WHEN DARKNESS FALLS - Chapter Five

Spike paced up and down the sidewalk. He was only a block and a half away from the Council, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn the corner. It wasn’t that he hadn’t made his decision. He was going to go. He had to go. He’d given his word as a gentleman—

Spike stopped pacing and raked his hand through his newly cropped and bleached hair.

That’s what a conscience did for you--made you ignore your survival instincts, talked you into walking into a lion’s den because it was the 'right thing to do.' It was bloody stupid. A vampire trusting the Council was stupid. Traditionally, what the Council wanted was a vampire’s dusty death. And if the Council wanted something *other* than his death, Spike suspected it would resemble Captain Cardboard’s Dr. Mengele medical experiments. He’d have to be insane to walk into something like that.

Then again, there was nothing the Council could do to him that he didn’t deserve. A killer with a survival instinct was an obscenity. After all the lives he had taken, what right did he have to preserve his own life at another’s expense? And Rupert had been quite clear about the threats the Council had made in regards to Red.

=Oh bugger it all to hell.= Spike had been many things in his existence, but he’d never been a coward. He turned the corner.

Quentin Travers looked to find Rupert Giles standing in his office doorway. Surreptitiously, Travers moved a stack of papers over the parchment lying unfurled in the center of his desk. He clasped his hands together and gazed at Giles in a suitably attentive manner. “Is there something I can do for you, Rupert? Some fear you wish me to assuage?”

Giles entered the room but did not sit. Travers respected the tactics of such a move.

His own seat behind the desk was a power position. By refusing to sit, Giles was refusing a subservient posture.

“Quentin, I am uncertain of your ulterior motives in this matter, but you clearly have them. I do not know why you were so quick to agree to

Lydia

’s suggestion, but I will tell you that I will not allow you to harm Spike.”

Giles’ gaze narrowed behind his glasses. “Don’t be ridiculous. I simply have good manners. You do not harm creatures who are trying to help you. It’s unpardonably rude.”

“Nevertheless, whatever Spike’s—“ Giles paused “--deficiencies, he is coming here at our request. He chose to do so of his own free will. And as long as he poses no threat, I will not see him abused.”

“He has the blood of countless men on his hands; does that mean nothing to you?”

“I am neither naïve nor a fool. Stop behaving as though I am. Whatever Spike’s moral status, we do *not* harm creatures who cannot defend themselves and who are not a menace to society. We are not bullies, nor are we God. If Spike needs to be killed because he is a danger those around him, we will kill him. But we do not ask for his help, request his trust, then harm him. It is not a matter of his moral status but ours.“

“This is no request, and there is nothing to agree to. This is the way things are. Accept it.”

Knowing it would do no good to lose his temper, Travers slowly counted to ten as Giles left the room. First and foremost, Travers needed to stay in control. The head of the Council always needed to be in control. Rupert Giles didn’t fully comprehend that fact.

Travers pushed aside ordinary business papers to uncover the aged, yellowed parchment he had stretched across his desk. It wasn’t the original document. It was a twelfth-century translation of an ancient Philistine scroll that was locked in the Council’s secret vault. Travers had seen the original manuscript, but as far as he knew, he was the only living soul who had. It contained the Council’s most guarded secret. A secret that the head of the Council was sworn to protect at all costs.

Travers pushed his chair away from his desk, stood and crossed the room to stare at the garden below. A copy of Macchiavelli’s Il Principe sat on the table next to the window. He had been re-reading it recently and had decided the Italian thinker had been unfairly demonized. Macchiavelli had not been a villain but a pragmatist. A ruler’s task was to survive in the face of harsh realities. In order to succeed, rule must be absolute and ruthless. Any means were justified to maintain authority. This had been the credo of Travers's career. How could a field Watcher such as Rupert Giles ever understand?

A field Watcher had the luxury of affection. He had only one charge—his Slayer—and one goal—to save the world. The head of the Council had a far more difficult task. He had to preserve the future and the unity of the organization. He had to be careful.

Unwillingly Travers's gaze drifted to the illuminated parchment. Depicted on the upper left hand corner was a dragon biting its own tail, devouring itself. It was an ouroborus, a symbol common to many cultures. Sometimes it was a dragon. Sometimes it was a snake. In Hindu texts the dragon circled a tortoise which supported four elephants which formed the foundation of the world. Many meanings were attributed to the symbol. Some believed it to represent the gateway between this universe and the absolute. Some interpreted it as the relentless onslaught of entropy, and others saw it as an island in the river of time. In this manuscript it meant destruction and death. It meant the end of the world. . .which was the crux of Travers's problem.

His job was to protect the Council and its secrets at all costs, but there would be no Council to protect if this truly was the end of the world. And what if he revealed what was in the scroll? What if he broke his oath to keep the secret and the world survived but the Council did not?

There had to be another way. There had to be a way to bring pertinent information to light without resorting to the scroll and its secrets.

Alex Kingsley opened the door. “The vampire is here,” the young Watcher announced with a curious mixture of interest and distaste. “He’s downstairs.”

Once alone, Travers carefully returned the parchment to his personal safe. It had been uncannily fortuitous that Lydia Grant had requested permission to interview this particular vampire. She had stumbled upon a possible solution to Travers’s problem.

“Ew!” The disgust in Dawn’s voice only partially reflected the disgust on her face, which far more vivid. She stared at the dark crimson slime lining the walls of the sewer.

Buffy aimed her flashlight at her sister and said impatiently, “Dawnie, if you want to come on patrol you can’t complain about every little—“ Her foot slid in red muck and the broadsword she was carrying clattered to the ground. “—ew!”

“See!” Dawn caught up to Buffy and Xander who had been several yards ahead of her. “I’m am *so* not a wuss. It’s just icky down here.” She waved her hand under her nose. “And rank.”

Xander nodded. “I’m gonna side with the Dawnster on this one. Icky and rank plus ‘ew,’ ‘gross,’ and remind me again why we’re doing this?”

After Buffy picked up the sword, she gazed at her friend with disbelief. “Uh, hello! Blood red water usually rates on the ‘gee, what’s that about’ scale.”

“Oh, I’m all up on the Biblical ickiness,” Xander assured her. “But shouldn’t we be looking where the water comes from not where it goes to?”

Dawn nodded eagerly. “Right, we should be at a water treatment plant or reservoir or something. I’m voting for a reservoir. Then we could have swimsuits and sunblock, work on those summer tan lines.”

Buffy asked, “And when has evil ever come from a reservoir? Gotta look in the stinky, yucky places for the—“ Something scurried across the beam of light cast by her flashlight. “What’s that?“

“What’s what?” The light from Xander’s flashlight bounced wildly across the walls.

“There, that.” She grabbed Xander's hand and aimed his flashlight. Whatever it was jumped back into the darkness. “Ugh! Where did it go?“

There was a wet, smacking sound as it ran across the muck, and Buffy decided she'd willingly to sacrifice her DMP paycheck to see what it was. She felt a hand twisting the back of her shirt.

“Wait! There!” Buffy aimed her light down the pitch-black passageway to illuminate a moist-skinned, foot-and-a-half-high creature.

Buffy frowned. “Gremlin like the Spielberg movie or Gremlin like something Giles would look up in a book?”

Buffy tilted her head slightly to one side. “Really? ‘Cause I’m thinking it looks more like the little dinosaur that spit on Newman, the Seinfeld guy, in Jurassic Park—only without the multi-colored fan thing, the spit. . .or the Seinfeld guy.”

Dawn’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve got to be kidding.” She swiveled her own flashlight in the direction of the green-tinged demon standing in a puddle of dark crimson slime. “He’s an evil Kermit the frog!”

Dawn’s screamed as the creature launched itself into the air. “Kill it!” she cried as it landed near her feet. “Kill it now!"

Buffy pushed her sister out of the way as the demon again hurtled itself, spread eagled, toward Dawn.

Dawn hit the ground and skidded across the slime. Even Buffy lost her balance, slipping, then regaining her footing. “But it’s so little," she said. "I could kill it like--“ Buffy sliced off the creature’s head with a single stroke of her broadsword. “—that.” Buffy looked at Dawn and Xander. “That was sort of easy.”

Dawn examined her hands and shirt. She was completely covered in the blood-colored ooze. "This is never coming out." She looked over at the headless green corpse then back at her sister. "Easy is good, right?

Buffy turned to see the decapitated demon growing a new head. . .a meaner-looking one.

Buffy became aware of the thousand iridescent points of light glittering in the darkness, little green-gold eyes blinking at them.

In a way, it was pretty, like twinkling Christmas lights. It even had a nice glittery effect on the slime. But the pretty factor was mostly nixed by the spooky 'I think they want to kill us' vibe.

“Now what?” Dawn asked as the Evil Kermit with the brand new head started chattering, a high-pitched staccato sound. Dawn clapped her hands over her ears as Buffy longed for ear plugs. Unfortunately -- damn, Slayer duty!-- she was stuck holding a dumb sword. When the Evil Kermit moved, Buffy lunged, stabbing the creature through the center of its chest. It gave an unearthly scream of pain, but when Buffy pulled her sword free the thing stood there unharmed. It even looked kind of amused.

“Crap,” Xander said again as the blinking creatures in the darkness also started making the deafening sound.

The chattering grew louder and closer as Buffy touched her sister’s shoulder in a vain effort to comfort her. “I don’t know.”

“I know,” Xander said as the noise reached an eardrum bursting decibel. “There’s only one thing to do.”

Chattering and hissing, the creatures attacked as Buffy, Xander, and Dawn careened down the passageway. The little monsters were everywhere, and the ear-splitting sound was enough to make inner-ears bleed, heads pound, and eyesight go blurry.

“This is *so* not good. Not good at all,” Xander chanted as they rounded a corner.

Xander glanced back. “Look at that. It’s CGI madness. Looks like the beetle swarm in The Mummy.”

Buffy stopped running and took several swipes at the demons with her sword. She decapitated at least a half a dozen of them. Blood splattered against the wall, mingling indistinguishably with the sewer slime.

“Quick! In here!” Xander ducked into six-foot-high pipe shooting off the main passageway. Buffy and Dawn followed, and he closed the grate behind them.

Dawn leaned against the wall and tried to catch her breath. “How can you not know how to kill them?”

“Decapitating, skewering, poking with a stick, this I know. Anything more complicated—“

“We’re screwed.” Dawn closed her eyes and sighed. “What we need are smart people.”

“I am not Louis,” Spike protested as he looked at the array of faces surrounding him. The bird interviewing him was nice enough, and Rupes and Will were familiar faces—although Spike was a bit surprised the Council allowed Willow to be out and about--but the half-dozen strangers in the Council’s library stared at him with cold eyes and treated him like a snake in the reptile house at the zoo. “Louis was a whining, moaning, brooding wanker. If I have to be compared to a character in that loony bint’s books then at least make it Lestat.” He crossed his arms and gave a good impression of a pout. “The poofter can be Louis.

Spike eyed her suspiciously. “Yeah. What of it? Lot of time to kill during the day. I have sunlight issues, you know.”

“What?!” Spike felt outraged. He had been raised as a gentleman. He had attended Charterhouse and Cambridge. . .or at least, William had. But he was William. . .wasn't he? Bloody hell, he wasn't sure who he was any more.

“Oh, yes." Lydia nodded. "I am afraid so. In some of our texts it is theorized that as a human you were a Dickensian Artful Dodger-type—unschooled except by the streets and very possibly a killer even before your transfiguration."

“Unschooled? Illiterate?” Spike fixated on this point. Either his underlying persona or the translucent overlay of William’s soul was deeply offended. Spike stood and paced the length of the library. Watchers scattered out of his way like pigeons on a sidewalk. “If I am so bloody ignorant, how did I translate the texts to resurrect the Judge?”

Lydia looked flustered. “I. . .uh. . .believe you had a minion by the name of—“

“Dalton?” Spike scoffed. “Debase-the-beef-canoe Dalton? His Latin wasn’t worth sh—um… it was lousy.” Spike collapsed into the chair on the opposite side of the library table from Lydia. “Although it wasn’t truly Latin. It was a demonic derivative.”

Giles, who sat at the head of the table, coughed. “I believe I can verify that Spike is not illiterate, though he frequently exhibits abysmal taste in reading material.” Giles addressed Lydia and the other observers. “I can testify that Spike has an impressive knowledge of Shakespeare and Donne and can read Latin.” Giles looked at Spike. “When you sought the general reversal spell for Willow’s ‘Will Be Done’ mishap, you referenced my Latin texts.” Giles focused on Lydia. “I have also found Spike to be conversant in Fyarl, French, Italian, and Spanish—though sadly that last discovery was due to Spike’s penchant for watching soap operas on Spanish Univision.”

Spike nodded. “Right. Not illiterate.” He didn’t add that he could also read Greek and speak conversational German, Nyar, Farquart, and Trombli.

Lydia looked almost smug as she peeked up at Alex Kingsley. “I theorized as much in chapter five of my thesis.” Kingsley huffed and walked to the back of the room to stare out the window as Lydia folded her hands and returned her attention to Spike. “Is there anything else you can tell us about your human existence?”

“No, there bloody well is not. What does it matter? I thought Council dogma said I never was human. I’m what killed this body.”

Spike had always thought the Council were incredible wankers for believing such rubbish. How could he have killed William when he was William? The only life he remembered was William’s. The memories hadn’t come with the soul. They were *his,* his thoughts and knowledge, his weaknesses and desires. What William had felt, he felt. And what was he if not the sum of his thoughts and emotions?

The only difference that Spike could feel was that prior to the return of his soul, he had lacked William’s conscience. The only difference Spike had felt after Dru had turned him had been surcease of embarrassment and shame. But surely there was more. There had to be something more. Spike couldn't name what it was, but it had to exist. . .didn't it? There had to be more to a man than his regrets and remorse. There had to be more to William and to Spike than a guilty conscience.

Sitting across the table from Giles, Quentin Travers looked impatient with the growing silence. “Miss Grant, perhaps you should return to the approved list of questions.”

“Oh yes. Quite. “ She shuffled through her papers, then adjusted her glasses and looked at Spike. "Your bloodline.”

She fiddled nervously with one of the papers. “There seems to be some controversy.”

Spike smiled, it was a deliberate, charmer’s smile devoid of any real happiness because he had none. But he did know how to fake it. “What do you have there, pet?”

She handed him the document that looked like a diagrammed family tree. “There is some confusion about your sire.”

Spike sniffed. “Angelus liked to consider himself my mentor in the ways of the evil dead. Called him my Yoda once.” Mmm…you will kill this person, you will. Feel the evil. Feel it flow through you.

Spike had hated the bastard even then. Angelus had counseled targeting innocents and those without protection. Spike hadn't seen the purpose of it all. If it wasn't about food or the challenge facing down death, why bother? Looking back, both Angelus's and his own tactics sickened him.

“Angelus was never my sire," Spike dismissed. "Don’t know how that rumor got started.” He examined the diagrammed family tree. “It’s very simple. You have the Master. Met him once. He was an annoying pillock. The Master sired Darla. Darla sired Peaches. Peaches tortured and killed Dru, drove her mad and turned her into a travesty. And Dru chose yours truly. There’s your bloodline.”

Spike frowned. “Excuse me?” Damn, the prat he used to be kept coming out to play. He lifted his chin defiantly. “What are you wantin' to know?”

Lydia’s gaze fell to the table. She looked intimidated by Spike’s glare. He felt bad about that. He softened his voice. “What do you want to know, luv?”

Giles looked irritated. “If you are not going to tell the truth, Spike, this is pointless.”

Spike’s ill-fitting conscience balked at being called a liar. He had always been a bad liar, but now he was actually *bothered* by the thought of lying or being thought a liar. “And what, pray tell, am I lying about?” Bloody hell, he even *sounded* like William.

“Oh. Him. No, that was Dru. Pet wanted him for a treat. Never could deny her anything. Don’t know what the boy was thinking. Demanding to be turned like that was idiotic. After double-crossing Buffy, did he actually believe she would allow him to walk away? He was dust even before his heart stopped beating.”

That was a distant memory. He hadn't had a minion in years. “Told you. Dru’s treat. Look, I realize it’s a technicality. I usually brought the unfortunates to her. Not saying I wasn’t responsible, just that *technically* I never sired anyone. Only one person I ever offered to turn.” He looked at Willow. “That would be you, Red.” =I’m sorry. Truly sorry.= “But you’re sitting here among the living. I’m no one’s sire.”

Spike leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the highly polished walnut table as a couple of Watchers stared at him with dismay and Quentin Travers watched him with disgust. Spike smirked. “Anything else you want to know?”

Lilah caught him looking in her date book. Wesley had been spying, curious, invading her privacy. . .all of the above.

Wesley knew he should feel ashamed. Ten minutes ago they had been sweaty, naked, and intimate. His fingertips had traced the line of her spine, feeling the warm velvet of her skin. Her thighs had pressed against his hips, holding him tightly. They had shuddered and gazed into each other's eyes--then looked away. He had rolled off her and silent minutes had passed. They hadn't touched.

Lilah had been the first to choose to leave. Wesley, who once would have expected Lilah to be bold, had watched her don her discarded blouse before she rose from the bed to walk into the bathroom. It could have been an action born of modesty, but Wesley suspected it was a symbolic barrier between them. Their intimacy was only physical.

Lilah had closed the bathroom door behind her, and when Wesley had heard the sound of water running, he had grabbed her briefcase. He had rummaged through her things searching for. . .

Wesley didn't know what he had hoped to find. Something. Anything. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps all he had wanted to do was violate her privacy, betray her non-existent trust. He had found her datebook and begun turning the pages only to look to find Lilah standing in the bathroom doorway, her slender body clad in an expensive white lace bra and French knickers.

Refusing to be flustered, Wesley adopted an insolent expression. He showed her the ouroborus symbol. “What’s this?”

“The end of the world." Lilah walked into the room, her languorous movements distracting and seductive. "Wesley, after all these years of looking at dusty scrolls, surely you’ve seen the prophecy of the End of Days.”

“A partial one," he conceded. "I believe we stole it from your law firm. You remember that, don't you?"

“But only one End of Days," she reminded him. "Only one day when the calendar runs out.”

Wesley looked at the depiction of a snake swallowing its tail. “A rather morbid symbol to keep around.”

“Keeps me sharp. Keeps me on my toes." Lilah threaded her fingers through his hair. "Reminds me of what’s important.”

“What I want when I want it." She knelt on the bed, her right calf pressing against the outside of his left thigh. "Instant gratification." Her left calf glided against his right thigh. "Money. Power. Prestige." She straddled him. "Sex.”

“And what then?" Wesley rested his hands on her hips. "What of true value have you gained?”

She laughed. “You’re thinking like the good guys. I’m not a good guy." She nuzzled his neck. "What will I gain? I told you. Money, power." Her teeth nipped lightly at his earlobe. "Sex,” she whispered.

Wesley glanced at the datebook lying open on the bed. “You can’t take it with you.”

“And what can you take with you?” She tossed the datebook into her open briefcase then settled on his lap, her damp silk knickers rubbing against him. “Did I ever tell you about Wolfram and Hart's retirement plan? It’s quite. . ." She smiled into Wesley's eyes. "Impressive.”

She shifted her weight. "There is something to be said about making pacts with the eternal forces of darkness."

The garment fell away as Lilah told him, "Wolfram and Hart employees have nice golden parachute plans with the darker powers."

“You don’t honestly believe evil things keep bargains, do you?" Wesley gripped her waist firmly. "They don’t honor agreements." He tossed her over and moved quickly so that he was on top of her. "Surely someone like you understands that.”

“What I understand is that you can’t trust anyone. Evil things don’t make good friends or keep promises?” She laughed. “And the warriors of light do? Look at yourself, Wesley. Where are your do-good friends? What did trying to save the world and Angel's son do for you? Did it bring you happiness? Respect? Friendship? . . .Love? Did they keep their promises to you?”

He grabbed her hands and dragged them over her head. “It brought me one thing.”

Only what was between them wasn't even sex. It was something else, a guttural four letter word. A word he had been taught a gentlemen did not use to describe his activities with a lady… only Lilah was no lady, and Wesley no longer considered himself a gentleman.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Somewhere behind them in the darkness little Kermit beasts chattered and threw themselves against the steel grate.

"Do you think they'll get through?" Dawn asked.

"No," Xander lied.

"Probably." Buffy sighed.

Dawn was quiet for a moment before lifting her chin. "We'll deal." They continued walking down the passageway though Dawn occasionally glanced over her shoulder. She asked Buffy, "Do you know where we're going?"

"Of course she does," Xander answered.

"Not a clue." Buffy stopped walking, pointed her flashlight in one direction then the exact opposite. "Have we been here before? I feel like we're walking in circles."

"God, I hope not."

Dawn squinted. "Wait a minute." She reached up to touch the red X painted on one of the pipes running overhead. "Hold on." She walked down the passage, paused, then knelt to find a metal handle on a hatch door. Dawn grinned. "I know where we are. If we go this way, we're only about a hundred feet from the basement entrance of the Magic Box."

"How do you know that?" Buffy frowned. "Have you been in these tunnels? Who have you been hanging out with?"

Dawn's and Buffy's gazes locked.

"Oh," Buffy realized. =He-whose-name-cannot-be-mentioned= She opened the hatch door. "I guess we should get going."

Xander held back and looked up at the ceiling. "Uh…you know, there must be a manhole or something around here."

Buffy could almost feel the little lines forming on her forehead as she gazed at her friend. "Xander, we know the way out."

"Yeah, but there must be another way."

"But, why--"

Dawn rolled her eyes. "Jeez! Get over it, Xander. Anya won't bite your head off. She might wish your head or your. . .erm. . .*whatever* to explode or grow warts and fall off, but I don't think she can grant her own wishes. You're safe."

"I am not afraid of Anya."

Buffy braced her hands on her hips. "Just doing an amazing impression?"

"I just think there has to be another way."

"Okay, look, I understand why you're standing here kicking the gooey-red slime. I understand being less than 'go team!' about running to Anya. But we have a bazillion creepy critters back there wanting us for snacks. We don't know how to kill them. We don't even know what they are. We also have an 1100 year old walking demon encyclopedia a hundred feet away who, given what she did when Willow went all apocalypsy, will probably help us. So, to quote Cher, snap out of it!" She walked through the door, paused and looked back. "Coming with?"

"What makes you think she would even help?" He sounded annoyed and defensive. "We're not super-popular with her."

"Anya helped before. She was angry and hurt and she helped." Buffy's gaze locked with Xander's. "That's what friends do."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

God, what he wouldn't give for a fag. Spike hadn't brought any smokes with him. He had figured the Council would frown on that sort of thing, and he'd lost most of his taste for it anyway. But a nicotine buzz would be helpful at the moment.

He paced the Council's garden glad to have escaped the torture session. Who knew that talking about himself could be torture? It hadn't used to be. He had always loved to talk. Of course, no one other than Bit had ever bothered to listen.

Talking to Dawn, and one night of quasi-fictional havering with Buffy had been the extent of his putting his life—or unlife—into words. At least it had been until tonight when he’d had to relate it all to strangers. Looking at his existence, examining it, was something of a thankless task. Wish he hadn’t done it. Wish he hadn’t done a lot of things.

“I thought Lestat didn’t brood?”

Spike looked up to find Willow standing in the doorway. Her hair was clean and glowed like burnished copper again. The dark circles under her eyes were gone. She looked better.

“Not brooding,” he protested. “Just taking a break and stepping out for a smoke.”

Willow arched an eyebrow.

“Only without the smoke.” He tilted his head. “Wouldn’t happen to have a fag on you, would you, Red?”

She gave a ghost of her old smile. “Are you trying to corner me into making a gay joke?”

“Not really, but wouldn’t be a bad thought. Lighten the gloom around here.”

Willow stepped into the garden, her shoes crunching against the pea gravel path. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Spike looked at Willow with shock.

Willow rushed on to say. “I know what the Council told Giles, and . . . and I know you’re helping me.“ She ducked her head. “And I know I said a lot of. . . things. Mean things.” She raked her hand through her hair. “And I know if you hadn’t found me that night, I wouldn’t have crawled out of that gutter.”

Spike shrugged and said with self deprecation, “You fall in the gutter, you’re bound to land on something undesireable.”

Willow caught his sleeve and stopped Spike from pacing. “I wouldn’t even be alive.”

He searched her face as if her expression could reveal some deeper truth. “You mean that?”

She blinked. “Of course, I mean that. You dragged me out—“

Spike waved his hand as if to erase his last statement. “No. What I mean is, are you okay with being alive? You want it?”

“No more suicidal Willow?”

“Yeah.”

Willow didn’t answer immediately. She thought about it. She took so long Spike began to wonder if she was going to answer at all. She found a bench near the roses and sat down. “Pretty much. I think so. Most of the time.” She sighed. “Not much of an answer, huh?"

He understood it though. It was more or less what he felt as well.

Willow appeared to look inward as she explained, “I don’t think I want to die. I don’t think I ever *really* did. I just wanted the pain to stop.”

“It hasn’t though, has it?” It was too soon and the things that had happened were too awful to go away because they were inconvenient.

“Away? No. But I’m handling it better now. It takes time, I think.”

Spike leaned against a tree, picking at its bark. “Yeah.”

“Thank you for that. For the time.” Willow lifted her gaze to meet his. “You helped me live.”

His thoughts swung back Buffy dressed in lavender as she stood in the wreckage of his crypt. ~I can’t love you. I’m just being weak and selfish and it’s killing me.~ Spike swallowed convulsively.

“You helped me,” Willow said softly.

He gazed at the young witch, slender and pale, but better than she had been only a week before. Her skin was no longer pasty and sallow. Her eyes no longer. . .dead. Willow was alive and healing. And he had helped her? “Thank you, Red,” he said hoarsely.

“Hey, I’m the one making with the overdue thank yous.”

“Still, thank you.” He sincerely meant it.

“No, thank *you.*”

Spike almost smiled. “Now, we’re headin’ into a Vaudville comedy routine, Pet.”

“The Chipped Vampire and the Powered-Down Witch? More fun than a barrel of monkeys.”

“They’re not that fun, you know." He pushed away from the tree.

Willow gave him an odd look as she stood.

Spike confessed, “Dru tried to fill a barrel with them once. Got ugly. Nasty little buggers bite.”

And to both of their surprise, they laughed.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When working for Wolfram and Hart, one grew used to hearing about the latest plan to destroy the world. Everyone from the sixth floor janitor to the run-of-the-mill M’Fhashnik demon had some overly elaborate plot to bring existence to an end. However, it was also a fact that most of these plans didn’t stand a chance in any hell dimension of succeeding. That suited Lilah just fine. She was quite happy to see the world not end as long as the M’Fashnik paid her retainer fee.

But, as she sat in the middle of a fashionable L.A. restaurant decorated in a dark palette of eggplant, indigo, and burgundy, Lilah felt extremely uncomfortable about the plan she was hearing.

“All of our firm’s resources will be at your disposal,” Linwood Murrow, her boss, assured the client.

Gavin, that brownnoser, agreed. “I will personally assist you in any way that I can.”

But, as Lilah reviewed the client’s list of requests, her concerns grew. How could Linwood promise to do this?

Lilah looked at the client. He was a handsome man with blond hair, aquiline features and pale blue eyes. She had read Wolfram and Hart’s file on him, but seeing him in human form was a shock. He was not what she expected.

The client checked his watch. “I should be returning to Sunnydale.”

Linwood nodded. “Yes, of course. But, first, a toast.”

Lilah raised her glass of Sauvignon Blanc.

Linwood smiled. It was his scariest expression. “To the end of the world.“

“To the end of the world.” And the client’s crystal flute clinked against her own. He finished his drink and left the restaurant before Lilah voiced her concerns.

“How can we do this?” she asked.

Gavin smirked. “You wouldn’t be having an ethical crisis would you?”

“Don’t be absurd.” She looked at Linwood. “Have you read this list?”

“Why, yes, I have.” Linwood refilled his glass.

“And?”

“And what?”

She grew impatient. “And some of his requests are impossible, or have you forgotten that Darla has been dusted? Again.”

Linwood sipped his wine with a placid expression. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then there’s the fact that Angel is in a steel box under the Pacific.”

Gavin started laughing. “I’m sorry,” he apologized to Linwood. “That never fails to amuse me.”

“Yes, you find it amusing, Gavin," Lilah snapped. "*I* find it amusing. But our client seems to want us to produce Angel. And short of hiring the man who found the Titanic, how do we fish a vampire out of the Pacific when we don’t know where he is?”

Linwood signaled the waiter to bring the bill. “You’re worrying over unnecessary details, Lilah.”

“Unnecessary details? The list—“

“Isn’t important. Things will fall into place.”

She swirled her wine in her glass and sat back in her seat. “How? How can things possibly fall into place? We can’t supply half the things on this list. We can’t resurrect Darla again. We haven’t seen Drusilla since Angel set her on fire—“

“It will work out,” Linwood said emphatically. “If one part is missing, another will arrive to fill its place. It’s all part of the prophecy.” He signed the credit card receipt.

“Prophecies can be averted,” Lilah insisted. “Or, as we learned with Sahjhan, faked.”

“Perhaps certain prophecies can be averted or faked, but this is not just any prophecy. Lilah, we’re talking about the End of Days. The world as we have known it *will* end. It’s a foregone conclusion.” He patted her hand in an infuriatingly patronizing manner. “Everything will fall into place.