TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #20 "Firstborn"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART:20/?

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

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

DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just 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!"

      The front doors slammed shut with a loud bang. Angel looked up from his morning ritual- coffee cup, newspaper. All very human, but for the contents of said cup.

      He recognized the angry voice coming from the lobby.

      The ugly scene with Spike.

      The loss of his furniture.

      It really just wasn't his day.

      "Where are you, you cowardly undead piece of shit?"

      Angel folded up his newspaper, and laid it on the table. He got up, carried his half-empty cup across the room, and placed it inside the microwave. Then he calmly went out to beat sense into Lindsay McDonough.

 

      "Good morning, Lindsay!"

      His jovial tone belied the fire burning behind his eyes. This man had wronged him repeatedly. He'd tormented him. He'd ran him over with a car. He'd been responsible for the last sixth months of earthbound Hell Angel had just endured.

      He'd given him back Darla, and taken her away again.

      `Maybe this time I'll just kill him.' Angel mused on the possibility with no small amount of satisfaction.

 

      Lindsay weaved a bit on his feet, trying to remember what he was doing here. The stake in his hand reminded him, and he smiled to himself.

 

      "Come on out here, now."

      His hand squeezed on the wood in his palm. It felt good, the smoothness of the grain against his skin. Its cool weight was a balm to his injured pride. Just a little longer, Lindsay. Just a little longer and it'll all be over.

      He could hear the vampire towards the back of the building, his hearty "good morning" and the slap of his feet against the tile rang in the human's ears, and reverberated behind his eyes.

      Not only was he a bloodsucking menace, but he had no respect for a good strong hangover.

      Angel strode out to meet him, and Lindsay looked him over in scorn.

      The wavy black hair, the dark smoldering eyes. That broad, rippling chest he didn't even bother to pull a shirt over.

 

      Lindsay thought again about that bitch Darla and wished Vampires didn't dust at death. He'd love to send her Angel's torso, intact and complete, after he'd killed him. Or maybe even a few other choice parts.

      She'd certainly preferred them.

      He snarled at his rival and came for him.

 

 

      Angel sidestepped the mortal's pathetic lunge. Lindsay was drunk, judging by the way he walked. Also, he was still garbed in yesterday's clothes, as evidenced by their wrinkles and their smell.

      He brought a hand up and slapped the boy across the side of the face, enjoying the sound it made, and the way it rouged his cheek. Then he reached with the other hand and snapped the stake in two, and flung him back into the wall.

      "Well, I'm here, now, Lindsay. What was it you wanted again?"

      The boy pulled himself up to his knees, and lunged at him again. This time the momentum was sufficient to knock the vampire down. Luck and the laws of gravity on his side, he took the opportunity to land a punch to Angel's groin. It felt good, racking him up. Lindsay decided that before he staked him, he would cut the fucker's balls off for a trophy.

      Angel hissed at the pain, but it didn't slow him down any. He grabbed the boy around the head and tried to twist his neck. But he was damp with perspiration, and maybe booze- Angel's hands slipped and the boy got free. He landed another punch, this one to Angel's eye.  He followed it with another.

      They weren't terribly hard blows, and the vampire didn't really feel them. But he got a good look at Lindsay's eyes then, while he was waling on him. They burned with ferocity, with pain and anger. Angel felt his undead heart moved by the sight. Lindsay had a certain beauty to his rage. Angelus would have adored him.

      This time he seized the hand that hit him,  and crushed the wrist.

      "You want to lose this hand too, boy?

      Lindsay didn't react to the pain, or the threat. He was too far gone. His head came down  hard as he bashed Angel's with it. Beneath him, the vampire laughed loudly. It fueled his mortal rage.

      Angel brought a knee up into Lindsay's lap, and knocked the air out of him. Gasping, the mortal rolled off to the side. Instead of standing, Angel just rolled after him.

      He crouched above him and hit him in the face again. Three more punches, one for each one Lindsay had successfully landed. They had more impact on the human. The blood poured from his nose, and his mouth.

      His fists kept up a rhythm on the mortal, as Angel gave himself over to the beating. He would teach this whelp a lesson, teach him once and for all the futility of his arrogance. He'd come here to take down a vampire with a splinter. He'd soon learn his proper place in the world. Angel would send him crawling back to Wolfram and Hart with more pieces missing.

      He pulled back a moment, to admire his work. The beautiful face before him had been reduced to a pulsing mass of blood and bruised flesh. He'd almost crushed the windpipe, so Lindsay's breath whistled.

      "You go back to your masters- You tell them any one they send against me, I will send back in boxes."

      He climbed off of him, trying to ignore how much he had enjoyed that.  His demon was still Angelus, and Angelus got off on pain, and its infliction. The demon raged within him, telling him to go back and finish what he'd started. Kill the boy, fuck him, cut him up-

      The images teased his thoughts and he warred with his instincts.

      His back turned, lost in bloody fantasies, he missed seeing Lindsay pull the gun out of his waistband. But it fired, and Angel felt the bullet go through his shoulder. He rounded, and took in the sight.

      Lindsay was still where he'd left him. But he was sitting up slightly, the derringer in his hand pointed Angel's way.

      Through thick lips, Lindsay laughed at him.

      "Nobody's leaving this room alive."

      Angel regarded his opponent with bemusement.

      "Is that so? I guess I'll have to kill you then."

      Lindsay nodded.

      "Yeah. You will. But I'll live long enough to take you with me."

 

      Angel tilted his head slightly, and listened to Lindsay breathe.

 

      " I don't know, pal. You're struggling to breathe already. It's possible you'll die right there, if I leave you alone."

      He walked over to the shaking hands and batted the gun out of them, knocking it across the room.

      He seized Lindsay by his neck, pulling him to his feet. He dragged the limp form up against himself, pressing him firmly against him. The warmth of a human was seductive, alluring.

      "What's the matter, Lindsay? Not feeling your best right now, eh? You want me to call an ambulance for you? Or how bout I call your bosses at Wolfram and Hart..."

      Lindsay smiled at him through the blood.

      "They fired me."

      "Well then, I guess your ass is mine."

      The blood smell was maddening. And he was a little impressed. As suicide attempts went, this one had been a beaut. Even now, dying in his hands, the boy struggled. His kicks were puny, pathetic- but he kept trying. And the hate in his eyes was delicious.

      He'd already made the decision to let him die. Why not enjoy the death? And the hatred, that would only make it sweeter.

      Angel brought the bleeding lips to his own and licked them.

      "Your blood is sweet, boy."

      He let the demon free, and buried his head in Lindsay's neck, his teeth in his vein.

      The blood was fine, the blood was pure. He tasted of hate and obsession, of love and rejection. He had such pride, such shameless arrogance. He was so like William that Angel ached from it.

      He could feel it between them now,  the inevitable arousal that accompanied the blood. It always happened. No matter how much Lindsay hated him, right now, with his mouth against his neck, the boy was his. His hardness against his own, their hips ground together as the heart pumped life into Angel's mouth. And within him, Angelus was sated. The blood was good, the death erotic and exquisite. It poured into the back of his throat and warmed him, the boy in his arms not an enemy now, but a lover.       .

      As he fed, he felt it then, inside himself, the longing. It always happened. The demon wanted the boy, wanted to consume him, but even so, it adored him.

      It was a shock when he felt his own blood leaving his body. The circuit closed, and the electric sensation of the blood entering and leaving was the finest feeling in the world. He'd not known it since the creation of Drusilla, but he remembered it. It was excruciating and yet orgasmic. The blood flowing, the bodies merged like one, the pleasure so intense it was painful.

      Lindsay's mouth upon the exit wound in his shoulder, his human teeth grinding against his immortal flesh, as the heart slowed, as it stopped.

      The boy slumped against him, finished. And Angel pulled himself free, his victim hanging in his arms like a child.

      His child.

      If he didn't prevent it, Lindsay would wake tonight as one of his line, one of his blood.

      Angel's firstborn.

      Angelus, for all his evil, had made his children in love. Love of the innocence he sought to eradicate, love of the goodness he hoped to corrupt.

      It was somehow fitting that Lindsay was made in hate, in rape and murder.

      There was blood on his lips. Angel traced his finger over them; full, soft, mortal lips.

      He really had been beautiful. Even Darla had admired his looks, and she was noted for her fine taste in men.

      Angel lifted the body in his arms, studying him. He knew the right thing to do was to stake him. Right now, before he could rise. He'd have done it for Darla, and he loved her. He owed it to the mortal that Lindsay had been, no matter how wretched and wrong that person was.

      But his thoughts took a different path already, as he carried the body up the steps deeper into the hotel. He needed someplace to stash him, before the humans came in today. He'd need somewhere he could hide him, where he could be kept restrained when he woke. He'd wake hungry, and Angel would not place his friends in that kind of danger.

      He hid his guilty secret in his bedroom. He undressed the body, washed the blood and stickiness from it. Then he put it in the bed, and chained it in place.

      Taking note of the sizes, he formed his list. He'd need new clothes. And blood, fresh blood, preferably  human.

 

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #21 "Pickup"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART:21/?

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

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

DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

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

 

      He'd been here since eleven this morning, and the weather channel had been on the telly the entire time. One room, thirty men, and one soddin’ television showing six hours of the Weather Channel. So much for the prohibition on cruel and unusual punishment.

      The metal door clanged open and a demon entered, his hands chained at his back. Despite his obvious green skin and scales, he drew no particular attention from the rest of the occupants, those currently enjoying the scenic northern blizzard footage.

      Spike noted with a petty twinge of envy that the newcomer had nice boots. Doc Martens, trendier than his own,  and undoubtedly newer.

      He shifted slightly, trying to squirm away from the old guy beside him who smelled of piss. Unfortunately that caused him to brush elbows with the burly red-haired guy sitting on his other side. This really only became a problem when the redhead brushed back, and smiled at him, interestedly.

      "Hello mate!" said Spike, waving to the demon, as he jumped up off the bench and began striding over. The guard unlocked his cuffs, and the demon walked towards Spike, curiousity in his expression.

      "Uh, Do I know you?"

      "Nah, You don't."

      Spike gave a shrug and gestured over his shoulder towards the benches.

      "I just wondered why they aren't ripping up and getting religion after taking sight o' you."

      The demon's green skin paled slightly. With a shit-eating grin, he regarded Spike warily.

      "It ain't working on you, is it? What are you, half-breed or something?"

      Spike shrugged.

      "You could say that. So, what is it- Spell, talisman-"

      The demon puffed up with pride.

      "Spell. Cost me a good piece, too, but it sure comes in handy on days like this. Fella can go about his business without attracting too much attention."

      Spike considered the spell momentarily. It must be good work, no one in the room had yet perceived it but him.

      "What's it do, then? If it's not too personal a question. What're they seein?"

      The demon smiled, his posture relaxing a little.

      " Normal human. Male, `bout my height. Paid a little extra for good looks, helps with the ladies if you know what I mean."

      He leered a little and Spike made agreeable noises.

      "Anyway, it works real good, on most humans. Some trouble with little kids, and crazy people. And crazy old people, man- they're the worst. But it works pretty good otherwise."

      Spike fidgeted slightly, as he ransacked his brain, looking for proper conversational topics.

      What did one discuss in Jail? Despite a hundred years of lawlessness on his part, this situation was alien to him.

      "So, what're you in for?"

      There, that should work. They say that in all the movies.

      Green Guy shrugged his leather-jacketed shoulders.

      "Nothin' man, they got the wrong guy."

      His nasal whine was grating, so Spike changed the subject.

      "Well it's good to meet you mate. What's your name?"

      The demon studied him a moment, and Spike could almost read the inner dialogue. His new friend was sizing him up, while running through his mental roster of pseudonyms for the right one to fit this situation. The demon's body posture had "Lackey" or "Snitch" written all over it. He decided to put the bloke at ease.

      Spike extended a gentlemanly hand.

      "Forgot t' introduce m'self. Name's Spike."

      "SPIKE?" the demon asked. His whine jumped an octave, and he stepped a few paces back.

      "Yeah, that's it." He replied.

      The demon smiled ingratiatingly, while backing away, and sort of raising his palms up.

      "You wouldn't be related to some Prick name of Angel, would you now?"

      Spike cocked his head to one side. What did this bloke know about Angel?

      "Erm; Yeah. I would be."

      The demon backed clear up against the bars of the holding cell.

      "Oh, Shit, man. Oh Shit. Look, I got nothing to do with you or yours, alright."

      He looked around anxiously, addressing the room in general, over the heads of the humans.

      "Look, I don't even know this guy! Never met him before in my life!"

      Spike's curiousity was intensely aroused. Whatever had this little punk so scared was worth investigating. And he'd enjoy trading on his Big Bad reputation for a little while.

      "What's the matter, friend?" He scoffed.

      "Surely you're not scared of me."

      The demon was backed clear up against the bars, now.

      "Guards! Guards! I- I feel Faint! I think I'm gonna be sick or something!"

      Spike walked right up to him, and he cringed.

      There was the sensation of eyes watching him. Spike turned his face to the room. It seemed the its denizens were no longer entranced by the snow coverage. He turned his gaze back upon the cowardly demon.

      "You puttin' on a show for the nice people?"

      The demon was pulled tight against the bars, and Spike leaned in close to his face.

      "Surely you're not afraid of little ol' me?!"

      Beady little demon eyes met his, and they were full of terror.

      "Man, you people are a frickin' DEATH SENTENCE," he hissed. " Somebody sees me with you, they might mistake me for a relative or something-"

      Just then a guard came back into the hallway, and stood outside the barred door.

      "Walthrop, William," he read off the notepad in his chubby fists, "Quit makin' time with your girlfriend- Your bond's posted, you're out of here."

      Spike stepped back, and the demon on the bars relaxed. Spike gave him a cocky smile.

      "Lovely to have made your acquaintance. " he said, as the guard opened the door. He sauntered through it, eminently cool, even in paper shoes.

 

      " One pack of cigarettes, check. One lighter, check. Three dollars and seventeen cents, check. One half of a butterfinger candy bar, check. One aluminum flask; empty. Check. One ring, check. One earring, check. One bottle of nailpolish. Check."

      A bored, middle aged woman with a bland face slid the clipboard under the glass to him.

      "Sign by the X."

      He did so, sliding the board back,  and wondering at the events of his morning. Somebody somewhere, had his name and fingerprints in a database now. Shit- what had he said his birthday was? He'd been so drunk he might have told the truth.

      "May I see those again, please?"

      He adopted his most charming smile, and the woman on the other side of the glass came to life; blushing slightly.

      "Here you are."

      She slid the papers over again.

      He winked at her.

      "aren't you a love? Just wanted to check something."

      There it was, in black and white. They'd not even called him on it. 1868. Sheesh.

      He adopted another fake smile and slid it back.

      " Thank you."

      This time she giggled.

 

      "If you're finished scooping out the public servants, We Can Go Now. "

      Spike turned his head, and there she was; his beautiful Buffy. Glowering at him, thunderclouds in her eyes, she stood by the exit, tapping her foot impatiently.

      "Damn she's hot when she's angry."

      Shit. He'd said that out loud.

      Commence the verbal backpedaling, he thought.

      "Slayer! Good of you to come downtown to get me like this, I really appreciate it. Sorry about all the trouble and all, and tell your watcher I'll pay him back every d-"

      She cut off his words with a slap, the crisp sound filling the room. Then she simply walked out on him.

      He followed her through the exit, and out into the bright daylight, into the parking lot.

      He jogged to catch up to her, admiring her rump. It moved just so when she was angry; she sort of stalked. He found it very distracting as he fumbled mentally to come up with good excuses for his behaviour. Somehow having a meltdown over mortality wasn't going to be good enough, he knew that.

      "Buffy! Buffy wait up! Look, pet, I'm sorry, really I am. You don't know how sorry-"

      She stopped, and turned around. The sun making her squint, she nevertheless managed to scowl at him quite effectively.

      "You're sorry."

      He caught up to her, winded. He panted his words.

      "Well. Yeah. I'm sorry."

      She ran a hand through her long blonde locks, shaking her head.

      "I just don't get it, Spike. I thought we worked through this, I thought you were okay. Then I wake up, and you're gone. No note. No anything. Your boots in the apartment and your keys on the counter. Did it ever occur to you I might be worried? And what about Dawn, Hmm? You were supposed to be there for her this morning, remember? You promised."

      He hung his head.

      "Yeah, I know. And I'm really sorry about disappointing the Nibblet. I did mean to be back before the hospital, I swear-"

      She stuck her chin out, and balled her hands into fists which she planted firmly on her narrow hips.

      "And WHERE were you while I was off at the hospital, talking to Dawn's doctors, while Ben was doing the healing-"

      He opened his mouth to reply but she did it for him.

      "I'll tell you where you were. You were getting carted off to jail. Let's see if I can remember it right; there were SO many charges."

      She ticked them off on her fingers.

      "Public Intoxication. Disturbing the peace. Creating a public nuisance. Assaulting a police officer. Defacing police property. Creating a traffic obstacle..."

      She said this last with a look of wonder, again shaking her locks.

      "I don't know why I don't just stake you..."

      He moved in close to her, all charisma and charm. This had to work. No matter how cute she was angry, he wouldn't get any until she got over it, of that he was certain.

      "I don't know either, baby. I'm a bad man, and I don't deserve your forgiveness."

      He said this even as he stepped into her personal space, overwhelming her with his nearness and seducing her with the timbre of his voice. She squinted up into his handsome face, and he wiggled an eyebrow at her.

      "Peace, love? Please?"

      He saw her attitude shift slightly, and rejoiced. She was wavering. He'd be in her good graces again by nightfall.

      She turned her back to him, and headed over to his car.

Opening the trunk, she pulled out his boots and threw them at him. He ducked left, then right, afterwards picking them up off the concrete.

      "You sober?" she asked, watching him pull on his boots.

      "Yeah,"  he replied.

      She tossed the keys at him, and walked around to the passenger side. Giles got out, staring hard at the vampire in daylight.

      "Buffy, I don't understand-"

      Spike walked up, and opened the driver's side door.

      "S'okay mate. I'll explain in the car. Christ I'm hungry. You lot feel like Pancake house?"

 

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #22 "Awakening."

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART:22

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

did,

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

DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

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

 

      Hunger. The first thing he knew was the hunger, the blinding thirst that obliterated all before it. As consciousness returned, he became aware of other sensations; the cold weight of metal at his wrists and on his ankles, feel of silk against his skin. His hearing was acute; the scratching sound of the sheets as he moved his hands on them was so loud as to be painful. And there were beating, throbbing sounds coming from somewhere far off, that sharpened the

hunger. The smell of something luscious, warm and wonderful... His mouth was cotton dry, as he wanted.

      Where was he?

      The last thing he remembered...

      "Just sign here, and here, and here....And welcome to the firm, Lindsay. You're going to have a real future with us..."

      Holland's face, warm and welcoming. Souls were overrated, anyway, right? It's not like he'd need his for anything.

      Then it started...a trickle at first, but soon it became a rushing flood. Memories of his work at Wolfram and Hart, of working his way up the ranks.

      Body parts dissolved in acid. Limbs, heads...Ritual sacrifices, blood sacrifice, blood with power.

Infants, children, frightened young girls.

Blood on his hands, while there'd been two of them.

      There was something worse to lose than a hand. But it might be even worse to get it back.

      His soul was heavy with the evil of his actions, and Lindsay began to weep brokenly in the bed.

 

      "Angel, are you even LISTENING to a word I've said?"

      Cordy's face was lined with frustration, and lack of sleep. She'd been going over figures with Angel for the last ten minutes, but he wasn't paying much attention to her.

      "Sorry, Delia. What were you saying?"

      She sighed.

      "Look, I know you're all wiggy what with the whole Buffy- Spike thing. I mean, I know- Gross. But its not like it was really any big surprise, was it?"

      Huh?

      " I mean, he's gotta remind her of you. And you were her first love. And you knew he was working with them, right? Giles told you. So it shouldn't have come as any big shock."

      "Cordelia, this is not about Buffy. I'm just stressed from the whole situation. I'm worried about Gunn, I'm worried about what happened at Caritas. Have you two had any luck digging up information there?"

      Wesley spoke up.

      "Actually there's very little to go on, Angel. None of our contacts have been able to locate the proprietor. My assumption is that he's gone underground until some of this is cleared up."

      Angel's eyes glimpsed the clock. It could happen any time now. He'd have to get the humans out of here.

      "Wesley, why don't you go by Merl's, see if he's heard anything."

      That little shit knew everybody's business, he reflected.

      "And you, Delia...go get a manicure. My treat. Your nails are a mess."

      She looked down at her hands, in shame.

      "I know. I just can't seem to keep the polish on them these days. I just don't have time-"

      "MAKE the time. You always seem to feel better when you look better. So go on, take a couple of hours to get yourself together."

      He walked over to the desk, and rummaged around for a slip of paper.

      "Then, when you're done, go by here. I've ordered something for Gunn. I'd appreciate it if you'd pick it up for me."

      She nodded, taking the paper. Then she grabbed her purse.

      "I can take you by the manicurist, if you'd like."

      "That would be great, Wesley. I just hope she can squeeze me in."

      " You can call her from the car, that should help."

      Cordelia studied Angel carefully. He'd been acting strangely all day. And now, he was overly eager to get them out of the hotel. Something was fishy, here.

      "Ready?"

      She looked up at Wesley, then glimpsed back at Angel. His body was taut, his smile forced. Oh, yeah- Something was up, and it didn't look to be good.

      She'd talk to Wes about it in the car.

      "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go."

 

      He heated the blood, and checked the temperature. Then he retrieved a wooden stake from the weapons cache. Taking both items, he mounted the steps.

      He could smell the fear, already. But that wasn't too unusual- Many fledglings woke frightened, disoriented. Sometimes the soul hadn't left yet, and the terror could be paralyzing. In that first early fear, the newborn was like an animal, devoid of intellect or reason, its actions purely instinctual.

      It needed blood to think, the demon did. Until the blood flowed, until the feeding, the demon would be thoughtless, as the human soul still owned the brain.

      But as he reached his door, he was aware of something off. Inside, he could hear weeping, human weeping. Lindsay was awake. But he was already thinking. Something was definitely wrong.

      He opened the door on his child. This was definitely odd. The starving new demon should be enraged and hungry, not sobbing. Even if it were terrified, that terror should manifest itself in aggression and violence. The new demon should be struggling against his bonds, not lying amongst them in a broken heap.

      The newborn raised its head to regard its Sire.

      "Angel?"

      It was Lindsay before him, Lindsay in his bed. But it was not Lindsay as he'd known him. It was not like any vampire he had ever made.

      The tortured eyes told their own story.

      Lindsay had a soul.

 

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #23 "Hearth"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART:23/?

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

did,

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

DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

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

 

      There simply was not enough good scotch in the world, to make this better, thought Giles, as he poured himself another one.

      He could hear them, in the stock room. A plaintive female voice and a strident male one; Xander and Anya, engaged in argument as they had been for weeks now. Arguing over the same topic; Spike. Spike was Human. The gods alone knew how that had happened. The gang had spent a goodly amount of time debating the possibilities. Buffy was of the opinion it was a result of Ben's botched healing attempt. Dawn thought it was a miracle, Willow thought it was some sort of magic. Giles himself thought it might be a combination of factors, starting with the chip, involving the healing, and maybe some mystical significance- Perhaps Spike, and not Angel, was the vampire of myth and prophecy.

      Spike, for his part, refused to discuss it and had sullenly retreated into a bottle of Smirnoff. It had been three weeks, and he'd yet to come out of it.

In the front room, Giles tried desperately to ignore them. Perhaps if he did, they would go away.

      He turned his attention back to the task at hand.

      Surrounded by his books, Giles felt better. Glory was a mystery, a conundrum- but she was a mystical problem. And Giles welcomed it. In light of months past, he welcomed a problem he might be able to solve. He'd felt so powerless during Joyce's illness. He had been rendered positively impotent by her death, unable to do anything but spout platitudes and write thank you notes. But the banishment of Glorificus; well, she was a riddle fit to sink his teeth into. If the obnoxious pair in the back room could stop screaming at each other long enough to let him read, he might actually be able to find something.

 

      "How can you defend him like this?"

      Xander was bone weary with the argument.

      "He's killed thousands of people, and he doesn't feel the slightest bit ashamed of it. He's tried to kill all of us multiple times, and never even so much as said "I'm sorry." And you stand here telling me that its okay, that he ought to be forgiven just cause he's not eating people anymore? What about all the ones he DID eat, Anya; have you forgotten them?"

      She shook her head at him.

      "No, Xander. I haven't forgotten. But I think You're forgetting what he's done for us, and for Buffy. I think it ought to count for something. He's adjusting badly, I know, but give him a chance-"

      "Adjusting badly? Anya, he's drunk all the time. He never goes anyplace, he just lies on Buffy's couch watching TV. Eating her food, drinking beer he buys with her money-"

      "THAT's the problem, isn't it? He's living with Buffy and you're jealous!"

      The hurt in her voice was gut wrenching. He struggled to defend himself.

      "No, An, it's not about Buffy. Well it is, but not like that. It's not like that. It's just,"

      He lowered his voice, trying to think of a way to get his point across without upsetting Anya any further. He'd been on the couch since Friday and he'd had hopes they could patch things up tonight. That's why he'd come in to help her do inventory today.

      " He's USING Buffy. He sponges off her like a big- Sponge, thing. He's sucking up her money and her energy, making her all worried about him when she needs all her attention for more important stuff. I mean, B's working her ass off, at the Gallery, and patrolling, and trying to keep up in school, and take care of Dawn. And what does Spike do? He drives Dawn to soccer practice, when he's sober enough.  Oh, and he screws Buffy." He gave her a very pointed look.

" Anya, we have a name for men like that."

 

"Dawn, where's did you put the little boxes of Macaroni?"

      Dawn looked up from her notebook.

      "Dunno. I didn't put the groceries up last night, Spike did."

      She watched Buffy grow increasingly more agitated, as she searched the cabinets. Finally Dawn got up from the table, and joined her, looking in the pantry.

      "Buffy, if we can't find it, just fix something else."

      "Like what?"

      Dawn shrugged.

      "Or just order a pizza."

      Buffy looked over at Dawn, murder in her gaze.

      "Look, the schedule says this is fish and macaroni night. Pizza night is Friday. If we order pizza tonight, then it messes up the whole week."

      She sighed, running a hand through her hair.

      "Look, just go wake him up and ask him where he put the boxes, okay? While you're at it, tell him not to use the Palmolive for pots and pans anymore, it's for the glasses. The Dawn is for pots and pans."

      Dawn nodded. She'd learned since Mom's death, to pick her battles carefully. If Buffy wanted to come unglued over dinner schedules and dishwashing liquids, she wasn't going to argue about it. Giles had explained it to her, it was a "Coping Mechanism". When Buffy wigged over scuffs on the floor, or improperly folded laundry, she was really wigging about losing Mom. Dawn understood that better than anyone could imagine. She had her own "coping mechanisms".

She wandered into the living room, over to the couch.

Her sister's boyfriend was sprawled out on it, snoring, a can of beer in his hand. Three more littered the surface of the coffee table, alongside an ashtray full of butts.

Dawn prodded his shoulder with a forefinger.

"Spike. Hey, Spike. Wake up."

He mumbled in his sleep, shifting. He tried to turn over on the couch, and she barely managed to grab the beer before he could pour it out onto the furniture.

"Get up, drunkard."

Her tone implied derision and scorn. He'd once been her hero. But the hero had clay feet; in the weeks he'd been here, she'd seen little of the man she'd admired in him.

He rolled over and peered blearily out at her from behind a three- day binge.

"Nibblet?"

Her heart rolled over. When he looked at her like that, she wanted to forgive him anything. But it was hard, so hard to see him like this.

"Get up. Buffy wants to know where you put the mac `n' cheese."

He stared at her for a minute like he didn't know what she was

talking about. Then he sort of rolled off the couch, to his feet, and staggered into the kitchen. The smell of fish sticks in the oven was repulsive when combined with the boiling green beans on the stove. The addition of onions nearly did him in; he gagged. Beer. He needed a beer, where was his beer? Lurching over to the fridge, he greeted the Slayer.

" `ello Buffy."

      He popped the tab on the can, and let the cool taste cleanse the inside of his mouth. The food smells in the kitchen became more bearable.

      "Well, look who's up for the day!"

      She looked down at her wrist, her face full of false cheer.

      "And you know? It's not even six thirty yet."

      He ignored the jab. It was nothing new. When they weren't shagging, they were fighting. If he let it go for now, she might play nice until after dinner. Besides, witty comebacks took brain cells he was currently pickling. He didn't want to go up against her in a verbal sparring match; there was no way he'd win.

      "Where'd you put the boxed mac n cheese last night?"

      Think, Spike. Blue box, yaay big. Where is it?

      In an attempt to placate her, and stop her continual whining about how worthless he was, he'd unloaded the groceries last night and washed up the dishes. Unfortunately he'd been drunk off his arse at the time, and had no idea where anything was in any of the cabinets.

      He started opening them randomly, and Buffy groaned.

      "Forget it. Look, can you just pull yourself together long enough to set the table?"

      He retrieved plates and cups, arranging them onto the tablecloth.

      Then he got his ashtray, and sat down at the kitchen table, lighting up. He regarded Dawn, sitting across from him, as she poured over algebra homework. School was out, but the stress of past months had lowered her grades. In order to stay with her class next year, she had two summer courses to complete.

      " `Ow's it coming, then?"

      He motioned with his cigarette towards her notebook.

      She shrugged back at him.

      "I don't know. Okay I guess. Summer school sucks, what else is new?"

      Okay, that line of conversation wasn't going anywhere. Except to make Buffy angry when she notices that Dawn said "Sucks." She'll probably blame that on me too, he thought glumly.

      "A- Ha! Target acquired!"

      Buffy stood triumphantly clutching the Kraft box.

      Spike raised an eyebrow at her.

      "Bully for you."

      She shot him a disapproving gaze.

      "You know, I don't HAVE to feed you."

      He rolled his eyes at her, and then noticed the pan on the stove.

      "Buffy, the beans are boiling over."

      "Damn!" she hissed quietly, racing to turn them down. They'd boiled onto the stove, and that would be a bitch to clean up once it'd cooked onto the surface.

      He watched her add the macaroni to boiling water, and turn the timer on. Then she came over to join them at the table, resting her hand on the back of his chair.

      "How's the homework, Dawn?"

      Her sister just looked at her.

      "I don't know, Buffy. It's homework. How do you think it is?"

      Buffy tried to ignore the sarcasm. It was Dawn's way these days; everything that came out her mouth came out ugly. Buffy put on a bright smile for her.

      "Well, you don't have much more of it. Just think, this time next month you'll be back at the high school."

      "Yeah. I can hardly contain myself."

      The deadpan delivery was perfect, and Spike struggled not to laugh. Buffy would not like it if he laughed. 

      His cigarette smoke wafted up, drawn by the cooking vents and the fan.

      Behind him, Buffy choked.

      Dawn was reacted instantly, all traces of disaffected teenager purged in sisterly concern.

      ""Buffy? You okay?"

      Buffy nodded, and Spike turned around to look at her. She was pasty white, her eyes watering.

      "You don't look good, love. Here, sit down."

      He tried to pull her down into the chair but she jerked out of his hands, and fled the room.

      He rose to follow her, but Dawn stopped him.

      "I think she might be getting sick. Why don't you watch the food, I'll take her some water," she said, as she filled a glass at the sink.

      He nodded, and went to stir the macaroni.

      The stench of the onions was enough to make anybody sick, he reflected.

 

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 24 "Hearsay"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART:24/?

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

did,

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

DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

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

 

      " Would you just look at this!"

      Cordelia waggled the statement at Gunn.

      "Three hundred dollars at "the fashionable male". Six hundred dollars at the shoeshop. And this is the last straw... a fifty dollar tip to the hairstylist."

      "He looks good, but not THAT good."

      Gunn nodded at her, before making his pronouncement.

      "I think Dude's got himself a Woman."

      Cordy and Wesley looked at each other, disbelieving.

      "I don't know-" began Cordelia.

      "I think that's very unlikely." Scoffed Wesley.

      "Think about it for a minute." Gunn continued,

      "He's spending money all over town, running up credit card bills at swanky hotels and theatres. He's went out and bought himself a new wardrobe. He's leaving the hotel at weird times, bein' all secretive and shit. You can't get hold of him half the time, and when you're talking to him sometimes dude's just not THERE, you know?"

      "I'll grant you Angel's been a bit distracted, lately, but-"

      Gunn cut Wesley off midsentence.

      "It's gotta be a woman. Ain't nothing messes with Angel's head like the fillies."

      Cordy wrinkled her nose, shuffling mail angrily about on her desk.

      "I think he's right, Wes. Prob'ly some empty headed little blonde thing."

      She rolled her eyes.

      "At least he's consistent."

      She shot Wes a hard look.

      "When's the last time you saw that lady police officer?"

 

      He could hear his child puttering around the apartment, putting stuff into boxes and bags. Something crashed, and he heard low laughter. He followed it into the bedroom, where Lindsay stood over a broken lamp.

      "Always hated this thing anyway."

      He chucked it over his shoulder and it clattered to the floor.

      Angel lounged in the doorway, bemused.

      "She really didn't leave you very much, did she?"

      Lindsay shook his head, as he collected a photo album from the nightstand.

      "No, she didn't."

      Angel sighed quietly.

      "That's her way. I remember in Paris once... She and I got into a tiff over Drusilla, some stupid thing."

      He shrugged.

      "I came back to the hotel room, found she'd cleaned me out. Nothing left in our stash, no money, no jewelry."

      He smiled, bitter in remembrance.

      "She even took my clothes."

      Lindsay bent his head to look back at him, his liquid gaze inscrutable.

      "What'd she do with them?"

      Angel stepped away from the door, into the room. He folded up one of the silk shirts in the pile.

      "I guess she sold them. Why do you want to keep these, anyway? I bought you better."

      Lindsay smiled at him then, and responded.

      "Because they're mine. I paid for them."

      Angel shrugged.

      "Whatever. It's just-"

      He held one offending garment up accusingly.

      "I'd think you might want to be free of reminders of Wolfram and Hart."

      Lindsay's gaze hardened.

      "No, Angel. I don't want to forget them. I don't ever want to forget them."

      There was something in his voice, something hard and sad and ugly. Quickly Angel tried to steer him away from the subject. He wanted to avoid the depression that Lindsay seemed to fall into with regularity. Something would be said, and suddenly Lindsay's conscience would kick him. He'd retreat into silence, refusing to eat or speak, failing to respond to violence or affection. Angel himself knew the depths to which one could sink in such straits; he'd been

there himself for decades after his soul returned. But he had had no one to help him, no one to pull him up from the depths. No one until Buffy. His love for her had given him purpose.

      And Lindsay would have purpose too. He need not spend a century lamenting his evils; he could undertake RIGHT NOW to redeem himself. And his sire was there to help him through it.

      For who else in all the world could understand Lindsay like Angel? They were two of a kind, unique, a new species of monster.

      Angel wished desperately to confide in someone. Wesley or Giles, either one might have insight into the situation. Angel had such questions to ask, ideas to debate. Had Lindsay retrieved his soul because of Angel's curse? That was most likely the case. But his was an unusual situation. He'd been a soulless human; would a normal human made in the blood be ensouled? Or was Lindsay the result of a combination of factors; his soulless state, and Angel's curse.

      In the years since he regained a soul, he'd not once made a child. What might have been the result if he had?

      Could it happen again?

      Lindsay had moved on to the kitchen at this point. Angel followed him.

      He watched as his child selected two champagne glasses from the cabinet; good crystal, by the looks of them. Then he took down a shot glass with a horse on it. These three items he wrapped carefully in a kitchen towel, and placed into the box he'd carried from the bedroom.

      He turned around and smiled warmly at his maker.

      "I think I'm all done here now. "

      Angel hefted a couple of boxes.

      "Let's go."

 

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 25 "Drama"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART:25/?

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

did,

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

DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

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

 

      "Look. All you have to do is sit there and look halfway decent. Do you think you can do that for me? Can you?"

      She regarded him with disgust, from the passenger's seat. In the ten minutes they'd been in the car, he'd been rude and hateful. He didn't like the dress she was wearing. He didn't like her perfume. He didn't like the gallery. He didn't like cocktail parties and he didn't like wearing a tie.

      She ignored his scowl, and reached for the radio knob.

      "Take your hands off that," he growled.

      She ignored him and twisted the dial until she found some innocuous pop music. He groaned loudly and reached over her hand, fiddling with the tape player.

      Strains of Smashing Pumpkins wafted through the car, and she gritted her teeth.

      "I will not listen to this shit."

      He looked over at her, raising his eyebrow.

      "You won't? Well, love, you're always free to get out."

      He gave her an ugly smirk.

      "And what luck- There's the bus stop."

 

      He'd had enough of her, he had. Dressing him up like a poncy fairy, making him go to a soiree at the gallery tonight. She'd recombed his hair, and smelled his breath for liquor. She'd confiscated his flask.

      She'd made him put on ugly shoes and an even uglier necktie.

      He drew back from his ruminations when he realized she was trying to open the car door- while it was moving.

      "Bloody hell! What are you doing?"

      He slowed suddenly as she wrenched open the door. He was barely quick enough to seize her arm; keeping her inside the car.

      She turned wet blue eyes on him.

      "I'm getting out and walking. Like you said- There's the bus stop."

      He hadn't meant it. And she had to know he hadn't. He was just angry. But he wasn't angry anymore; just ashamed. He'd hurt her feelings again. He seemed to do that a lot these days.

      "I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean it."

      He released her elbow and she slumped back against the seat.

Her lip shaking, her eyes moist, she was a picture of wounded femininity. He felt like a heel.

      "Here. You can listen to your music, okay?"

      He fiddled with the dial, hunting for that crap she liked to listen to.

      "I don't want to anymore."

      Her voice was small, but steely. She was hurt, yes- But she was still angry. Spike felt slightly better. Anger he could work with. He was utterly helpless before tears.

      He switched it off, and reached for her hand.

      "Okay. No music, then. We'll just go on, alright?"

      She released him, and pulled slightly towards the car door. Looking out the windshield she spoke to him.

      "If you don't want to go, you don't have to. I could go alone. It's no big. Or I could call someone else, get someone else to escort me."

      So, she thought she could make him jealous? Managing Bitch.

      Then he realized he was jealous, and he cringed. He was as

pussywhipped as Angelus.

Buffy said Jump, he jumped.

Buffy said, "take out the trash", and he tied up little white trash bags carefully with red twisty ties, and hauled the cans out to the curb every Wednesday morning.

      She said, " You need a tie for Thursday," and he went out and picked one that coordinated with her ugly dress.

      It galled him.

      But the thought of her going anywhere with anyone else was not to be borne. She might be a bitch, yes.  She was also Pushy, Manipulative, and Mouthy-

      But she was his. And he loved her.

      And if he didn't fix things between them soon, it was going to get ugly.

      "Look, love. I'm sorry. I'm not used to being around people, not like this- thing- tonight."

      He tried to catch her eyes, but she wouldn't look at him. He had to make her understand.

      "I mean, the last time I attended anything like this, I ATE the partygoers."

      Her face tightened up, and her spine stiffened.

      "Spike, I don't want to talk about how much you hate humans tonight, okay? If you're going to go with me, you're going to have to cool it. Because otherwise I think I might kill you."

      Her voice was light, but the meaning was clear. Be a good boy, Spike, or else.

      He kept pushing her limits, but he'd yet to find out what "Else" was.

      "I get it. `Mind my p's and q's'. Will do."

      He slid a glimpse over at her as he pulled the car back onto the road.

      "I just hope this whole thing is worth all the trouble."

      She scooted a little closer to him.

      "It is. We're unveiling a new artist tonight. There should be people there from several major L.A. galleries, and I expect some press people, maybe even a news crew. It can't hurt anything, it's free advertising."

      She was being very nonchalant about it all, but he knew her nervousness. It was evident in the tilt of her head, the drumming of her fingers, the shrillness of her voice. This was the first time since her mother died that the Gallery had hosted a major event; Tonight's success or lack thereof would be perceived as a reflection of her business acuity.

      She'd spent most of the afternoon methodically waxing the stairs, and folding laundry. Tonight she'd changed her hairstyle twice, her dress once.

      Her shoes he'd spent an hour trying to locate in the closet, because no other pair would do.

 

      "How do you feel about "The Lion King"?

      Willow waved the videotape before her, and Dawn groaned.

      "Uh- like maybe I'm too old for it?"

      Willow's face fell.

      "Oh."

      It was evident she was disappointed.

      Tara interjected.

      "Will really likes the movie, is all. That whole `Circle of Life' thing, really groovy."

      Her glance at Willow was full of warm affection.

      "Look, if you guys wanna watch it, that's cool. I have stuff I can do. Homeworky-type stuff. You go ahead."

      She smiled at them reassuringly, and waited to see if they believed the smile.

      They did, because Willow reached over to her and squeezed her shoulder.

      "S'okay, Dawn. We've seen it before. It just seemed like something we could all do together."

      Dawn shrugged.

      "You don't have to entertain me. I know you're only here because Glory's out there somewhere, and I can't be left alone, etcetera, etcetera, ad puke. I think Spike had the better idea."

      Willow's forehead crinkled.

      "What idea was that?"

      Dawn gave her blank innocence with her expression.

      "He offered to hire me some hitmen bodyguards. Demon guys he knows from waay back."

      Tara and Willow exchanged wordless disapproval above Dawn's head.

      Tara spoke up.

      "Dawn, about Spike…How are things going with that?"

      Willow jumped in.

      "Umm. Yeah. I mean- We've all kinda wondered. How's Buffy doing with him?"

      Dawn's loyalty to her family warred with concern for her sister. She didn't know how much Buffy was confiding in her friends these days. If she discussed the situation at home with them, would she be betraying a confidence? Buffy hadn't really told her anything, she didn't talk to her about Spike. But living with them, Dawn saw things, heard things. And she was getting worried about her sister.

      "Um. I don't really know if I should discuss them with you guys."

      She realized how bad that sounded.

      "I mean, it's not that I think you'd say anything, or do anything- Cos I don't. I mean, I trust you guys both totally. So does Buffy. Its just-"

Tara tried to be encouraging.

      "It's just that, if Buffy hasn't talked to us about stuff, you don't feel right talking to us about it behind her back."

      Dawn nodded her head.

      Tara took the seat at her side.

      "Dawn, we don't want you to talk about Buffy behind her back. But we're very concerned about her. She's not calling us back, she never wants to go anywhere with us."

      Willow cut in.

      "She never wants us to patrol with her anymore."

      Then Tara continued.

      "And Giles says she hardly speaks to him when she sees him now, that she just goes through the motions, but doesn't really confide in him anymore."

      Dawn shook her head.

      "She's not really talking to anyone. Not about real stuff. Not about Mom, or Dad, or me or Glory."

      Willow's voice dropped to a near whisper.

      "Does she talk about that stuff to Spike?"

      The pain in her words was deep. She felt like Buffy had abandoned her, and the wound was still fresh.

      But Dawn shook her head at that too.

      "No. They don't really talk much. Not since they came back together from L.A. They fight, they make-up, they boink. Then they fight some more."

      "What do they fight about?" asked Tara.

      "Mostly stupid stuff. Like whether Spike used a coaster, and where did she hide his cigarettes. Lately they've been fighting mostly about sex, because  Buffy's always tired or sick anymore."

      "Buffy's sick?" Willow asked hastily.

      Dawn nodded.

      "She thinks she's picked up a bug of some kind, something that Slayer-strength isn't kicking. She's been sleeping more lately, and she's thrown up a few times. A lot of time when she wakes up she feels bad, but she feels better later in the day. No fevers or anything."

      Dawn shrugged her thin shoulders.

      "Spike thinks its cos she works so long at the gallery, and still wants to patrol at night. By the time she's home and done, all she wants to do is go to sleep."

      She made a face.

      "He's been nagging her about it, and the fights get pretty loud sometimes."

      Tara caught Willow's eye above Dawn's head.

      "Why don't you get started on that homework stuff, Dawn. And Willow, I need your help in the kitchen for a sec."

      Together they left the room, and Dawn groaned.

      Why did everyone always treat her like a little kid? It was so obvious Tara wanted to go Talk Buffy to Willow, away from Dawn Ears. Like there was anything she didn't already know by now.

      She could probably curse better than they could.  She probably knew more about sex, at least straight sex, than they did. Buffy wasn't particularly quiet about it, and Spike always spoke to her like an adult, on every subject, even that one.

      She tiptoed to the doorway, and listened carefully through the plaster.

 

      "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

      Tara nodded, and Willow sat down.

      "Oh, this is Bad. This is very bad."

      Tara tried to calm her love.

      "We don't know anything. She could be sick, really. It could be the flu, or whatever."

      Willow was shaking her head back and forth.

      "But its not. I thought about this as soon as they came back from L.A.- When he went home with her. I was thinking, "Okay, he's not dead anymore, I wonder if she'll like him better now." I didn't know they'd already, you know. Made with the mattress mambo. But once it was obvious, I shoulda said something to her. I should have-"

      "But we did! We tried to talk to her about Spike, when he moved in there."

      Willow shook her head.

      "We were trying to talk her out of seeing him, or dating him, or whatever they're doing. But we didn't think Practical stuff, nobody told her-"

      Tara tried again to console her.

      "Sweetie, nobody thought of it because we were all just so shocked. And I kinda thought it'd be over with in a day or so. She'd get sick of him being all bum-like and make him leave."

      Willow was disconsolate.

      "But gee, Tara- Don't you think we shoulda, I don't know- Maybe asked her? Just a little reminder, "Hey, he's not dead now, maybe you should be careful.?"

      Tara took her lover tightly into her arms.

      "Don't worry about it. We don't know anything yet. It might not be that."

      Willow sniffled against her collarbone.

      "But I think it is, Tara. I really think it is."

      Tara kissed her forehead lovingly.

      "Well that's about what she should expect from taking up with a man."

      Willow raised her head up sharply, and Tara smiled down at her.

      "I was kidding, honey. See, you're all serious and weepy. I can't have that."

      She kissed her warmly.

 

      On the other side of the wall, Dawn checked her watch, and hoped the party would be over soon. She really, REALLY needed to talk to Buffy.

 

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 26 "Intervention"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART:26/?

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

did,

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

DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

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

 

 

      This has to work. It's our last chance, and something's gotta give. One way or another, it stops here.

      Xander's thoughts were linear, his resolve firm. The man beside him was even clearer on his motivation, his jaw firm, his mind made up. It didn't matter what it cost him, Giles had a plan to solve The Spike Problem.

      They pulled up in the drive, and climbed out into the noonday sun. Xander pulled a duffel bag from the backseat, and together they mounted the porch steps.

      No one answered the first knock. Or the second. Some ten minutes later, Giles reluctantly brought a key out of his coat pocket and unlocked the deadbolt.

      "I was rather hoping he'd just answer the door," he explained.

      Xander pushed in through the door. Giles followed him in, and shut the door quietly behind, locking it once more.

      There was no sign of their quarry in the living room. Xander looked back at the older man, and found him at the bottom of the stairs, gazing upwards.

      "You think-"

      Giles looked down, and nodded. His body language clearly conveyed his discomfort, but he mounted the steps gamely. Hefting the black duffel, Xander trailed along behind him.

      They found Spike sprawled out in Joyce's bed, sound asleep, his snore reverberating softly in the room.

      " Hey, Evil Notdead…Get Up."

      Xander shook Spike with uncharacteristic roughness. The blonde head lolled on the pillow for some minutes, before it lifted and looked Xander in the eyes.

      "Sod off."

      Giles strode up to the bedside, and Xander moved out of his way. He put a hand on Spike's shoulder and heaved him upward, into a sitting position. The bedsheet gave way, exposing its wearer entirely.

      "Oh dear lord."

      Giles sort of dropped him and looked heavenward.

      "Get dressed and come downstairs. We must speak with you."

 

      "Okay. So I've made out the check to Caritas. I've restocked petty cash, and paid your credit card bill. The phone bill is still due, but until you get us another stub; I can't do anything about that. You really should be more careful, Angel."

      Angel nodded, paying only moderate attention. Cordy was at him about money again.

      "I mean, you're HOW many hundreds of years old? Shouldn't you be a little more responsible now? Like enough to not lose the phone bill?"

      He looked at her from underneath heavy brows.

      "I didn't misplace it. I spilled blood all over it."

      She was taken aback by the disclosure.

      "Oh."

      Collecting herself, she resumed the tirade.

      "Well then, you should be more careful with stuff like that. "

      He went back to ignoring her as he leafed through the mail on her desk. He tried his best to be thorough, yet not obvious, as he hunted for the MasterCard bill. Where the hell was it?

      "And something else, Angel."

      Uh oh. He didn't care for that look on her face.

      "Look, I know it's your personal life, and its none of my business-"

      He arched a brow at her.

      "When did you ever let that stop you?"

      "Don't worry, it won't stop me now either. It's just-"

      She waved at him with the sought-after credit card statement.

      "Honestly Angel- Six hundred dollars at "The fashionable Male". Two hundred dollars on shoes. And what is this with the hundred dollar haircut?"

      She eyed his gelled locks with distaste.

      "It doesn't look that good."

      She stepped from behind the desk, a look of understanding in her eyes.

      "I know how hard it is to live within your means. But Angel, we need to have a talk."

      She took up a sheaf of small paper slips off the desktop.

      "These are called "Coupons". They're what the rest of the world uses to save cash, okay? And some of them are pretty darn nifty. Lookie- Your Italian shoes? I could have got them here for 10% off your total purchase."

      She waggled a coupon at him.

      "Maybe if you could learn to live like the rest of us mortals, you could afford to give me a raise."

      "Cordelia, you have an expense account and use of a company car. You don't need a raise. I even pay for your manicures and your haircolor-"

      "I do not color my hair!"

      He glared at her and she sniffed.

      "It's just highlights."

      She sighed at him again.

      "Will you just try this? I've clipped coupons for all your favorite stores, and I've got repeat customer cards for your hairdresser. Will you just try this, and see how much money you save?"

      He looked at her dubiously. Every since she'd gone to work in his office, she'd acquired a passion for saving money. It meant nothing to him, but to her, wasted money was somehow sinful. His over expenditure on the credit card bothered her on a deeply personal level.

      "Look, most normal humans are a LITTLE concerned about money. Just try to think of it as practicing."

      He didn't follow.

      "Practicing for what?"

      She rolled her eyes at him.

      "For Shanshu, silly. For when you get to be Human Again, remember?"

      His gaze dropped, along with his heart.

      "Oh. That."

 

      Spike trudged down the stairs, and into the living room, garbed in black jeans and a t-shirt with what looked like moth-holes eaten through it. Surveying the room's two occupants, his eyes narrowed, and his guard went up.

      "What d'you want?"

      They were standing in the living room, lying in wait for him. He tensed automatically. The last time he'd seen Xander, he'd been tossing him out of the Magic Shop into the daylight. The last time he'd seen Giles, he'd been exposed to that time honored tradition; the cut-direct.

      He didn't know people still did that. Surprisingly, the whole cold shoulder bit was as painful now as it had been in his youth.

      He looked back and forth, studying his foes. Xander seemed keyed-up, antsy. Giles was deathly calm, his eyes bright with something. Anger? Anticipation?

      Best to find out now.

      He got an ashtray and a beer, and sat down with them in a chair.

      "Well, you're here. I'm here. Get on with it."

      Giles looked at Xander, and nodded. The boy placed the duffle on the coffee table. The only sound in the room was the metallic zing as he unzipped it, and then stepped away.

      Giles eyes and voice were ice, as he addressed Spike.

      "In this bag is one hundred thousand dollars in cash. It is all that I have saved, everything in my retirement fund, and what equity I have in the store."

      He paused, searching Spike's face for some sign he understood where this was going, before continuing.

      "It's yours, if you'll leave Sunnydale, and Buffy, for good."

 

      Spike choked on his cigarette smoke. Whatever he'd expected, this was definitely not it.

      Then anger began to grow in him. Rather than letting it out in the form of some nice physical violence, he chose to vent verbally.

      "So mate; that's all the Watchers Council give you?"

      His cigarette gestured toward the bag.

      "What, no IRA, no 401K? Poncy buggers work you your whole life, and that's all you have to show for it?"

      He scoffed.

      "I guess you'll be really needing that social security, now, won't you?"

      His voice was full of the derision and disgust he felt so fiercely. He deliberately goaded the watcher, leading him onward with barbs and slurs.

      "Always knew you lot were a bunch of cheap bastards. Still,"

Here he took a thoughtful puff of smoke, considering.

      "You'd think they could afford better. `Specially what with what they must save in not having to pay retirement for slayers `n all."

      He stopped a moment.

      "Hey, you blokes don't even pay her a salary, do you? That's right stingy, you know? Send a girl to save the world, bust her bum for a decade and then get popped off in combat- and you lot don't even offer minimum wage or a healthcare package."

      He shook his head sadly.

      "Shame about that, though, really. If your Watchers' Council actually paid her a living, she might not be out hawking pottery and picture frames."

      Giles sighed wearily.

      "Spike, this is not about Buffy."

      Spike narrowed his eyes.

      "Yeah, it is. You're trying to buy her."

      The watcher shook his head.

      "No, Spike. I'm trying to save her. I'm trying to remove a destructive influence in her life, before things get any more difficult."

      "You call it what you like. But I'm not leaving, and the slayer's not up for bids."

      He stood, picking the bag up and throwing it at Xander.

      "You can take your bribe and go now, Watcher. You're done here."

      Giles was angry now. He'd been so certain this would work.

      "You're destroying her, you know that, don't you? Every day she's with you, a little piece of her spirit dies. Buffy is a good, moral, decent person. You are decidedly none of those things. She compromises herself just by associating with you."

      The old man was up in his face, now.

      "I'll not let you ruin everything that is good in her. You'll end this, now. I want you out of her life."

      His voice was sharp enough to slice glass.

      "You take that money and go."

      Spike snarled at Giles.

      "What d' you think the Slayer would think about your little offer?"

      Giles leveled a gaze at him.

      "You won't tell her. And she wouldn't believe you if you did."

      He paused briefly, then in the calmest, most mild mannered tone, he continued.

      "If you refuse me, I shall find alternative means to remove you. I think there's money enough for that."

      Spike sucked in his breath. He didn't know the old man had it in him.

      "What, you'll have me killed?"

      Giles smiled a Ripper smile, perfectly at ease.

      "Would that I could do it myself."

      He turned to Xander, who had grown increasingly pale during the conversation.

      "Come. I think Spike needs more time to contemplate our offer."

      He moved to leave, the bag still on the table.

      "You leave that here, I'll burn it. I swear I will."

      Giles turned in the doorway, studying him.

      "Yes, I believe you would."

      He motioned to Xander.

      "Get the bag."

      The boy complied, bridling visibly under Spike's withering gaze.

      "You make a good lackey, boy," he said derisively.

      "Shut up. I'll be back to talk to you later."

      He meant to sound threatening, but he wasn't quite successful.

      To Giles, Spike directed another question.

      "You didn't honestly think I'd take it, did you?"

      The older man glanced over at him dismissively.

      "Yes, Spike. I really did."

 

      Angel knew something was up right away.

      Cordelia was being too sweet. She'd complemented his hairstyle and she'd served him warm blood in crystal. She'd pretended to be interested in his conversation, and she had yet to roll her eyes at him.

      Gunn paced nervously around the room, occasionally looking at his watch.

      Finally, Wesley entered, and the tension in the room became even more heightened.

      What the hell was going on here?

      "Good evening, Angel."

      Wes was all politeness, but Angel could see something lurking in those bright eyes, some glint of purpose. Something was going down here tonight, at Wesley's instigation.

      "Evening to you, Wesley," he drawled.

      "How's it going?"

      Wes took a deep breath.

      "Actually, Angel, that's what we wanted to talk to you about."

      Cordy interrupted suddenly.

      "We know about your girlfriend, Angel."

      Huh?

      She went to her purse, and pulled out papers. She then walked over to him and chucked them into his lap.

      "You leased a "love nest", on Divisadero, a one bedroom artist's loft with a view."

      "Swanky neighborhood," chimed in Gunn.

      She continued.

      "You bought two tickets for La Boheme last week, balcony seats. You've run up an account at Llanii; for fresh flowers. Roses and delphiniums, mostly. You spent sixteen hundred dollars in Fantine's for engraved jewelry."

      Here she stopped and wrinkled her nose in distaste.

      "They wouldn't tell me exactly what you bought. But I did get hold of the order slip for the engraving."

      She produced a rumpled carbon, and read aloud,

      Quote:

      " to L, who understands."

      She tossed this slip at him as well, and put her hands upon her hips as she stared him down.

      "Are you trying to say that we don't? Understand? Because I have to tell you, I think that-"

      Wesley stilled her tirade with a gentle hand placed upon her arm.

      "That's enough, Cordelia."

      She stepped back, clearly annoyed.

      "Pray take over for me then, Wesley. You go right ahead."

      The soft, kindly eyes sought his own.

      "Angel, we realize how hard this past year has been on you."

      Oh, yes, Wes, I'm sure you think you do, thought Angel impatiently.

      His friend continued.

      "But I don't think you've stopped to consider the seriousness of your actions."

      Gunn shook his head at him then.

      "Man, you just got through that mess with that Darla woman. You don't have it in you to get with some other chick right now. You'll hurt her. You're just reboundin', and that ain't no good for no woman."

      Wesley was more direct.

      "And have you given thought to the possible consequences?"

      He looked so disturbed, that Angel thought momentarily of trying to put him at ease. Then he looked at the order form in his hand, coated in cigarette ash and tinged at the edge with what looked to be mustard. She'd been so desperate to convict him that she'd pawed through the jewelry store's trashcan. It was obscene, and he felt angry and violated. They were his friends, and yet they'd spied on him and followed him as if he were another case.

      He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms across his chest.

      "What consequences?" he asked.

      Wesley shook his head wearily.

      "Angel, you know that you run the risk of Angelus every time you allow yourself that sort of joy. A romantic relationship is DANGEROUS for you, because it risks unleashing the demon again."

      Wesley was genuinely hurt now, and a little scared. It showed in the fierceness of his expression, and the desperation of his eyes. Angel ignored the urge to soothe, in favor of the need to rub their noses in his triumph. They were worried about Lindsay. They need not have been. He'd made a beautiful child, strong and powerful; made in his own image, a soulled creature like himself.

Maybe he should introduce them.

He smiled at the thought, and that smile unnerved the other men in the room. Cordelia, still pouting, missed the exchange of glances, and so was unprepared for what happened next.

Angel threw back his head and laughed, a long loud laugh that echoed in the tiny office.

"Dude, this is not funny. This is your SOUL we are talkin' about. It ain't like you can run down to the Thornton's and pick up another when you lose this one."

The mirth was unstoppable, now. He laughed so hard his sides ached with it.

" Angel, I do not see this situation as humorous."

He struggled to regain control of himself.

      "You are so wrong. So very wrong. You are so off base it's a joke."

A mortal lover. As if he'd ever take another after Buffy.

He got slowly out of his chair, and moved toward the door.

"Where are you going?" demanded Cordy.

      "You're such great snoops, you figure it out." He said.

 

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 27 "Trojan Horse"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART:27/?

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

did,

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

DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

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

 

 

      They'd discussed the idea at length, well into this morning. Angel was at first violently opposed to the idea, even going so far as to forbid it entirely.

      But even he knew they needed the files. Wolfram and Hart possessed information that could be crucial to understanding his birth. Lindsay was convinced of this, and determined to get that information. If this was the only way he could do it, so be it. Lilah was a soulless bitch anyway, no more human than he was; less so, in many ways.

      He consoled himself with this thought as he pushed the button for her floor.

      In his head, he heard his master's voice.

      "If it doesn't work, boy, you know what you have to do."

      He felt for the wood in his jacket.

      Angel hated this whole plan, but Lindsay had been persuasive. Angel wanted to be up here, taking the chance. But there was No Way On Earth Lilah would ever invite Angel across her threshold.

      Lindsay cherished a faint hope she still might invite HIM in.

      Her door loomed before him now, dark wood with an ornate gold lockset and knob, and a peephole. He raised his eyes to it and gave the best performance he was capable of.

      His shoulders slumped. His mouth drooped at the edge. His hair was unruly, his clothes rumpled. Together he and Angel had carefully doused him in beer before he entered the building.

      She had to buy this. She had to.

      His mouth was dry with fear of what would happen if she didn't.

      His hand pressed the bell.

      She opened the door, her eyes guarded and wary.

      "Lindsay. What a surprise. I thought you'd be dead by now."

      He gave her a drunken grin.

      "I'm workin' on it."

      Her eyes darted left and right, taking in the empty hallway.

      "Shouldn't you be running by now? They let you go two weeks ago. If the hitters haven't caught up with you yet, they're bound to be close by now."

      She smiled cruelly.

      "And I'd really hate it if they blow your brains all over the wainscoting."

      He adopted a hangdog expression. She'd had a fondness for him once, long ago, when they'd first gone to work together. He tried to play on it, hoping against hope there was still some shred of warmth in there for him.

      She shut the door in his face.

      Damn.

      He slumped up against the door. Time for a new tactic.

      "Lilah! LILAH!"

      His fists smacked the door loudly.

      "Open the door, Lilah!"

      Then he changed his tone, demanding turning to beseeching. But loudly beseeching. Surely her neighbors could hear him by now.

      "Please, Lilah. Open up."

      She was still ignoring him.

      He leaned over, smacking his head against the door again.

      "Shit. I think I'm gonna be sick."

      He said this loudly, and the door flew open. He felt his hair tingle as it contacted the invisible barrier between them. He drew back, into a crouching position, looking up at her pathetically. Hers was the face of the supremely pissed off.

      He smiled up at her, drunken and sickly like.

      "Hi Lilah."

      She rolled her eyes at him.

      "Get in here before somebody sees you. And if you throw up on anything I will throw you off the balcony. Got it?"

      `Guess that suffices for an invitation', he thought.

      He stumbled in on his hands and knees.

 

 

      "We just want to ask you some questions, Merle, please. We'll pay amply for the information, I assure you."

      Wesley stood before Cordelia, his hands out in a placating gesture. He wasn't entirely sure what had happened, but something was terribly wrong here.

      Across from him, Merle the informant stood clutching a sawed off shotgun, pointing the business end their way. There were sweat beads on his forehead, and his hands shook alarmingly.

      "Look, I don't want no trouble."

      He gestured with the rifle towards the open door behind them.

      "You two go right back out that door you came in through, and go tell your vampire I don't want nothin' to do with him or his clan. You got me? Nothing. Ain't no amount of money worth my skin, pal. No money worth it."

      "We will do just that, Merle. We want no trouble either. But we do want to know who it is that's frightened you so. Perhaps we can help-"

      His laugh was thin and high pitched.

      "Oh man, that is a joke. You help me. Funny one. You'll prolly be dead in a day or so anyway."

      Behind Wesley, Cordelia was growing gradually more angry. The day wasn't going well for her so far. Angel'd refused to answer the phone last night, and this morning. Gunn had gone in to have his stitches out, and whined the whole way to the doctor's office like a baby. He was currently home sleeping off the sedative they'd had to give him there.

      Wesley had been late picking her up, and consequently she'd missed her hair appointment. She had no idea when Lance might could fit her in again, and her highlights were getting coppery.

      Now this dweeb was pointing a gun at them and making all kinds of dire predictions, without really telling them anything.

She'd had just about enough.

      She elbowed Protective-Wesley out of her way, and rushed the demon.

      Thank heaven for those self defense courses she'd been taking.

      The way his hands were shaking it didn't take long; shortly she had him disarmed. She held the gun on him while Wes restrained him with rope.

      "I knew you people were no better'n he was. Tying people up, invading people's homes…"

      His nasal whine grated on Cordelia's already frayed nerves.

      "Shut up. You don't  get to talk til we tell you to. Right, Wesley?"

      He regarded her deferentially.

      "Oh. Yes. Quite right, Merle. Unless we ask you to, you need not speak right now."

      As he leaned in to tighten the ropes, he whispered in his ear.

      "Sorry old man, she's in a dreadful mood this morning. Please be careful," and smiled at the prisoner apologetically.

      The prisoner squirmed in his chair, ropes tightening against him as he moved. Seeing this, he made a face, then sagged back against the seat, defeated.

      "All right. I'll talk. What do you wanna know?"

      Cordy giggled. She couldn't help it. He just sounded like something out of a bad mob movie.

      His annoyed expression emphasized that he didn't share her sense of humor. She cleared her throat, and got businesslike.

      "Okay. Let's just start with the questions we CAME here to ask you."

      He expression brightened slightly.

      "Will I still get paid?"

      Wes interrupted, irritation in his words.

      "Yes, you'll be paid the usual rate. Firstly, What can you tell us about the attack on Caritas?"

      He sighed.

      "Look. I wasn't there. I didn't have nothing to do with it-"

      Cordy sat down on his tv set, perching precariously.

      "Hey! Don't do that! You're gonna make it tip over!"

      She aimed the gun back at him.

      "Wesley, Why can't I shoot him now?"

      In a patient voice he answered her.

      "Because he hasn't answered all our questions yet, Cordelia."

      Yes, but he'd insinuated she was fat. Grounds for a bullet wound if ever she'd heard any.

      She looked daggers at the demon, and scooted back in her makeshift seat.

      "We KNOW you didn't do the hit on Caritas. We saw the shooters. Humans, mostly."

      She tossed her hair and fliply continued.

      "Besides, you're not smart enough to pull off something big time."

      He took umbrage to that.

      "Hey, I'm VERY big time. I'll have you know I coulda done it, without leavin'  all those witnesses, I coulda-"

      She waved him down with one hand.

      "Enough of that. Okay, you're the big bad, yada yada…Can we move on now? What do you know about Caritas?"

      He sighed.

      "Look, it was on the street for a few days before it came down, that there was gonna be a major thing coming down. Caritas was just bad luck, bad timing."

      His gaze was leveled at Cordy.

      "They were after your boss, and anyone with him."

      Then he shrugged.

      "Caritas was just the place, all those people, just in the way."

      He looked sad for a minute.

      "Hate that. Nice place it was, you could go there, have a few drinks, sing a few songs…"

      She cut him off.

      "Sorry about you losing your beer joint."

      She smiled breezily.

      "But moving right along, what else do you know? Who ordered the hit? Who took it? Is it still out there, is somebody still-"

      The demon was nodding his head.

      " – Gunning for Angel. Yeah, it's still on. One of your guys is supposed to have whacked all their knights, so the money's back on the street looking for a new taker. But the hits out there, everybody knows about it."

      The look in his eyes was chilling, as he added,

      "If I were you guys, I'd hightail it out of L.A. and stay real far away from Angel. The deal is for himself, and his kin. You don't wanna get mistaken for his kin."

 

      It had gone so easily. She'd never even suspected him, not for a moment.

      He'd come on to her, drunkenly groping. And as she flinched from him, he'd seized her, pulling her close to him. Her knee was fast, but not that fast. He dodged it even as he brought her neck to his mouth, his fangs descending, piercing the skin, and ripping it in his haste.

      The blood flowed into his mouth, a hot red liquor that he'd not experienced since his turning. She tasted like sex and power, her skin was like stroking silk. Her initial struggles only served to fan his ardor, and he pressed himself against her, damning the layers of fabric in his way.

      Once, a long time ago, she'd been innocent. There were still traces of it within her, hints of purity in her blood. He saw glimpses as he drank, scenes from a life sold for affluence and influence.

      He saw her childhood, scenes so idyllic they made his heart hurt. He saw her graduation from law school. How idealistic she'd been. Full of the very best intentions, she'd wanted to right all the wrongs, to better the world.

      He saw her initiation into the firm, and felt blessed. She'd been a virgin sacrifice. Some hideous demon had known her body before he took her soul. The image made Lindsay shudder. The fear and pain of her experience made him want to weep.

      She moaned under his mouth, and he felt the tremors shake her body. The pleasure of the draining could be intense; he knew that. He caressed her , soothing as he fed.

      He felt her heart waning, and pulled himself free. His yellow eyes sought her gaze.

      " If I could give you back your soul, would you want it?"

      She lay limp in his arms, too weak to move or speak. Damn. He should have asked her sooner.

      He took the penknife from his pocket, bumping the stake alongside it with his hand. Pray God he would not need it.

      Then he sliced his collarbone, and dropped the knife. He ran his fingers through the blood, and showed her his hands.

      Her eyes grew wide; she knew what he was doing.

      He wiped the blood on her lips, and inserted his finger into her mouth. She slowly sucked at it, first gently, then more insistently.

      He seized the back of her head, and brought her mouth to his neck. She slurped at him desperately, greedily.

      He buried his fangs back into her neck, and the pleasure was tenfold, as the blood closed the circle, flowing in both directions.

      The sagged to the floor together, in a heap.