TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #36 "Favor"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 36/?

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@a...

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

Giles watched carefully while his slayer trained. It had been weeks since he'd seen her like this, and her appearance disturbed him greatly. Her thin arms, her nonexistent breasts, her collarbones sharp as glass under the fragile, sallow skin. She looked like hell, and he was frightened for her.

He held that creature responsible. Spike. The name was anathema. His mouth turned into a hard line as he thought of him.

If Buffy wasn't focusing so much attention on her `lover' then perhaps she would devote more of it to her own care, and Dawn's.

"You're dropping your left, Buffy." He spoke tentatively to her. His suggestions lately had been met with dark looks and hurt feelings.

She slumped against the wall, and slid down it. He walked over to her, and squatted down alongside.

"I'm out of shape, Giles. And I'm too tired to train."

He considered his words a moment before responding.

"Yes, well, I imagine you're overexerting yourself. Between slaying, the gallery, and everything else.."

She seemed as if she wanted to say something. But she'd been like this a lot, recently, and yet had not been forthcoming.

He dropped his voice, making his words soft, trying to convey with them that she was safe, that she was loved.

"Please, Buffy. Won't you tell me what's wrong?"

She shook her head, and stood up. He followed her out of the training room.

In the front room of the store, she sat down at the big table, and pulled a diet coke from her purse, along with a granola bar. She chewed it halfheartedly, then tossed most of it into the trash.

Giles sat down next to her.

"Buffy, your mother would not want to see you like this. We both know that. You are so pale, so thin..."

His words trailed off, but she took his meaning. Everyone had been on at her for months about the weight she'd lost. It was nothing new.

"I'm okay, Giles. Tired, but that's no big. Tired happens."

She thought about the baby, and how very sleepy she was these days. Her doctor said it was normal to be tired like this.

Giles had changed subjects on her, while she was not listening. He was going on about Glory, now.

"- so it seems she's concentrating her efforts in L.A. still. She presumes the key to be there, since she felt it through Ben, I suppose. Cordelia faxed me some figures I find very troubling."

"I don't want to hear about Glory," Buffy remarked, acidly.

"Buffy, surely we have a responsibility to those poor people.

Every day we wait, she harms someone else."

Buffy turned a vacant stare on her watcher.

"And I'm supposed to do what, exactly? Go up there and tell her to stop? THINK, Giles. I can't stop her. All I can do is keep Dawn away from her until her time runs out. Ben said she's on a schedule. I just have to wait her out."

"And while you wait? Every day, she drives another human being mad. Imagine the suffering, Buffy. She's ripping homes, families, apart. She's destroying lives, as surely as if she'd killed those people."

"I can't worry about that right now, Giles. It is Not My Problem. I have responsibilities here, responsibilities that don't include getting myself killed."

His voice held awe, as he responded.

"You're afraid of her."

Buffy looked at him like he was a moron.

"Uh- Yeah? I am."

He shook his head.

"I understand that, Buffy, better than you know. But you have an obligation to protect those people."

He played on her weakness.

"You love your sister, I know that. But think about all the sisters she's hurting out there. You've lost your mother, do you really want that for someone else? When you might be able to prevent it?"

She exploded at him.

"You know what obligations I have? I'm obligated to take care of Dawn. I'm obligated to take care of me. I'm obligated to take care of my baby. That is all the obligations I intend to have, anymore. I've saved the world enough times- Let somebody else go do it for a change."

His mouth hung slightly open, and she realized she'd let it slip.

He sputtered.

"Y-Y-Your BABY?"

She sank back down beside him.

"I'm about seven weeks pregnant, Giles. I'm having a baby."

He just blinked at her.

She sighed.

"That's why I'm not going back to L.A. Cordy called me, Angel called me...You know what? I just can't seem to summon up enough energy to care. I feel bad for those people, I really do. But I can't risk it."

She laughed hollowly.

"It's hard enough going out on patrol every night. You don't know the fear, Giles. I've never been afraid like this before. But suddenly every stumbling newborn vampire looks is as intimidating as Angelus. All I want to do is go home and hide, tell Spike to bar the door and get the shotgun."

She saw the disapproval in his eyes, the look he got whenever she mentioned Spike's name.

"Giles, he's been going out on my rounds with me. Sometimes he even goes for me. I'm so tired and so scared, he thinks I'll make a mistake, get us both killed."

"And how does Spike feel about impending parenthood?"

He spit the name out like a dirty word.

She smiled at him, a look of affection in her eyes as she thought about Spike.

"He's coming around."

"What, you think all of a sudden that the Watcher's Council is the Ultimate Authority on Vampire Mythlore?"

Angel was angry. Wesley had been poring over texts for hours, with no end yet in sight. And he'd found nothing to go on. But the final straw had been when he'd delicately enquired if maybe there WASN"T anything to go on.

"So you think if the COW doesn't know about Lilah and Lindsay, then they just go away? They aren't an issue anymore? These people are my family, Wesley. I need that information."

He sighed.

"Maybe they'll come up with something on their own."

It certainly didn't look as if HIS connections were getting them anywhere.

Lilah poked her head around the door.

"Hate to interrupt your tirade, Angel. But you've got a phone call on line 2?"

She shot a look at Cordy who gave her an innocent shrug.

"My nails are wet," she explained.

Lilah rolled her eyes, but she let it drop. Angel went to the phone, and clicked over to his private line.

"Hello?" he said.

"S'me, Peaches. How's unlife treatin' you?"

Angel felt the corners of his mouth crack into a rare, honest grin.

"William! Glad you called. It's not bad on my end. Right now, anyway... How are things on yours?"

His voice was jovial, but there was real concern in his heart. He'd been very worried about Spike. He had not heard from him directly since he'd left the hotel that morning. Angel had wondered if he'd ever hear from his boy again.

"It's okay."

Angel crinkled up his forehead. Something wasn't right with that tone of voice.

"Spike, what is it? What's going on?"

Spike leaned his head up against the wallpaper, drinking in the sound of his Sire's voice. It's rich tones still felt like home to him, even now. He measured his words carefully. He needed a favor from Angelus, and he wasn't quite sure how to go about getting it.

He opted for Restrained Honesty. It seemed the least likely method to get him into further trouble.

"Actually, Angel, things're a little bit complicated right now. But I'll handle it... I could use a bit of a favor from you, however- if you're up to it."

Angel hesitated. Favors for Spike usually involved a goodly amount of money, in either direct -purchase form, or in the fashion of a bribe.

"How much do you need, and who am I supposed to pay off?"

He sounded tired, he knew that. But it was part of the ritual. When enacting the role of the Pater Familias, he tended to go all hangdog. It was expected of him.

"S'nothing like that, Angel. Well, not so much."

Spike's pride was withering, but he stuck it out. Pride was an expensive commodity, one his family couldn't really afford right now. The gallery was doing okay, but he needed to plan ahead. He needed to get things in order. Angel could be excellent in that capacity.

Spike swallowed back his independence and made his request.

"I need documents, Angel, as valid as you can make them. I know you have connections that can do it for me."

He lowered his voice respectfully.

" I really need your help with this."

On his end Angel nodded as he answered.

"Yes, I can put you in touch with the right people for that. But I don't understand why you need me, Spike. Fake Ids can be had much cheaper in Sunnydale than L. A."

He paused for a beat, then added,

"Or did Buffy stake all your underworld buddies."

Ha ha. Funny man. Let him laugh, fine. Just so long as he gets me a legal identity, thought Spike.

"I need better stuff, Angel. Like I said, I want papers as authentic as possible, with my real name, and my real birthday, if not the right birth year. It needs to hold water in any court of law. And I want the facts as close to the truth as I can reasonably get them.

Can you get me that, Angel? Is it possible?"

Angel tried to fathom what his grandchilde was up to. He racked his brain, but came up empty.

"What's going on, Spike?'

His answer was a frustrated sigh on the other end of the phone.

"I don't want to go into it over the phone, Angel. Look, can you hook me up with the stuff or not?"

"Are you in some kind of trouble with the law?"

Spike groaned loudly.

"No. It's nothing like that, really. Well, Giles did try to deport me recently, but nothing's come of it yet. Hopefully nothing will. But this is something else entirely."

"Then what the hell do you want them for? I'll get them for you, but what do you want with them?"

"It's personal, Angel. Look, I'll talk to you about it when I see you next, all right?"

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #37 "Prophecy"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 37/?

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.

"They keep referencing something called the millennium prophecy. I've never heard of it before, but it's on countless documents and filenames. It encompasses everything from ten shipments of sacrificial goats, to the expense account for Harmony's stay at the Radisson. I keep running into it all over the records, the paper trail is huge. But, as I've said- I've no idea what it refers to."

She looked over at the scholar.

"Wesley, what do you think? Does this ring any bells for you?"

He shook his head disappointedly.

"Sadly, no. I've never encountered anything by that title in my research. It could be something I've never seen- Or it could be another name for any number of prophecies."

Cordy cut in.

"Don't you guys think it's a little bit weird? I mean, shouldn't a `Millennium Prophecy' be, I don't know- About the new millennium? And aren't they like a year and a half late now?"

Wesley interrupted.

"Actually, Cordelia, the new millennium began January the first, of THIS year. And a `millennium' prophecy might pertain to any number of things. It need not even be this particular millennium, truthfully."

Cordy's shoulders slumped.

"It's okay, C. We'll figure it out." Said Gunn, patting her shoulder.

Angel had been sitting silently throughout the meeting, looking out the window at nothing. Now he raised his head.

"There's nothing else to be done."

His voice was firm. Lindsay sighed in response, and wearily got to his feet.

"I'll do it."

"What? What are you proposing?" asked Lilah.

Lindsay answered her.

"Someone's going to have to get inside the building, physically, and get into the library archives. Whatever that prophecy is, it's probably in a book or a scroll or something, in the archives. We need access to it, and that means one of us has to go in there and somehow smuggle the information back out."

Lilah was suddenly upon him, her arms out.

"Lindsay, the minute you set foot in there, the vamp detectors will go off. They'll have staked guards on you in minutes. The very least you can expect is capture."

She didn't mention the unspoken truth of the matter that anyone they sent in might likely not come back out alive. If Lindsay got the information, he'd have to send it out to them, via fax, phone, or email. There was no way he'd be coming back out undusted.

Lindsay nodded, excitement creeping into his face.

"I don't know, Lilah. I've been wanting to test my new limits. I'd sorta welcome the chance to go one on one with some of the staff."

"Why not one of us? We won't set off the detectors, at least," commented Gunn.

Angel shook his head

"They've got all of you on videotape, now. The guards all know your faces, you'd never even get inside. It will have to be someone with security clearance. Lilah still has that, for now, and Lindsay might be able to still get inside the building, at least, on his familiarity with their system. You guys would be toast."

Then he brightened, slightly.

"But I might know someone they've never seen, who might can get in."

"Who?" asked Cordy.

"Yes, Angel. Who do you have in mind?" said Wesley.

Angel smiled softly.

"I've got to call and ask him, first."

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #38 "Correct forms of Address"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 38/?

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.

"There's a package for you on the kitchen table."

Spike laid his jacket over the back of the sofa, unlacing his tie as he followed Dawn's voice into the kitchen.

"What is it?" he asked.

She shrugged at him, as she fished a coke from the fridge.

" I don't know. Do I look like your secretary? Besides, I don't open your mail. Just Buffy's."

She plopped herself down in a kitchen chair, and opened a bag of Fritos and the canned soft drink.

Spike picked up the fed ex box. Angel'd been right prompt, he had. Only three days since he'd asked him about the papers, and here they were.

He tore the box open and slid out a large manila envelope.

Dawn watched him with undisguised curiosity.

"Whatcha get?" she asked.

He looked up at her, smiling wickedly.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

He sat down, opening the envelope carefully. He slid the papers free, and looked them over.

Birth certificate for William Anthony Walthrop VI. Born to William Anthony Walthrop V and Elisa Walthrop on April 18, 1975.

He noted with pleasure that the birth itself was untraceable; the London hospital listed had burned to the ground in '77.

A baptismal certificate for the same year. O levels, driver's permit, green card....

Angel had been extremely thorough. He wondered what this box of fiction had cost.

A folded sheet fell from the sheaf of papers, and he picked it up. It was good stationery, and he recognized the handwriting immediately.

As he read, his eyes grew moist. He got up from the table and walked out, leaving Dawn perplexed behind him.

She picked up the dropped letter, and read.

"Spike. Here are your papers. I've tried to be as accurate as possible with them, as you asked. Should anyone contact your high school, they will find detailed records of your time there. Should your ancestry be questioned, it's a matter of public record in the Peerages. Should someone investigate you, they will find no shortage of people willing to say that they know you, attended school with you, and remember you fondly.

If you decide to go home, you will find that your title has been restored and your ancestral home purchased. The line died out with your turning. It was not difficult to change that, from a records standpoint. Enough money can do just about anything.

In short, you have everything we took from you that could be returned. I know it's more than you asked for. But it made me feel better- If things don't work out here in the U.S., you have somewhere to go. Your family home is in appalling condition. It was sold several times, and no work has been done there in the last fifty years. I'm sorry to say the surrounding grounds were surrendered to

the Crown to pay taxes. But the house still stands, and if you chose to do so, you could make a life for yourself there. I've opened an account at Lloyds' in your name, and transferred a respectable sum into it. You are neither without friends, or resources.

I love you,

Angel "

Title? House? Her head was full of questions. She got up from the table, and went out into the living room.

She found Spike standing at the window, looking out. Tears streaked his cheeks, and his two-toned hair was in disarray, where he'd clawed at it.

She put a hand on his shoulder.

"This is good, right? I mean, Angel tried to help you out. I don't think he meant for it to hurt you."

Spike sighed, and turned to her. Then he smiled wanly.

"No, love. He had the very best intentions. It's just too much, is all. My house. My name. You can't possibly understand what that means to me."

He took her hand.

"Come with me outside. I think I need a cigarette."

She followed him, and together they sat down on the porch. She watched him light his fag with trembling fingers.

"I knew he'd come through for me, I just had no idea he'd do all of this."

There was wonder in his tone.

Dawn thought quietly for a moment.

"So, does this mean you're Lord Whatsis, or something, now?"

He chuckled.

"No, love. In England, thanks to the maneuverings of Angel, I'm Sir Whatsis. Or Sir William, actually. A baronet is not even really a peer."

She looked even more confused.

"Never mind, love. Besides, I'm in America. You lot don't use titles."

She smiled again, brilliantly.

"I like it. `Sir Spike.' It's cool."

He grinned back at her.

"Yeah, it is, innit?"

She looked him over, taking in his disheveled appearance. His "work clothes", as he called them- grey slacks, blue shirt, black tie. All a little wrinkled. His hair, rather shaggy around his face, in two shades. Dark blonde at the roots, white at the ends.

She reached over and smoothed the untidy curls around his face.

"You need a haircut, Sir Spike."

He considered a moment, running his free hand over the top of his head.

"You're right. I do. Want to ride over to the Barber shop with me?"

She nodded, getting to her feet.

"I'll run get my purse. Can I go in the drugstore while you're in there? There's a magazine I want to pick up."

"Yeah, sure. Just the one across the street, though. I don't want you out of my sight too long."

"You'll never even know I'm gone, word of honor," she promised.

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #39 "Attack"

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 39/?

RATING: R (for the 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.

"A little off the sides, too, please."

The man with the clippers snipped and sheared, and Spike kept his eyes trained on the storefront across the street.

She'd been in there too long, already. A knot was growing in his gut, larger every second that passed without her walking out the door of the drugstore.

"There you go."

The barber swiveled the chair, and Spike took a look at himself.

Dark blonde curls fell forward across his forehead. The rest of his hair seemed lighter, sheared close against his scalp.

He looked more like William than he had in quite some time.

"Thanks, mate."

He pressed a twenty into the old man's hand, and grabbed his brown leather jacket off the coat rack. Then he hurried outside, and crossed the street.

`She's probably just looking at magazines. She gets into those teen things- Tiger beat, what all. Probly lost track o' time, that's all."

He attempted to reassure himself with these thoughts as he walked the aisles of the store.

She wasn't in the magazine aisle, however. Nor did he find her in the hair care products. Or the makeup section.

He did each aisle twice, with no luck, encountering no one else in the store.

He headed back to the front, looking for a cashier to question, but there was no one at the front desk either.

Skin prickling, sweat broke out on his forehead. This was not right, the building was too quiet....

He wished for a weapon. Damn, but he was going to have to get a concealed carry permit.

`Think, mate. If you were the Nibblet, and something bad went down in here, what would you do?'

She'd hide. She'd hide if she couldn't get out. She'd hide and wait for him.

But where would she hide?

A whistling noise to his left alerted him, and he stepped to the side just quickly enough to avoid the down stroke of a broadsword.

He took in the bloody chain mail before him with drowning hopes.

"Eh, mate? I think you wandered out of your century." He quipped.

The knight charged at him once more, and he moved away, his eyes darting about. He needed a weapon. His hand raked the counter as he moved, and he came up with a tester bottle of hairspray.

He sprayed it in the knight's face, and he staggered back. Spike ran down aisle six.

"Nibblet! Nibblet where are you?"

He tore into the back of the building, and his gut roiled at the carnage.

Apparently they'd slaughtered the customers. Four bodies, in bits, littered the "Employees only" room. One of them still wore the smock of an employee, and a nametag that said "I'm SARAH, welcome to Revco!" Two other knights, equally bloody to the third, were wiping their swords on rags as he entered. Two men in business suits raised guns at him.

"Sorry, mates, not my party." He said, backing out.

She wasn't among the bodies, he knew that. So she had to be hiding, somewhere...

The men's room was to his right, the ladies room next to it. He kicked the door open, listening intently, and lamenting the loss of a vampire's sense of smell.

Nothing. He moved farther in, wary. Behind him he could hear the knights, clanging chain mail in the hall.

He looked under the stall, and saw nothing there.

"Nibblet?" he whispered frantically.

"In here!" her whisper-hiss moved him to action. He looked around, spying the metal grill of the air return vent. He ripped it out of the wall, and shoved it through the large metal door handle, as a bar.

"That should slow them down."

Then he kicked open the stall door.

She was crouched on the toilet, her eyes wide in fear.

"Are they gone?" she whispered.

"No, baby. They're not."

He moved into the stall, and helped her down. Together they stepped out, in time to see the metal grille bend.

They were coming through the door.

He looked around again. There had to be a way out.

The window was small, and old. It looked painted shut, and it was too high in the wall. But it was all they had to go with.

He pulled the trashcan over underneath it, and stood on top. Then he rammed his fist through the window as hard as he could, bloodying his arm.

With careful hands he broke out the remaining glass, then hopped down.

"Go on then. Out with you."

He helped her stand on the trashcan. She slipped, and her foot went inside.

"Damn it!" she swore.

"Don't say things like that." His reaction was automatic, his words thoughtless. She glared at him and he groaned.

"Bloody hell. Alright, say what you like."

She freed her foot, but she couldn't get through the window. And the vent grille was nearly bent in half now.

"I'm not gonna fit!" she wailed.

His voice was desperate.

"Okay. New plan."

He helped her down, and together they ducked back into the stall once more. He stood on the seat, and pulled her up alongside him.

His eyes met hers.

"Don't move. Don't breathe." He mouthed.

She nodded.

They heard the knights come in

Then mere seconds later, they heard.

"They're outside. They went out the window."

The metallic clangs let them know when their pursuers left. Slowly they got back down.

"I think they went out. They're probably in the alley, looking for us." He said.

She nodded.

Together they snuck back through the store, and carefully exited the building. Then together they ran for the car.

They pulled down the street as the knights finally began emerging from the alleyway.

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #40 Prelude

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 40/?

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.

She was still wrapping his hand when Buffy came through the doorway, wrinkling her brow as she took in the scene.

"Dawn? What happened?"

The teenager barely turned her head in acknowledgement.

"Window."

She waited patiently, but Dawn failed to elaborate. Finally she looked down at Spike for an answer.

"Well?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"Like the kid said. I broke a window."

Buffy gritted her teeth and tried to extract the whole story from the tight-lipped pair.

"What window? And how?"

Spike whispered to Dawn, and she sighed and stepped away from him.

"Whatever."

Then she flounced up to her room.

Wearily, Buffy sank down onto the sofa. Lately all her interactions with Dawn seemed to go this way.

`Was I like this at fifteen?' she wondered.

Spike was still sitting across from her, cradling his bandaged arm.

"She's had a rough day, Slayer. Don't expect too much from her. It's not you- It's the whole world she's mad at."

He took in her haggard appearance, and moved over to take her in his arms in a quick hug.

"How was school tonight?" he asked.

Buffy made a face.

"Don't ask. Suffice it to say, I don't think I have a brilliant future ahead of me in any of the hard sciences."

He grinned at her.

"Nah. But I think your schedule's sort of full up, anyway, innit?"

She smiled, then her face fell.

"Damn. I forgot to pick up milk on the way home."

He tried to reassure her.

"No big deal, love. I'll get some in the morning."

She sighed.

"I had planned to make mashed potatoes tonight, to go with the frozen meatloaf. No milk means no potatoes. No potatoes means Dawn won't eat meatloaf."

Dawn herself reappeared on the stairwell, wearing street clothes and a backpack.

"Debbie called. I'm going over her house tonight. Her mom says its cool."

Spike jumped in.

"Oh, no you're not, Missy. You go call her back and tell her you can't."

His voice softened.

"It's not a good idea, you know that, pet."

Dawn gave him an ugly look.

"I'm as safe there as anywhere. Prob'ly safer than here. Everybody knows I live here. Besides, Debbie's mom's a good cook."

Beside him, Buffy winced.

Then she spoke up.

"Fine. You can stay the night at Debbie's. Is her number-"

"It's on the fridge." Said the girl.

Spike bit his lip, struggling to keep silent. He could prevent Dawn leaving, but then he'd have to tell Buffy about the drugstore. And tonight was not the night for that. Tomorrow, maybe, but he had other plans for this evening, ends to tie up, things to take care of.

But it really galled him when she contradicted him to Dawn. How were they supposed to present the "united front" she wanted, when she constantly flouted his authority with the girl?

Dawn headed for the door, and Spike grabbed his jacket.

"You're not walking over, at any rate. I'll drive you," he said.

She just shrugged her shoulders at him and gave him a defiant stare.

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 41/?

RATING: R (For Series) NC 17 THIS PART!

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.

He unlocked the door, and stepped inside the house to the smell of pepperoni pizza. Buffy sat on the couch, munching her way through a folded slice.

He dropped his keys onto the end table, and tossed his jacket over the back of a chair.

"Dinner's ready."

She smiled up at him sheepishly.

He nodded, and retrieved a coke from the fridge, and a plate from the cabinet. Then he came back in and joined her on the couch.

"What are you watching?" he enquired.

She wrinkled up her nose at the TV screen.

"I don't know. I just turned it on a minute ago."

He took up the remote, and flicked through the channels unsuccessfully before flipping it off.

"Friday night television is a wasteland." He declared, as he chucked the remote onto the coffee table top.

Buffy finished up her pizza, and stood up.

"Do you think you'll want any more?" She asked him.

He nodded, swallowing, then motioned to the opened box.

"Leave me two more."

She picked up the slices and moved them onto the ones already lining his plate. Then she closed the box, and put her plate and glass on top of it. Very carefully, she lifted the arrangement and made for the kitchen.

"Oh, very nice. If the slayin' gig doesn't work out, you can always waitress."

His only reply was her free hand, delicately sliding up into the air as she walked, flipping him the bird over her shoulder.

He finished up dinner while he contemplated. How should he do this?

He'd like to have been rosy and romantic- But he had a feeling Buffy might not react well to it. And the whole soft music and flowers gig reeked of weakness. He was feeling weak and whipped already these days; he saw no reason to wallow in it.

He got up, carrying his dish into the kitchen, where she was washing things up.

He slid the plate into the water, and slammed her with his intentions.

"I think we should get married."

She rinsed her glass, then his plate. He waited. Finally she turned around to face him.

"Why?" she asked.

His look said, "Are you colossally stupid?"

But his mouth said, "We just should, is all. It's not right, this. You're... expecting. There's a child in the house already. It's not..."

He ran a hand through his curls, as he struggled to find the right words.

"It's not seemly."

She sneered at him.

"Nothing about us is "Seemly", Spike. Never has been. I'm sleeping with my ex-mortal enemy. I don't love you. You don't love me."

"I do love you! You know that!"

But she shook her head at him.

"No, you don't."

There was anger in her eyes, he saw, as she continued.

"If you did, you wouldn't have done it like this."

The flowers. He should have done with the hearts and flowers bit, it was obvious now.

"Ah, hell, Buffy. I'm sorry it's not the proposal of your dreams-"

"It's no PROPOSAL at all!" she shouted, " You just tell me we ought to get married. There's no ring, there's no,"

She looked pointedly at him.

"knees. There's nothing but your ego and your nineteenth century morality at work here."

She glared at him, then added,

"Actually, I think you did better last time."

Spike rolled his eyes at her. She would throw that up in his face.

"Oh, so NOW you'll talk about that. When I've wanted to talk about it you won't- But NOW you throw it up at me."

She glared at him.

"Yes, well maybe I could run get Willow, she could wave a magic wand and you'd be romantic again."

He snorted.

"Yeah? Well I don't recall that it did me much good then, did it? Soon as the spell broke you acted like I had Leprosy or something. None of it meant anything to you, you didn't feel anything for me."

"You're implying it meant something to you?" she asked disbelievingly.

He rolled his eyes.

"Yeah. I'm IMPLYING that. I'm here, aren't I? I've been in love with you for years. Dru knew it before I did. EVERYBODY knew it before I did. Don't you ever think about the spell, Buffy? I mean, we were so certain we weren't under one. Maybe we weren't."

She raised her eyebrows in a look that said, "You're reaching."

But he went forward with the argument.

"I know we were spelled to get married, Slayer. I'm not stupid. But the rest of it- Maybe it was real. Maybe the marriage spell made us deal with things we didn't want to deal with."

She shook he head at him frantically.

"No. I don't see it that way, Spike, I don't."

He raised his hands in a pleading gesture.

"Hear me out. I don't dispute that the whole proposal was Red's doing. But she didn't spell us to love each other. And we did, Buffy. For that one day, we loved each other madly. I've never felt like that about anyone else in my whole life."

She stepped farther back from him.

He went on.

"Try to remember how happy you were, Buffy. I've never seen you that happy, not before or since. And I made you that happy. I did it then. I can do it again. I can do it for the rest of my miserable life if you'll let me. You just have to open yourself up to it. "

She whispered then, softly.

"I'm afraid to, Spike. I'm afraid to be that happy again. What if the spell breaks, and it stops again?"

He stepped forward and seized her.

"It's no spell, love. It's real. I'm real. You're real. And this- Us- It's terribly real."

She jerked free of his arms, and he groaned. How the hell was he supposed to get through to her?

"Look. I'm sorry I'm not doing better at this. I've been thinking about it a lot lately. And I probably should have been poofier about it, you birds like that rot."

She started to cry, now, and he felt even worse.

Women aren't supposed to cry when you ask them to marry you.

He reached for her, but she drew back away from him. How was he supposed to convince her when she wouldn't let him touch her?

He lowered his voice, and tried to put all his love for her into it as he spoke.

"Buffy, I love you. You're the reason I wake up in the morning. But it's not enough to live here with you, it's not enough to love you and touch you and see you every day. You can call it ego, you can call it antiquated morality- but I want you to belong to me. You, the baby, Dawn..."

His eyes met hers, full of the love he felt in his heart.

"And I need to belong to you as well."

She brought her hand to the side of his face, sniffling. But she stroked his cheek gently, and moved close to him.

"You do belong to me, Spike. You always have, in one way or another. MY enemy. MY partner. MY friend. MY lover. MINE. Always mine."

An unrelated memory drifted into his head at her words.

"I'd rather be fighting you anyway."

He pulled her tightly against him, kissing the top of her head. Her arms snaked around him, and stroked his back with dishwater- wet hands.

He lifted her face to his, meeting her lips in the gentlest of kisses. She was heat and compliance in his arms, melding against him. His hands caressed her sides, and one wandered to the shoulder of her blouse, moving it away so he could kiss the warm skin lightly.

Her sharp intake of breath was a welcome thing. It had been almost a week since she'd let him make love to her. Almost a week since she'd wanted him, and although his pride smarted, he jumped at the opportunity. She beckoned, and he went gratefully.

His hands pulled at her blouse. Dimly he realized they were still in the kitchen, and he decided he did not care. It was daylight yet outside, and he did not care. There was an open window shade and opened curtains on the side door. Anyone could come to the door and see- Still he did not care.

Slowly, reverently, he undressed her, and she returned the favor. She clung to him liquidly, as his hands mapped her flesh for his memory.

With my body, I thee worship.

He lifted her legs, they wound around his hips, and he guided them over to the tabletop. He deposited her on its flowered tablecloth, and stepped back to marvel at the lust in her eyes.

That's for you, mate. All of it. For you.

"Spike," she breathed, frantically. She reached to touch him, and he closed his eyes, gasping. She stroked him with both hands, and he struggled not to spill in them.

Finally he seized her hips, and pulled her to the edge of the tabletop. She lay back on its length, and he stood alongside it, and tossed her legs over his shoulders. He pushed inside of her warm wetness.

She sprawled beneath him against the flowered tablecloth, hair fanned out behind her head like a halo. He pressed a kiss against the inside of her knee as he pumped himself into her. She moaned, needing more than this. He slid a hand down atop her mound, and pinched her clit rhythmically until she screamed his name and bucked against the table.

He spilled himself inside her and collapsed atop her. She giggled beneath him, and he drew back, slightly miffed.

"What? Whatever are you laughing at, woman?"

Through her laughter she answered him.

"I was just thinking that my mother would have a fit if she knew what we just did on her best tablecloth, Spike. Then I realized she probably does know, and she just might decide to haunt me over it."

She was smiling a radiant smile that made his heart dance. He smiled back at her, and lifted his weight off as he stood up. She slowly stood up after him.

It hit him like the proverbial ton of bricks.

She was laughing. And she was talking about her mother while she did.

It had been so long since he'd seen that particular smile. He'd forgotten what it did to him, forgotten the way it melted his insides and made him ache.

"So, where did you put that tacky little cake couple anyway?" he asked.

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #42 Preparations

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 42

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.

"Yes, Mr. Walthrop. I think we can accommodate you."

The portly lawyer gratefully pressed his hand, a trifle too enthusiastically. But then, Spike had just given him a retainer the size of which he was unlikely to see ever again.

"You must follow my instructions to the letter, Richards. The insurance policy is paramount. But the Entail is quite clear-cut. You must find a way to break it should the need arise."

The crafty old man practically gleamed under instruction.

"Of course, Sir. And may I add, We here at Robins, Meyer, and Stein are honored by your patronage."

He chuckeled, his rosy cheeks jiggling, as he added,

"It's not every day we get to represent a Peer of the Realm."

Spike lacked the heart to instruct the poor fellow on the finer points of the peerage; namely, that a baronet was decidedly NOT one.

`Bloody Yanks. Ignorant lot, they.' He thought quietly as he left the office building.

Some hours later, he carefully folded clothes inside a battered old suitcase. Dawn sat perched on the bed, watching intently.

"What am I supposed to tell Buffy?" she asked. Her expression was wary, as she studied him.

"Just what I told you to. You tell her I'm on a buying trip in L.A., a last minute thing. It's the truth, you know." He dug his black duster out of the closet and folded it neatly on top of the rest of his clothes, before closing the case.

"It's not the whole truth. You won't tell me, but I know there's more to it than that. It's Glory, isn't it? You're going to L. A. to do something about Glory." She accused.

He gave her a level stare.

"No. I'm not going to `do something about Glory.' I've grown rather attached to my skin, Nibblet. Glory's not my problem until she comes round here. This trip, it's … It's just business, nothing more."

She played her ace.

"So why did Angel call you yesterday? To talk about the ball game?"

He groaned. Nosey little thing, she always figured out his business. In a century's time, he'd successfully kept some excellent secrets. Now he had none, because he lived in a house with a fifteen year old Sleuth. It was a bit disconcerting.

"Maybe Angel called to say hello, eh? Can't a man get calls from `is mates without it bein' all `Nefarious'?"

"When did Angel become one of your `Mates'?" she prodded.

Spike set his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Don't you have homework or something? Papers to write, sums to figure, that sort of thing?"

She gave a put-upon groan and rolled off the bed, then flounced out of the room.

Spike mentally catalogued his baggage. Spare clothes. Money. A nice, untraceable police revolver with the numbers filed off. Four boxes of ammunition.

He spied the small slip of paper on the nightstand and

picked it up.

The sonogram.

At eight weeks it didn't show much of anything, really. Two round things, the head and torso, and something the nurse called "limb buds" that looked like tiny arms. But it had satisfied the doctor, and consequently Buffy. By all appearances Baby Summers looked to be a healthy normal human fetus.

Apparently his nightmarish, horror- story visions of bloodsucking infants were a manifestation of his subconcious, and not some weird prophecy. And he'd not had a bad "baby dream" since before this last checkup.

He'd had no idea how worried he really was until that moment in the obstetrician's office. Watching the black and white monitor, he'd waited for the inevitable blow- Something would be wrong. It couldn't possibly be human, normal… Or maybe it wasn't healthy.

The nurse had smiled at them, and begun pointing out body parts.

`Look, here's the head. And these are going to be arms and legs, very soon…"

His stomach had crawled back up out of his feet, and he'd felt at least ten pounds lighter across the shoulders. A ridiculous grin had crept onto his face, and stayed there for much of the day.

That night he'd bought her a ring.

But then yesterday, the phone call from Angel had messed things up again. And here he was, packing a suitcase to leave his pregnant fiancée and her hunted baby sister.

Family obligations were a Bitch.

He placed the picture gently into his wallet.

Some time later he walked into the hotel, California sunlight streaming in behind him, to see the astonished, and none too welcoming, face of Cordelia Chase, sitting at the front desk rooting through her purse.

"Spike- What are you doing here?"

She frowned.

"And in broad daylight?"

He smiled lasciviously at her.

"Sightseein', love. Where's the Poof?"

She looked at him like he was stupid. Of course. Angel would be sleeping, still.

"Nevermind. Listen, didn't he tell you I was coming in?"

She shook her head at this, as she finally located the wrigley's in her purse. She pulled the pack out, and removed a stick.

"No, he didn't say anything. Want one?" she asked.

He accepted the offering, and plopped his ugly suitcase down on the floor. She was still watching him intently.

"Not to pry or anything, but, umm…How exactly is it you can be out and about and stuff?"

He groaned. Didn't Angel ever talk to these people?

"Dunno really." His shoulders lifted, and he gave her a bemused grin. "Woke up one day with a pulse. Disconcerting, that I can tell you."

Her eyes widened.

"So you're like, human now? Mortal?"

He nodded.

"No blood drinking? No superpowers?"

He cocked his head to one side.

"Well, no. No blood, anyway. No bloodlust, no demon. But the old demonic blood still has a few gifts left."

He grinned even wider.

"I'm still fast. I'm still strong. And it looks like I heal real well to boot."

She regarded him with undisguised curiousity.

"So, you're sort of like Buffy now, I guess."

He nodded at her, and sat down on the edge of the desk.

"Enough about me, pet. Why don't you tell me what Angel's got going down, here. He wasn't very specific on the phone."

Her dark eyebrows winged upwards in an annoyed arc.

"Did he tell you about Lindsay and Lilah?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"No. Never heard of them. Who are they?"

She smiled as she leaned forward. Gossip was more than just a hobby with Cordy; she had elevated it to a high art.

"Well, let me tell you. You aren't gonna BELIEVE this…"

Spike regarded his new family members with abject distrust, watching closely as Lindsay leaned over Lilah, whispering gently in her ear. He raised his head from hers, and locked eyes with Spike. There was no familiarity in that gaze, only cold mistrust. Apparently Lindsay knew too well just who Spike was, and he wasn't very happy to see him.

Of course, the introductions had been quite cordial. Angel had seen to that. It seemed his new "boy" would do nothing to anger his sire. He'd shaken Spike's hand and given him a smile of utterly phony friendship.

But Angel was gone now, and they were here alone, preparing for the `mission'. The hostility in the room was thick enough you could almost see it. The lawyers were afraid of him, the watcher was uncomfortable with him.

Fortunately, Cordy had warmed to his new state. She seemed fine with the whole "Newly human Ex Vampire" thing he had going. And her acceptance was good enough for Gunn. He had only to be told that Spike had assisted them in Caritas, for Gunn to shake Spike's hand and thank him for coming down here to help out.

A real gentleman, that Gunn. Spike liked him immensely within minutes of their first conversation.

But his eyes drifted back to the new, deadly duo, and he smiled wryly. Despite his protestations, despite his soulful state, Angelus had tried to recreate the family of spike's fledgeling youth. They lacked only Darla to make the picture complete. And the devotion in Lindsay's face when he looked at the pretty brunette he'd turned, that look was not foreign to Spike.

He recognized in the pair himself, and his dark princess. Lindsay and Lilah were a soulful version of himself and Drusilla. No- Angel didn't have any "issues" with his past as Angelus.

Right.

Lindsay stood up straight, and sauntered over to where Spike was cleaning weapons alongside Wesley.

"She's infected the mainframe with a series of viruses. Hopefully it will serve to short out the retinal scanners and the print database."

He shrugged.

"If it doesn't work, you won't get in anyway."

He looked Spike over, head to foot.

"You're close enough to my size. In the right clothes, security might not make the connection. Once you're inside, however, you're on your own. Are you sure your computer skills are up to it?"

Spike shrugged, and reached into his coat pocket. As he lit up a cigarette he gave his answer.

"I won't really know until I try, will I, Junior?"

The front door opened, and Angel came in, carrying a paper sack. He sat it on the table. Lindsay and Spike approached him, as he withdrew the items inside.

"This is a voice-scrambler. I've had it programmed with Lilah's range. She should still be in their database."

He handed the small contraption to Spike, and showed him how to use it.

"This earpiece will let you hear us, while you're inside. If there is any change in the plan, we will notify you this way. Should this system become compromised, the keyword is "Darla." You hear any one of us say that name and you know-"

"They've twigged to the job," Spike finished for him.

Angel nodded. Then he looked over to Wesley.

"You set up yet Wes?"

The watcher nodded.

"Yes. Just finished."

He raised the small crossbow triumphantly.

Angel turned back to Spike.

"We will be outside, on the side street. We cannot get inside, but there's an excellent chance that once you leave the building, you will be pursued. If that happens, you will at least have decent backup."

Spike nodded.

"Then let's get this show on the road."