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Déjà Vu                      

by spikeNdru

Nearly two years after closing the Sunnydale Hellmouth, the Scoobies and their allies have scattered to the four corners of the earth. Dealing with the results of the spell that created hundreds of new slayers and the death of the A.I. Team in an alley in Los Angeles, the Scoobies are losing the cohesiveness that was their greatest strength. Will Giles' discovery of an ancient manuscript be their undoing, or will they be able to put past differences aside and find their way back to each other?

Pairings: Spike/Buffy, Willow/OC (Pilar)

Rating: NC-17.  Chapters range from PG-13 through NC-17. 

Contains violence, strong language, sexual situations, vamp hijinks (including brief incidence of M/M slash).

Thank you isn't enough for all the work and support makd put into this fic, but many thanks to makd, beta extraordinaire.

BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and 20th Century Fox.  Original characters are my own.

 

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Chapter 1

Quebec

Buffy opened her eyes and pain shot through her head, stealing her breath and leaving her nauseous. She shut them immediately and brought a hand to the back of her head. It came away bloody and her brain felt much too large for her skull. She carefully slitted her eyes, looking through the screen of her lashes, and even then, the brightness of the light sent pain stabbing through her skull. She just wanted to close her eyes and sleep. Sleep would be lovely—all warm and welcoming like down comforters and hot chocolate.

An insistent buzz in the back of her mind was trying to get her attention—attempting to convince her that sleep would not be a very good idea right now.

Phooey! Go away stupid little voice. I just need ten more minutes!

The voice continued to nag; Buffy sighed and tried to open her eyes again.

This time, the light separated from one blinding glare into dozens of small glows. Votive candles. Dozens of them, bunched together in tiers.

She waited for her eyes to adjust and then carefully sat up. She was curled around the foot of a large crucifix, behind an altar of some kind. A church then. She must be in a church.

Okay. Progress. I am obviously in a church in— Her mind went blank. This is ridiculous! Of course I know what city I'm in! I live in—

A frisson of fear ran through her body, raising the hair on her arms. Why couldn't she remember where she was? Had the head injury scrambled her brains? Was this just temporary or would she be forever lost in this darkness and confusion? She felt the panic build. Where was she? Who was she?

She wrapped her arms around the cross and tried to fight through the panic. Her heart was racing and she was afraid it would burst if she couldn't manage to calm down.

Who am I? She knew the answer was flitting through her brain like a shadow. If she could only manage to catch it . . . to pin it down . . .

With a gasp, she turned her head too quickly as she felt a warm hand touch her shoulder. The sudden movement turned her vision dark and brought flashes of light, throbbing in concert with the pain in her head.

Her vision slowly cleared and she saw an old man wearing a long black dress looking at her with concern. He had a tuft of white hair like a baby egret and his seamed face radiated compassion and welcome. He said something to her but she could not understand the words. She tried to moisten dry, cracked lips to speak. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

“Where am I?” she managed to rasp before her eyes closed again.

“Sainte Anne de Beau—“

As she lost consciousness, she smiled as she felt the circuits connect in her brain. Anne. The name was familiar. It resonated. Her name must be Anne.

**********

Los Angeles

A vaguely uncomfortable feeling brought him partially awake. He opened one eye and squinted against the bar of sunlight shining directly into his eyes. He turned his head and attempted to bring the red numbers on his digital clock into focus. He squinted harder, and although the numbers remained blurry without his glasses, he was able to make them out: 9:14. Obviously AM, as the sun continued to shine directly into his eyes. He burrowed under the pillow and attempted to go back to sleep.

He'd been on a roll last night—the words flowing into his mind faster than his flying fingers could capture them in Word; he had worked steadily throughout the night. It was after six when he finally shut down the computer and staggered to bed, pleased with the way his second novel was shaping up. He had sent his first off to various publishers almost a month ago, and the second was practically writing itself. He needed more sleep, though; his best ideas seemed to come to him in dreams.

Reluctantly, he got up to adjust the curtain that was letting in the light that had awakened him so precipitously. He drained the glass of tepid water on his nightstand before crawling back into his rumpled bed. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he drifted back to sleep. When he had read Literature at Cambridge, he had thought he'd be a poet, gracing the world with immortal works of art. Who would have dreamed that William Winter would find his calling in the Fantasy/Horror/Romance genre writing novels about vampires, of all things?

**********

Buenos Aires

Willow paced the sunny courtyard and re-read Giles' airmail letter for the third time. She had a bad feeling about this. There had to be a better way for them all to keep in touch.

When they first split up to track down the new slayers, the Scoobies had been in almost daily e-mail contact with each other. As time went on and the group got used to doing things on their own, the contact became less frequent. Now, a year and a half after closing the Hellmouth, Willow was startled to realize that it had been over a month since she'd contacted any of the Scoobies. It hadn't been intentional—well, maybe it had.

She and Kennedy had been fighting so much toward the end, she hadn't wanted the gang to know. It was sort of embarrassing. Kennedy just didn't seemed to 'get' the true Wiccan relationship to magic and the dangers inherent in losing that connection with the earth and all living things. Kennedy still viewed it as a parlor trick, and saw her as sort of an empowered female David Copperfield.

But the gang had to know when they split up, and Kennedy went back to the Hamptons to start that training school for the Slayers they had managed to identify. Kennedy was now in her element; drill sergeant by day, party girl by night. Willow had even seen a picture in an Argentine tabloid of Kennedy with Paris and Nicky Hilton leaving a hot club in New York—with an entourage, no less.
 

The Scoobies had tried to be supportive, and she felt guilty that the break-up didn't bother her more. She'd even begun to think that maybe they had all been so battle-hardened that they were incapable of deep feelings any more.

And then she had met Pilar.

Pilar came from a long line of powerful women who practiced Santeria, and the connection between she and Willow had been both instantaneous and electric. Within days, Willow had moved into Pilar's home and was studying with her mother, tia, and abuela.

Willow had felt guilty about being so happy when everyone else was still sort of in limbo. Xander had lost both Anya and his eye; Buffy still hadn't sorted out how she felt about anyone—first there was Angel and then there was Spike, but she still thought she loved Angel when she was with Spike and then by the time she decided she loved Spike, Spike was dead. Then, suddenly he wasn't, and she thought Angel went dark, but he didn't then—oops! They were all dead . . . again.

Willow read the letter a final time and then went inside to make arrangements to travel to London as soon as possible.

 

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