There comes a time in every Slayer's life when all of the pent-up fatigue, discouragement, and self-pity manage to surface, and drown out the spirit. Unhappiness with the world seems to lap against her relentlessly, threatening to pull her under, beneath its murky depths. Normally, the waves are small, surmountable, and of no concern. But during these dark times, the waves roar high above a Slayer's head. A tsunami in slow motion. The threat looming above her head, somehow giving her time to flee, but the exodus never executed. It's as though her feet are held firm in the saturated sand. She puts no effort into freeing herself. What's the point? If there's nothing important to live for, nothing binding her to this shallow, mortal existence, why struggle and escape the inevitable? People die every day. The darkness will always gain a foothold on Earth. Like the seasons of the year, light and dark will have its moment. Neither will ever be crushed permanently.
This time had finally caught up with her. She had always denied the event, banishing it from her mind. She would never lose her spirit. Never go gently into the night. But things had changed. Things that were beyond her control. First her mother. Then her sister. And now, her friends. She had pushed everyone away. The sorrow in it all seemed distant now. Why try to regain what she had already lost?
Buffy roamed the lonely streets, trying to find an answer to the questions that plagued her mind. What was she to do now?
***
"I am very displeased with her work thus far," a cold, elegant, male voice explained. "She has endured much too long for my tastes. Acquired too many skills. It is time she join her predecessors."
"What do you suggest we do?" another man replied, leaning over the dim, fluorescent light of the cherry wood table, as the glow washed strangely over his features.
"Usually, in the past, these matters seem to take care of themselves. However, I feel it is time we take matters into our own hands," the man paused, rising from his chair, straightening his suit, and paced before the table. "There is someone who may prove useful in the matter."
"Who?" his counterpart asked.
"Do you recall the Initiative's late pet project?"
"If you are referring to control device, I do," the second man nodded, seating himself in a well-padded chair.
The first man smiled strangely, hovering over the table. "I suggest we assume control of the test subject. Use him to our benefit. He may prove more useful to us than we ever realized."
***
Spike sulked through the Bronze, looking around in vain for the Slayer. Absent, as usual, he noted. He was growing restless. In need of a good brawl. Something. Something to get this energy out. Damn chip, he muttered, scowling. If only. . .he quickly brushed aside the idea. Even if he could. . .would he? It was a question that seemed to haunt him now. In the past, he wouldn't have given it a second thought. He would have taken the opportunity with open arms. But now. . .uncertainty was all he felt when the subject crossed his mind.
***
She pushed her way through the crowded room. Music was blaring through the speakers and the air hung heavy with smoke. She winced slightly as a spotlight brushed across her field of vision, leaving a dark, negative image swimming in her sight. Hoping to escape the solitude of the past few weeks, just for one moment, Buffy had found sanctuary in the Bronze. Bodies pressed tightly around her and she suddenly felt claustrophobic. The music seemed to change. Seemed to warp into a mess of bass and haunting vocals. The people around her began to distort. Their laughter turned into an unpleasant mockery. A woman leaned against the bar, laughing, tilting her glass enough to spill some of her drink. The noise. The people. The lights. The music. Everything seemed painful all at once. Buffy felt like the room was spinning around her. It took everything to contain her sudden fear.
She turned, in an attempt to find the exit. Instead, she bumped into someone. Collided into a man's chest. She stepped back, lifting a hand to her head in delirium and offered a labored 'sorry.'
"Buffy," the man said, his deep voice cutting through the murky atmosphere of confusion and unease that had surrounded her.
She glanced up, mouth agape slightly as she struggled to collect herself. Spike stood before her, studying her with a concerned look. He reached out quickly, seizing her hand before she attempted to sulk away. But she didn't pull away. Her hand felt clammy. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. Something was wrong.
"Are you alright?" he asked, trying to pull her into a quieter corner.
She didn't answer. Her gaze fell on the floor.
"You look awful," Spike said, trying to break her from her trance.
Buffy suddenly looked up, fearful eyes sweeping his face with urgency. "I. . .I have to get out of here," she stammered, before turning, and rushing towards the door.
He followed, at her back, as she pushed her way through the smothering crowd and found the exit. She struggled for a moment to get the door open. Everything around her was collapsing in her on her. The colors of the club. The deep red. Everything felt suddenly sickening now. The door burst open and she rushed outside into the alley. The door closed behind them, and the sounds were now muted by brick and mortar. Buffy bent over against the wall, suddenly feeling the urge to throw up. But the nausea passed, and she fought to catch her breath. She felt a hand touch her shoulder and turn her around.
"Go," she whimpered, trying to push him away.
"Buffy. . ." Spike said with desperation.
"Go. . .go!" she cried, clenching her fists and drawing them up to shield her face.
Spike grabbed her wrists, pulling them down and away from her face. Tears streamed down the Slayer's tender face. She tried to hide them, trying to turn away from her nemesis. Trying to hide the shame of it. Trying to hide her weakness. Instead, he forcibly held her still. She couldn't turn away. She couldn't hide. She was helpless.
"Let it out," he said softly, his gaze never leaving her sorrowful eyes.
"I don't want to!" she shouted, sobs wracking her voice. "I don't want to!" she wailed, breaking down.
He pulled her close, letting her rest against his shoulder as her body convulsed with each sob. The wall that she had built around herself for the past two months was starting to crumble.
The Slayer side of her wanted to pull away. Wanted to reject his invitation, knowing that it was wrong. But she couldn't be moved. She pressed her face against his shoulder, the smell of leather reaching her nose. She felt a reluctant hand press against her back.
"It's alright, luv," he said gently, relishing in the moment. He knew a moment like this might never come again. Tomorrow, they could be fighting again. She could go back to her life and keep him at a distance. The sweet smell of her hair flooded him, and felt a deep hunger rise.
"It isn't fair!" she cried softly, brushing a finger across a moist eye.
"Life never is," he responded.
"I've lost everything," Buffy cried, "I'm alone."
"No," Spike replied, pulling away, a raising a hand to her jaw, "You're not alone."
Buffy stared into his determined eyes. She wanted to believe him. She actually wanted to believe him. What am I thinking, she interrupted the thought. Spike is a vampire. He's. . .he's. . .for some reason, she couldn't finish the argument. For the first time, a glimmer of trust passed through her eyes, and she nodded slightly.
"Thank you," she replied quietly, unsure of how to react.
He pulled away, and began to pace in his usual, restless way. She watched him. Watched him as he mulled over her reaction. He actually looked uncomfortable. Finally he stopped, clasping his hands at his front, and looked directly at her. "I'll walk you home," he stated firmly.
"Alright," she said hoarsely, looking around in discomfort before proceeding down the street.
He followed, catching up to her, and matching her stride. She crossed her arms in front of her, rubbing her arms slightly as though the air was chill. Her gait was slow and reflective.
But as they walked in the moonlight, maintaining a comfortable silence, something changed. Something marred the moment unexpectedly. It began with a groan. Spike stopped, clutching his head in pain, and clenched his teeth. Buffy stopped abruptly.
"Spike?" her voice filled with concern.
"Bloody!" Spike cursed, growling as he tossed his head forward.
"What's happening?" Buffy asked, stepping back to give the vampire some space.
And just as quickly as it began, the pain stopped. Spike's face relaxed. He straightened up, adjusting his jacket before glancing over at the worried Slayer. Something had changed. He could feel it. He could feel it broiling inside.
"I think it's. . .it's. . ." he found himself confused by the experience.
"The chip?" Buffy finished, her eyes wide with urgency.
"I don't know," he replied, casting her a strange glance. A glance that made her step back in fear.
"Hit me," she said, keeping her fear in check.
"What?" Spike retorted, glancing at her in confusion.
"If the chip's not working, I want to know. Hit me!" she said firmly, the traces of sorrow had vanished from her face. Sure, she still looked unusually weak, but the determination in her eyes was enough to convince him.
He swung out with his right arm, intent on missing her head and aiming instead for her stomach. His fist connected, sending the Slayer sprawling to the ground. She landed on her back, arms following a second later as they splayed out on the ground. She shook away the brief pain and glanced up at him. Spike stood still, rubbing his fist lightly.
"No pain?" she suddenly realized.
Spike's eyes met hers. He didn't even need to say it. She already knew it. She could tell by the look in his eyes. They looked strangely alert. Confident. Virile. And they remained locked on her own.
"Oh, God," Buffy muttered, the words a little louder than she had expected.
He was at her side in a flash. Kneeling beside her before she could rise to her feet and run. Spike's eyes never left hers. He could see it. He could see the mixture of fear and defeat in her eyes. She knew it.
"Spike, please," she begged quietly.
A brushed the side of her face gently as her eyes widened in fear. His cool, calm exterior masking the thoughts beneath.
"I don't want to hurt you," he whispered, leaning to smell her hair.
She tried to roll away, but he quickly pinned her arms at her sides. Her soft, delicate face searched about in desperation. The war that raged within him was almost unbearable. He fought to keep control.
"Spike," she begged again.
He lowered his face again, this time to watch her closely. A single tear rolled down her cheek, falling down the side to wet the grass beneath. The pain in her expression nearly killed him. It was what kept his humanity at the surface. He wanted so badly to tell her. To tell her everything. Everything. But he could manage only one action. One action, that for now, would possibly save any trace of her trust. He pressed his lips to her cheek and kissed her gently. And then, pulling her up with him, he pushed her gently away.
"Go," he said firmly, emotion ebbing along his words.
She turned, taking flight along the street and towards her house. She stopped at a distance to turn around. Her slender form looked like an apparition to him. A ghost of his past, washed in the warm, milky light of the street. And he thought he saw something else in her face. It was not hate. It was not judgement. For a fleeting second, he could have sworn he saw a sad understanding in her sunken eyes. She turned again, running off into the night. Running to a place where he couldn't hurt her.
***
"It's done," the man announced, stepping before his superior and inclining his head in respect.
"Good," the other responded, leaning forward in his leather chair and steepling his fingers atop his spacious desk. "I expect only good news from now on."
"Of course," his assistant responded, clearing his throat slightly at the warning.
"Do not disappoint me, Yuri," the man at the desk warned. He leaned forward slightly, the dim light playing across his sharp features, and talked in a hushed tone. "I want the Slayer dead."
"Understood," Yuri replied, bowing slightly.
"Now, go," his leader responded, waving him away as he impatiently returned to his business.
***
Buffy locked the door behind her as she slipped into the house. She knew very well that Spike could not enter, since she had removed his invitation not too long ago. But the action gave her a small measure of peace. She climbed the stairs quickly and entered her room, slinging her coat across a chair. Pacing uncomfortably for a few minutes, she finally crossed the room and stopped at the window. Buffy lifted a hesitant hand to the blinds, debating whether or not she should part them. Finally, after making a hasty decision, she moved them slowly aside, scanning the ground below with a well-trained eye.
To her surprise, but confirming her deep suspicions, Spike stood on the far side of the yard, shaded from the streetlight by a large tree. Locked in a motionless stance, and staring directly up at her, she noticed a strange expression cross his face. One of intimate understanding. His haunted gaze never wavered from her, as she gazed back at him, her eyes wide with fear. As his seductive expression swept across her, she pulled away from the window, drawing her arms about her in false protection, and let the blinds fall back into place. They swept in front of her, erasing her image from the window, but never erasing her image from his eyes.
She could still sense his presence. Feel him watching her, even through the shield of the blinds. Hungry eyes waiting. Watching. Anticipating. The convict was released from his prison. And like a Lector, of sorts, he was waiting. Waiting to finally gain a foothold. Waiting to capture the one who had always eluded him. Waiting for his Clarice. She shuddered in the dark, banishing the brief thought from her mind. He had always seemed like that. A prisoner, waiting for his release. But when he had the chance to take advantage of the situation, he had let her go. Let her run off into the night. The action ignited an intense curiosity inside of her. Had he truly changed? Was the kiss he imparted on her cheek a manifestation of that change? She wasn't sure. But, as she rubbed the side of her face lightly, terrifying emotions sprang up inside of her. Terrifying, because she had always denied them.
***
She stood on a darkened street corner with a stake clenched tightly in her hand. Her keen eyes moved about, searching the quiet streets for any signs of the undead. She felt a great deal better. The depression that had fallen upon her was now subdued. It did not pull her down anymore, but it was still lurking in the shadows.
A soft rustle sounded behind her. Buffy swung around, arm poised to strike, and nearly collided with Spike. A slight gasp exited her mouth as he lashed out, restraining her arm tightly. The action forced her to drop the weapon from weakened fingers, which clattered loudly on the ground.
"Spike," she breathed, fear rising in her voice.
He smiled hauntingly in response, the corners of his mouth pulling upward ever so slightly. "Well hello, Buffy," he responded, his voice taking on an almost hypnotic tone.
She struggled, trying to pull her arm free from him. He released it, smiling briefly as she backed away slightly and rubbed her arm. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to see how you're doing," the vampire responded, his penetrating eyes fixed on the vulnerable Slayer.
She watched him fearfully as he paced around her, like a vulture circling its prey. "I'm fine," she answered in a shaky voice, "In fact, I'm officially back in the game." She tried to straighten up. To look confident. Powerful. But the effect was wrong. Instead, her crumbling defense shone through wavering eyes. And suddenly, she felt very small. Very powerless.
He smiled again. "Good to hear, luv," he stopped in front of her, never taking his eyes from her own.
She squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze. "Spike," she said, "I. . .I don't want you to follow me."
"Oh?" he replied, raising an eyebrow in mild curiosity.
She didn't reply. Instead, she drew away from him, wrapping her arms about herself in a protective hug, never taking her widened eyes off him.
Something dark flashed briefly in his eyes. "You're afraid of me," he said, in a hushed, seductive tone, "aren't you?"
"No," she blurted out, "of course not."
Spike moved an inch closer, bringing his hand up to gently caress the side of her face. He watched her closely, noticing her response to the touch. "I don't want you to fear me, Slayer."
"Please," she insisted, "back away!"
As he moved closer, she lunged for the stake, gripping it tightly in with a white-knuckled hand. He chuckled softly. "What are you doing?"
"Spike! Don't make me. . ."
"Don't make you what?" he cut in, pressing his chest against the stake. He glanced down at it, grimacing slightly before returning his attention to the Slayer. "You won't do it."
"How can you be so sure?" she asked softly.
He pressed a hand against the stake, moving it away from his chest. She glanced up in confusion. Why had she allowed him to disarm her? Why was it so hard to resist all that she had been fighting to keep from surfacing?
Tears sprang to her eyes. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice cracking with emotion.
He lifted a hand to her face again, pausing to wipe away the tear that formed in the corner of her eye. His expression softened. The killer was replaced with the poet. "I can't erase you from my mind. I see you night after night, bathed in the moon's light, drifting like a vision of beauty."
"Don't," she resisted, her voice reduced to a soft whimper.
But his eyes rejected the request. They wavered on hers, threatening to consume her altogether. "Let me show you. . .let me in your world, Slayer," his voice resounded deeply.
He traced a finger down her cheek and along her neck, pausing at her collarbone. She closed her eyes, trying to hide the emotions that sprang up, trying to keep herself from giving in. His touch brought a shiver up along her spine. She felt his breath at her ear, his lips on her cheek. And just as quickly as he made contact with her, he was gone.
She opened her moistened eyes, glancing around in confusion as he walked away. A lone figure in the night. He turned briefly and smiled. "I'll be waiting," he said softly, before heading off into the night.
The Slayer was broken. She fell to her knees, choking back a sob of emotion that threatened to consume her. For a moment, she didn't know who she was. She didn't know why she was here, nor what she had just felt. But as the veil of shock lifted from her mind, she couldn't rid herself of his touch.
***
Yuri stood in the shadows, fixated on the Slayer. His dark eyes studied the girl meticulously. A frown crossed his face as his fears were confirmed. It hadn't worked. The subject had not responded accordingly. The Slayer was still living. Fear flooded his mind quickly. His superior would be very disappointed. Yuri loosened his tie slightly, reviewing the last few minutes carefully. Maybe he had misinterpreted the events. But as he remembered the conversation, he shook his head gravely. With one swift turn, he walked back down the grungy alley, brushing the dust from his dark suit. As he slipped inside the waiting car, he paused to glance back at the scene, knowing that his failure would soon be dealt with.
***
"I send someone to get the job done," the elegant man began, his dark eyes flashing with disappointment, "and what happens? Nothing!"
Yuri cowered before his superior. "I'm sorry, sir," he insisted, "but there were unexpected variables."
"I command a powerful organization, Yuri. I have little patience for failure," the man explained, leaning forward in his chair.
"Give me another chance, sir," Yuri pleaded, leaning over his leader's desk. "I can prove myself. I can rid the world of this Slayer."
Rising abruptly from his chair, and gracing the edge of the desk with his hands, the superior fixed dark eyes upon the cowering assistant. He straightened himself up, readjusting his dark, modern suit, and rounded the desk slowly. Like a lion, he scrutinized the weaker creature, with all the might of his kind.
"I'm sorry, Yuri," he said slowly, glancing about the room casually and raising his hands in a dramatic gesture. "Failure is not tolerated. I will not allow you to stumble on my way to glory."
Yuri's superior thrust a finger against a device on the desk. "In my office, immediately," he ordered.
A few seconds later, three men marched through the door, flanking Yuri. He struggled as they restrained him. "Please, sir. I beg you. . .spare me, I will prove myself!"
"I'm sorry," the man replied, smiling darkly, before gesturing towards the guards. "Take him away."
As the men escorted Yuri from the room, the man seated himself behind the spacious desk and leaned back. "I will not rest," he muttered to himself, "until I have the Slayer."
Evan Darius began to devise the next course of action. He would have to personally take the offensive. It was clear he could not count on these pitiful mortals to get the job done.
***
"Giles," Buffy called out.
The Watcher emerged from the shelves of his shop, a surprised expression filling his face. "Buffy!" he called out in surprise. "Where have you been?"
Buffy glanced about awkwardly. "I've needed time alone."
"And?" Giles asked inquisitively, approaching his pupil, "Has it helped?"
"Yeah," Buffy drew in an unsteady breath. "I think so."
Giles lifted a finger to his lips, brooding over something as he watched her. "I have some news," he announced carefully.
"What is it?" Buffy asked, noticing the discomfort in her mentor's eyes.
"I'm afraid that the Council wishes to meet with you again," Giles explained with a heavy sigh.
"Didn't I make my position abundantly clear the last time they were here?" she groaned.
"Yes, I'm quite sure you did," Giles replied, "but it concerns something different."
"Go on," she said, suspicion filling her eyes and voice.
"There is someone of great importance, though I'm at a loss to identify, who wishes to meet with you," the Watcher explained.
Eyes narrowing slightly, Buffy shifted uncomfortably on her feet. "I don't understand. What's going on?"
"I'm not sure," Giles sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "We'll just have to wait and see."
"I hate waiting," Buffy replied, a mock pout flashing briefly across her lips. "Where's Angel?"
"Didn't you know?" Giles asked, glancing at her in surprise before nodding. "Right. Angel left town. He's gone back to Los Angeles."
"I. . .I didn't get to say goodbye," she replied, her words trailing off.
"He's concerned," Giles said.
"About what?" Buffy asked.
"About Spike's apparent obsession with you. Frankly, I'm worried as well," Giles explained, removing his glasses and pacing the room.
Buffy glanced around for an awkward moment, her eyes flashing briefly with fear. "I. . .have to tell you something."
Giles glanced at her, "What is it?"
"It's about Spike. He's. . .he's. . ."
"The chip stopped working?" Giles noted gravely.
Buffy nodded, rubbing her bare arms as a chill swept over her.
"When did this happen?" the Watcher asked, concern filling his voice.
"About three days ago," she responded, guilt crossing her face.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Giles argued.
"I. . .I don't know," she replied, confused eyes locking on her mentor's.
Giles studied her for a moment, and suddenly, realization filled his eyes. "Buffy. . .he's dangerous. I don't think it's a good idea. . ."
"I'm fine," she interrupted, her voice shaking slightly. "He had more than one opportunity to try something, but he hasn't."
Giles glanced at her in confusion. "What exactly has he told you?"
The Slayer glanced away, embarrassment reddening her lovely face. "That he doesn't want to hurt me. That he. . .he. . ."
"Do you feel something?" Giles asked grimly.
Buffy turned from him, awkwardness very apparent in her demeanor. She raised a hand to her cheek, brushing the skin that only a night before, had been grazed by his fingers.
"Be careful," Giles warned her. "I don't want to see you get hurt."
"I know," Buffy replied. She turned away and left the store, leaving a concerned Watcher behind.
***
Spike emerged from the Bronze, once again, dissatisfied with the scene. Everything seemed boring, drab, and downright tiring. He felt restless. He sauntered lazily down the alley behind the Bronze, glancing around for anything that might pique his interest. As he rounded a corner, he heard a loud argument, and the clatter of garbage cans. A man and woman were arguing. Spike smiled slightly. Finally, a little excitement to fill the void. It was clear the argument was getting more aggressive by the minute. The man pushed the girl against a brick wall, raising a fist in anger.
"Excuse me," Spike announced, making his presence known, "I couldn't help but hear your argument."
"Get out of here!" the man growled, pointing an angry finger in Spike's direction.
"Sorry," Spike said confidently, approaching the feuding couple, "but I'm afraid that's not possible."
"I told you to leave," the man shouted, releasing the scared girl from his grip, and approaching Spike, "Now, do I need to spell that out for you?"
Spike smiled coolly, loving every minute of it. "That's quite all right. In fact, friend, I couldn't help but notice you bashing your girl. Care to teach me a few pointers? I could really use the lesson."
Clearly aggravated, the man lunged at Spike, swinging his fists at the vampire, which dodged each one with little effort.
He smiled when the man stopped, showing off a little fang. "My turn," he said playfully.
The man swung again, but this time, Spike caught his arm, swinging him around with a bone crunching intensity. Twisting his arm behind the man's back, Spike smiled briefly before claiming his first victim. Ah, back in the game again, he thought. Glancing up from his meal, Spike noticed the scared woman looking on in horror. He growled slightly, wiping the blood from his mouth.
"I suggest you get yourself out of here," Spike growled, a strange glint flickering in his eyes.
The woman turned, running down the alley, and never casting a backward glance.
A clap sounded behind him. A bold, dramatic clap that resounded throughout the tight confines of the alley. Spike turned from his prey, eyes narrowing in a mixture of annoyance and anger. A man stood centered in the alley, his hands raised in mock applause. He obviously was not from around these parts of Sunny D, Spike noted. The man wore a dark, well-tailored suit. Overtop of the expensive ensemble, he wore a long, dark overcoat. Slicked back, dark hair framed a handsome, brooding face.
Spike squinted in the moonlight. "Who the hell are you?" his voice flooded with annoyance.
The man smiled coldly, stepping forward. "I watched your little show. Very impressive," he replied sarcastically, a faint accent in his voice, ignoring Spike's question.
"Okay, I want a few answers. If you don't answer, I'd be more than happy to dirty your nice suit," Spike countered.
The man glanced down at his clothes, brushing them off lightly as he looked around at the grungy alley in slight disdain. "Yes, I'm sure you would. But, I have more important things to discuss than my finer tastes."
Spike threw up his arms in frustration. "Fine. Let's have it. Let's hear what Mr. Prettyboy has to say. I'm sure it's very important."
"You'd do better to heed my words. I warn you, I don't like the tone of your voice," the man seethed, dark eyes flashing briefly with anger.
Spike sighed, gesturing out of impatience.
"I need some information," the man announced, removing the leather gloves from his hands slowly, "there is a Slayer in this town?"
Spike's eyes immediately narrowed, and his jaw tightened. "Well, duh! This is the bloody hellmouth!" he replied sarcastically.
"She has been a challenging adversary, has she not?" the man continued.
"Yeah, you could say she that," Spike responded, sizing the well-dressed man up, "Why the hell do you care?"
"That, you do not need to know," the man replied cryptically. "I came to speak with you, in the hopes of learning of any potential weaknesses she may have. Evaluations of this nature call for extensive research."
"You're one of those bloody Council blokes, aren't you?" Spike suddenly realized.
A brief, unreadable smile crossed the man's face. "Tell me what you know of her. Your cooperation will be noted."
"And what if I refuse to help you with your stupid little test?" Spike countered.
"Unfortunate scenario," the man responded, grabbing Spike by the shirt and pushing him roughly against the wall, "I'm afraid we'll do much more than defang you."
Suspicion suddenly filled Spike's face. His mouth opened slightly in question. "Who are you?" he asked, sensing more behind this man than he had originally guessed.
"That's not important right now," the man replied in controlled triumph, his dark, calm eyes locking onto Spike. "What is important. . .is that you tell me. . .everything."
***
Buffy walked through the doors of Giles' shop, prepared for anything. Once again, the Council seemed to have expressed some concern for her abilities, though she was unsure why. From what she remembered during their last rendezvous, the Council had been given a clear and deliberate warning. The Slayer was no longer at the mercy of the Council's whims. She would take an active role in her own destiny. It was for this reason that she now expressed an obvious annoyance and anger towards the Council's attaché.
She scanned the small store, noticing Giles seated at the Scoobie table. His guest was seated across from the Watcher, back facing the Slayer. Giles glanced up, making eye contact with his pupil, and offering a small frown. Buffy grimaced slightly, proceeding towards the table. She crossed her arms before her, trying to add a little severity to her demeanor. As she approached the table, Giles rose from his seat, glancing down at his guest.
"Evan Darius, I'd like to introduce you to Buffy," he announced, sweeping his hand out slightly as the man rose from his chair.
He turned to meet Buffy, offering a hand out to her. She glanced down at it cautiously, and decided not to take the invitation. The tall, well-dressed, handsome man smiled slightly. The smile suddenly sent a shiver up her spine.
"Honored to meet such a. . .renowned Slayer," the articulate man responded, inclining his head slightly.
"Let's get to the point. Why are you here?" Buffy replied, skipping the formalities, and opting for candor.
Evan Darius smiled slightly. His dark, hooded eyes searched her own for a moment. "You don't waste anytime, do you?"
"What can I say? I'm all business," Buffy smiled curtly.
"Good," Darius replied, pausing strangely for a moment. He turned his head slightly towards Giles. "I would like to be alone for a moment."
Giles shook his head. "I would like to be present."
"It is not required. What I need to discuss involves only the Slayer," Darius argued, dark eyes flashing briefly.
"Giles," Buffy cut in, "it's okay. I'll be fine."
Giles nodded slowly, before turning away and leaving the room. In his wake, Buffy stood boldly, studying her visitor carefully. "Okay, you wanted to talk to me, so talk."
Evan Darius smiled strangely, turning his attention back to the young Slayer. "I have been watching you for some time, Buffy," he began, his consuming gaze was beginning to make her uncomfortable. "You have managed to make a career out of what was supposed to be a short vocation."
"You sound disappointed," she said coolly.
"Hardly," he laughed lightly, pacing around her.
Buffy watched him suspiciously. "Can we please get to the point? I'm really getting tired of this. By the way, nice clothes. Trying to outdo the Sopranos?" she said mockingly.
Darius smirked, stepping closer to the Slayer. "You've experienced many trials lately, haven't you?"
"What do you want?" Buffy shouted, her discomfort shining through her poise.
"Your mother died unexpectedly. That must have been very hard," Darius replied, his steely gaze suddenly warming as they locked onto hers.
"Yes," she replied softly, unable to break her gaze from the man, "it was."
"The world literally fell apart around you," he continued, analyzing her carefully.
"I got over it," Buffy protested, her eyes wavering slightly.
"Ah," Evan responded, his gaze sweeping her, "but are you really sure? Do you feel renewed? Do you really feel restored?"
"No," she replied hauntingly, the word having slipped unwillingly from her lips.
"Good," he nodded, "it's a good start."
"What do you want with me?" Buffy asked sadly.
The smile slipped from his lips. He stopped pacing, standing directly in front of her. "I wish to help you."
"I don't need your help," Buffy replied, her voice seemed to drift.
"I think you do," Evan replied, lifting his hand to her face. His finger touched her chin, and raised her face slightly so that her vacant eyes met his own.
His gaze was hypnotic. Buffy had tried to pull herself away from his eyes, but now the attempt seemed impossible. Something about him seemed strangely intoxicating. "Go," she said softly.
He didn't reply. Instead, he moved a step closer. She suddenly feared that she would not be able to fight him away. Something within her began to embrace his presence. A strange recognition. A familiarity.
"I. . .know you," she said faintly, haunted eyes gazing into his.
"Good," he said softly, his deep voice filling every void in the room with a warm, heavy blanket. "You're beginning to remember."
"I don't understand," she said, fear slipping past her expression.
"You will," he replied, catching her as she collapsed. He hoisted her easily into his arms, glancing back briefly before heading towards the door.
As he lifted her into the waiting car, closing the door behind him, he didn't notice the figure in the shadows. The car sped away, leaving the observer in its wake.
Spike stepped from the dark, and glanced down the darkened street with concerned eyes.
