward, and looked gratefully into the face of a vampire.

"You okay?" Angel asked.

She nodded. Behind him, she saw Buffy dragging Xander, and Anya trying to help. Spike was suddenly at her back.

"We ready to get out of here then?"

Angel nodded, and they moved away from the front of the building, heading towards the parking garage.

Dead cops littered the path. Angel ignored them, moving them out of the way like cordwood.

They spied one poor man hiding behind a coke machine, his service revolver clutched in a shaking pair of hands.

Angel took the weapon gently out of the officer's hands, his face reverting to normal.

"Call for backup. Now."

For some reason the man scurried to do his bidding, moving on his belly towards the phones.

Angel moved his group farther into the parking garage.

He slowed for a minute, and Buffy looked up at him worriedly.

"What? What is it? Do you hear something?"

He shook his head.

"No. I just don't remember where I parked the surveillance van."

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #50/50 "Ever After"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 50/50

RATING: R (For Series)

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you?

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's

going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

"I look stupid," the girl moaned, flopping into an overstuffed chair. Beside her, Anya worked on Willow's hair, ornately braiding it into a crown.

"You don't look stupid, Dawn. You look like a Maid of Honor," she chastised.

Dawn rolled her eyes, and opened the little pink purse that matched her froofy pink dress. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one.

"Dawn! What are you doing, where did you get those?"

Willow's outrage caused her to jerk her head, and Anya shoved her back in the chair with equal force.

"Quit moving or I won't be able to do this," she said.

Dawn breathed out minty smoke and gave Willow a shrug.

"I bought them. I'm sixteen now, it's legal."

"You might be legal, but Dawn...You know Buffy wouldn't like it." Willow was trying to understand, but it was difficult.

"Dawn's just acting out. Right Dawn? You're venting your displeasure with the changes in you life by smoking, drinking, running around with boys, right?"

Anya smiled helpfully at the teenager.

"I do watch television you know. This sort of thing is very normal. Only be careful...I've noticed that girls who don't grow out of this phase tend to wind up in trailer parks. With five kids. And food stamps," she added.

Willow winced, but whether it was Anya's firm grip or her biting honesty that caused it was anyone's guess.

Dawn stubbed her ciggie out in an ashtray.

"Don't worry. I'll probably grow out of it."

As she stood up, black Doc Martens peeked out from under the hem of her gown.

In another dressing room, Spike pulled at his collar and growled at the groomsman.

"I should never have agreed to this. Who ever heard of someone like me gettin' married in a soddin’ church? Who ever heard of someone like me gettin' married?"

Xander fixed Spike's tie for the tenth time that morning.

"Whoever heard of anybody like you in the first place, Spike?"

"Yeah, well... This better be my last bloody wedding. Next time I'm in a building like this, it'll be for my funeral." He insisted.

Xander ignored him. Instead he did a mental catalogue. Rings, Check. Car keys. Check. Speech for the reception. Check. Money to pay the DJ. Check...

He was good to go.

Giles entered the room, and gave Xander a look.

"I think I'll go see if the organist's here yet," he commented. He didn't meet the groom's eyes, just ducked out of the room.

Spike raised an eyebrow at Giles.

"So. You here to off me now, watcher?"

The older man cringed a little at that, but only for a second. Then he pulled his shoulders back, and held his head high.

"No, Spike. I'm not here to kill you."

His voice was resigned; weary.

"I only wish to speak with you for a minute."

Languidly the groom draped himself over a chair. He fumbled in his pockets for a moment, and pulled out a small package of gum. Popping one in his mouth, he gestured at Giles.

"Go on then. Get it over with. Tear into me at will. `You're a waste of space, Spike. You're not good enough for my girl, Spike. Why don't you go play in traffic, Spike.' Go on. I'm anxious to hear if you've any newer material."

Giles pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. His pride smarted. But he could do this; he would do this for Buffy.

"Can we please dispense with this attitude? There's no love lost between us, I know that. But I'm here to make peace with you, Spike. For the sake of my girls, I want to-"

"You want to What, Rupert? Bury the hatchet? I think you buried it in my back already, when you sicced the INS on me."

"Yes, well. I'm- Sorry about that."

"And you tried to buy me off. Any idea how insulting that was, mate?"

He sniggered.

"As if I'd take money to leave them. What arrogance."

Giles bit his tongue, hard. He knew Spike wouldn't make any of this easy for him.

"Spike, look. I'm not going to stand here and listen to an index of my sins. I came here to make an honest apology. I love Buffy, I love Dawn...I thought you were an unhealthy influence on them. It has become apparent that I may have been incorrect in that assumption. But I will not stand idly by and be berated-"

Suddenly Spike laughed, a full-throated hearty exclamation of amusement. Giles looked on in horror, wondering if he'd finally gone mad.

Spike rose, and clapped Giles on the back.

"Oh, you should see your face, Rupert. S'brilliant, simply brill."

He got hold of himself, chuckling mildly now. Tears were in his eyes, and laugh lines around his mouth.

"It's okay, mate. No big deal. I understand."

His eyes lit with a warm glow.

"Do you think I'd behave any differently than you? Some drunken demonic snot sniffing around MY daughter?"

He snorted.

"I think you were rather reserved, considering."

He softened his voice, and tried to impress upon the other man his earnestness.

"But seriously, Giles. I love her. I love them both. And I want you to know, I'll do everything in my power to keep them both happy, and safe. I want to take care of them, all three of them, Buffy, Dawn, the baby..."

There was wistfulness in his tones, as he went on.

"I haven't been part of a family in a long while. But I want to do right by them. I will do right by them. You have my word."

Giles patted Spike's shoulder awkwardly, and noticed that his eyes were watering.

It must be the humidity, he reflected.

"Well now. Er... Um... Perhaps we should see about getting you married then."

Buffy had escaped the chaos of the dressing rooms, to lurk here in the rose garden outside the church. Carefully, she picked her way through the paths, minding her dress and her shoes.

Mom had always liked roses, she mused, as she plucked one. The thorn bit into her skin, beading blood on the surface. She gazed into the droplet, thinking about her life.

There was a time she never thought she'd see a day like this one.

She remembered the aftermath of that first spell, when Willow had willed them married. She recalled disappointment and despair.

Not because she loved Spike, because when the spell wore off, she hadn't. But the terrible loss of that dream of hope, it had affected her for months to come. It had propelled her into a disastrous relationship with Riley. To go from such pure joy and hopefulness, back to loneliness and desolation proved too much for her.

She'd had everything, for that one day. A man she adored, who adored her, and a beautiful future ahead of them.

Only when she recovered from the magic did she realize the future was a lie, a thing she'd never have.

Until these last months she'd honestly thought such a day would never come. There would be no marriage, no children....No future for her outside from her impending end, destined to come in the heat of battle.

But hope was alive with in her now; she was allowing herself to dream and to plan. She was the Slayer, yes, but she was so much more than that. She was a sister, a daughter, and a friend. Soon she would be a wife, and a mother.

Perhaps what let her forebears give in so easily was the absence of those ties. Spike had tried to tell her as much, once before. She was unlike any Slayer who had gone before her. Her fate need not mirror theirs.

Together, she and Spike would create their fate; they would map a future unlike any who had gone before them.

The blood on her finger had crusted, and she swiped at it with a fingernail, revealing healed, healthy skin beneath.

She said a prayer to God, thanking him for the gifts in her life. There were so many; Dawn. Spike. All of her loved ones.

And the baby. The baby was the greatest gift of all.

She only wished her mother could be alive to see this day. Yet she felt her presence all around her. Within her, and surrounding her, giving her strength and comfort.

"Buffy?"

She looked over to see Giles standing at the edge of the rosebushes.

"Buffy, they're waiting for you."

She gave him a radiant smile.

"Then let's go," she said.

"The wedding was just lovely, Tara." Willow soaped the blonde hair gently, as she smoothed the tangles. " Buffy's dress was perfect. All flowy and filmy...not even a hint of lil' baby belly peeking through."

Tenderly she rinsed the shampoo out, and then rested Tara's head against her. The bathwater came nearly to her chin, lying against Willow's breast.

Willow leaned over and pressed a kiss against her love's forehead.

Looking into the empty, doll-like eyes, she went on.

"They're going to England until the baby comes. Spike has a house there; they're going to get Dawn a tutor and live there for awhile. We're supposed to head over in March, if I can work things out. Buffy wants me to be there when the baby is born."

Willow wrapped strong arms around Tara's inert form. When the girl began mumbling, Willow pressed a kiss to the side of her face.

"I've almost got the ritual worked out now, honey. It won't be much longer."

On the side of the tub, a hand of glory perched in a silver dish, with a beeswax candle burning in its palm.

"You've seen patient 1012, our Jane Doe from last month's terrorist attack at the hospital." The doctor stated.

His young assistant nodded.

"Why such large doses of Thorazine, sir?" he asked.

The older man smiled at him indulgently. He'd been much the same as this idealistic youngster once himself. He'd thought he could reason with the world's madmen. It was why he'd gone into medicine to begin with.

Time and experience had made him a wiser man.

"She tries to hurt herself, otherwise. She's given to delusions of grandeur; she thinks she's God."

The young man swallowed uncomfortably.

"It's a shame, sir. One so pretty as that."

His mentor nodded.

"Yes. We have to keep her sedated, for her own safety. Sometimes she screams for her brother, other times she beats the nurses with the stumps of her arms."

"Stumps?" the young one questioned.

Again, the nod.

"Yes. She lost both her hands in the attack. When she's most agitated, she slaps other people with the stumps. Repeatedly. She'll do it until the wounds tear back open."

He sighed.

"She's had her stitches done multiple times, but she always tears them before the healing is complete."

He shuddered.

"I've never seen psychosis so pronounced, in response to a trauma. She's so deranged she doesn't even know her own name."

"It's gorgeous, Spike. You- You own this?" she asked.

He grinned at her.

"No, love. We do. Come inside."

Buffy moved out of the front gardens, and into the house. It was a magnificent structure, three stories high, built solidly of stone and cedar. All around it were spring roses, and hedgerows.

Inside, he moved about like a little kid, sweeping dustcovers off of furniture. His bride watched bemusedly, as he uncovered each chair, each table, like a Christmas present.

"I can't believe it’s all here." He breathed.

"What's all here?" she asked.

He gave her a brilliant smile.

"The furnishings, love. This house has been sold numerous times, before I got it back. I had no idea so many of our things would still be here!"

Her brow furrowed.

"You grew up here?" she asked.

He nodded, and tugged her hand, dragging her up the stairs.

He paused on the second floor, and opened the door on the nursery.

It didn't look quite the same, but the layout was unaltered. A large room, in an L shape, with cupola windows that had toy boxes set in their seats. Overhanging eaves on one side made the ceiling clearance lower; he remembered playing with a train kept set up in that corner.

This room held many happy memories for him.

He pulled her inside.

"This was our room. The boys, I mean. Mine and Stephen's," he amended.

He looked around, eyes misting in remembrance.

She touched his arm gently.

"I think it'll make a perfect baby nursery," she said.

He pulled her close to him, sharing her warmth. The child between them had just begun to round her belly; its firmness pressed against him, and he caressed her with his hand.

"Do you think you can be happy here, Buffy?" he asked, in all seriousness.

She leaned in close, to lay her head on his chest. His heart hammered against her cheek.

"Yes. I think we can."