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Chapter 17

Buffy was tired.

For the past year, she’d roamed the country, never staying more than a few days at a time in one city. At least not once she’d finally broken down and stole into a blood bank to feed. Human blood was needed to keep the dark side of her appeased – though she’d yet to really test that theory since having the Slayer demon returned to her body – it was either that, or Sire’s blood, and since it had been so long since she’d had the other, human blood it was. 

It had taken her a couple of months to discover how long she could actually go without feeding. The number crystallized in her mind – four days. At first, she’d fed every day – snacked really – but as the weight of what she’d done, the despondency over the lack of being with her mate began to get to her, she’d begun to feed less and less. Two months later, she’d nearly killed her first human – the first human she remembered, leastways. In the aftermath of that incident in the alley, she’d always made sure that she would feed before the hunger became too great. 

Spike…

Selfishly she opened herself to him, wanting a bit of comfort before she was gone. Needing to convey how much she truly loved him, while at the same time masking how horrible she truly felt. That it was her fault she couldn’t get past Dawn’s death, not his. Not that it worked. After having cut him off for so long, she was unable to filter her emotions… and he was privy to it all. 

In return, she sensed his urgency, and his love. So much love it brought tears to her eyes. He loved her still and just wanted her to come home.  

‘Not worthy of your love…’ 

‘Yes you are…’ came back to her. 

Now, as she looked out over the moonlit ocean, listening to the waves crash against the shore, she wondered why she’d bothered running for so long. Why she’d taken this long before giving up and ending it. The last year had been nothing but pain. A year spent apart from Spike and the others, and she was no closer to coming to grips with what she’d done. The monster she’d become. The friends, the sister, she’d been unable to save. 

I’m a failure… Oh god… Dawnie…

And that was the crux of the matter. 

She’d failed at protecting her sister, unable to do anything except watch as her organs had been liquefied, leaving only a shell to be taken over by Illyria. Here she was, imbued with the First Slayer’s essence, was essentially The Slayer, the mother hen, and she hadn’t even been able to prevent Dawnie’s death.

True, it had been Angel that had sent the bitch back to her resting place, Buffy seeing only Dawn as she looked upon the blue-skinned thing inhabiting her sister’s body and unable to actually do it herself. Yet, she’d felt the scythe slice through her own body as it cleaved the Ancient in two. 

It had been like watching Dawn die all over again. 

Her mind had shut down, and she’d been running ever since. 

Only now, now she was tired. Tired of the constant pain. She craved the peace that was once lost. Knowing it could be found in the rising sun. 

So she sat there unmoving, knees tucked to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs as she waited. 

Not long now…  

Amber eyes watched the sky grow steadily lighter, until the tip of the sun crested the watery horizon. She could feel her skin begin to smolder, and she forced herself to let it happen, to watch. To see the sun rise one final time. 

The green mist coalesced out of nothing, but Buffy was too focused on the orange globe steadily rising in the sky. One minute her skin was beginning to burn and flake, the next… nothing. She still watched the sun come up, chasing away the darkness, but the burning sensation was gone. The peace she was so close to achieving was gone. 

And she began to cry in earnest, closing off her link with Spike, not willing to subject him to any more of her misery. 

Why couldn’t they let her go? Didn’t they realize how much this was killing her? Dawn was dead. And it was her fault. By altering the situation with Fred, she’d ended up sacrificing her own sister. Dawn was dead because of her. 

“Buffy…” 

Buffy didn’t hear her name being called, too caught up in the grief she’d finally given vent to. Her slender shoulders shook silently in her despair; her tears fell steadily down her pale, gaunt face. Alone on the deserted beach, no one was witness to her misery. 

The energy swirled around her as she collapsed to the ground and huddled in a ball. Protected her against the death she so desperately craved.

“Buffy…” 

 If the mist could, it would have rolled its eyes impatiently.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Sire!” Spike bellowed, bursting into the large hotel room the six of them shared, one in a long line of rooms they’d rented the past year. 

Angel stood up from the chair where he’d been trying to triangulate Buffy’s whereabouts with a local map of the area. Cordelia sat beside him, her face pale and sporting several layers of dark circles beneath haunted eyes that stared up anxiously at the blond, too afraid to hope. They’d been so close so many times in the past. Connor – he’d given up on ever being called Steven again thanks to Spike and his refusal to dignify Holtz’s name for the kid – sat on the other side of her, his hand giving his “step-mom’s” a slight squeeze in support while they waited for Spike to speak. 

He must have found out something, if his excitement was anything to go by. It was the most animated anyone had seen him in the last year. 

Cordelia blamed herself for that, and tried to assuage her guilt by looking after the blond. She knew it was the conversation she had with Buffy that had set her off, causing her to disappear without a trace. Angel knew better and tried to convince her of the fact – not that it did any good; Cordy was as stubborn as his childe, more so in fact. He’d been the one to kill Illyria. And with Buffy there to witness the deed. He was the one responsible for her leaving.

Many a night he’d woken from restless dreams, hearing her anguished denial ringing in his ears at what he’d done. 

Seeing the effect her absence had on his childe hadn’t helped his guilt either. 

Spike had come to, calling for Buffy, having not been able to sense her through the claim. Eyes swollen shut, his lip split open and spilling blood – he’d whispered her name over and over.

Each unanswered call had been like a lance through Angel’s soul. Pointed looks at both Gunn and Wesley as he’d knelt down and hefted his childe up into his arms had met with shrugs and a slight shake of their heads, their faces showing their concern – but neither had seen the Slayer emerge from the portal. He’d had the two retrieve Dawn’s body and the scythe and the four had reluctantly made their way back to the Hyperion.

“What is it?” 

“Buffy… It’s… She’s on the beach. We’ve gotta hurry. I’ll be dawn soon,” Spike told him just as Wesley emerged from the bathroom. 

Angel was shocked. In the last year, not once had Spike been able to sense Buffy. 

“She’s letting you in?” 

“Yes…” he whispered. He didn’t tell Angel how bad it hurt. How desolate the Slayer felt. His sire had been carrying a lot of baggage, and part of it was Spike’s fault – he’d not been the best company the first few months after Buffy had left. He’d been more dead than undead. Refusing to eat. Refusing to do anything but waste away. 

Until Angel had taken matters in his own hands. 

Spike was still far too lean, but then, they all were. Sleepless nights and constant travel played havoc with their appetite. His appearance had also taken a beating. He’d not touched his hair in the past year, so the scraggly ends now brushed his shoulders. The duster had been left back at the Hyperion with Gunn and Lorne, the two keeping an eye on things there while the rest went with him and Angel to track down the Slayer. The clothes he now wore were courtesy of Cordelia and her hurried shopping spree – blue jeans, plain t-shirts, and sneakers.

He didn’t care what he looked like.

Only finding Buffy mattered. 

“Well, what are we standing around here for? Let’s go find her!” Wesley announced. He grabbed the keys to the SUV and headed for the door. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Oh god… we’re not going to make it,” Cordelia whispered. She sat in the front passenger seat of the SUV. Wesley had the gas pedal buried in the floorboard, but the thick sand was keeping their forward progress to a minimum. “Hurry, Wesley,” she quietly urged. “Hurry…” 

Several hundred yards ahead of them, Buffy sat hunkered down near the edge of the ocean, her arms wrapped around her knees as she stared east. Towards the sun just now starting to appear on the horizon. 

“Noooooo!” 

In the back seat, Spike was clawing for the door handle; he’d caught a glimpse of Buffy through the front windshield. Saw firsthand how exposed she was. And the sun starting to rise. Only Angel, with his superior size and strength, was able to keep him from flinging the door open and racing to her side – and even then, he’d needed Connor’s help.

“Lemme go. Lemme go. Please, Sire… Lemme go…” Spike begged. He clawed, kicked, vamped, and then sunk his fangs into Angel’s forearm. Anything to get loose and out of the vehicle. He could feel Buffy starting to burn; he had to get to her… now. 

Angel was impervious to the attacks of his childe. He could smell the salty tang of Spike’s tears, and could feel his own eyes become unnaturally moist. To be so close, only to have it come to this. “Wesley…” he growled when Spike renewed his efforts to get free. 

“I’m trying…” 

Burning. Burning. Burning… Spike could practically smell Buffy’s flesh disintegrate into ash. And she wanted it. He could feel it. She wanted it to be over. Wanted to stop hurting. Pain, white hot along her nerve endings. Then… nothing. 

Their connection was severed. 

Like a light switch had been thrown, Spike collapsed onto Angel, near catatonic. His eyes were open and unfocused; deep blue eyes seemed lifeless, dull. His lips were slightly parted. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe.

Angel clutched Spike to his chest. The tears he’d held at bay fell freely now. He moaned – a low keening wail that went through each of the humans in the SUV.

Buffy was gone, and by all appearances, Spike wasn’t too far behind. 

Alone again.

Not even his son’s comforting hand on his shoulder as he sat in the row behind him was enough to pull him from his misery. 

“Oh my god…” Cordelia stared transfixed at the green energy that wrapped itself around Buffy, keeping her from harm. “Wes, are you…? Do you see…?” 

“Uh huh… I… it’s… unbelievable…” His foot lifted slightly from the gas pedal as his awe at the sight before him pulled at his concentration. At least until Cordelia reached over and whacked him on the shoulder to get him moving. 

“Angel… look! It’s Buffy! She’s… she’s alive, Angel. Something’s protecting her. She’s not dusting.” Cordelia managed to tear her eyes away from Buffy and the green energy surrounding her to look in the back seat. Angel was huddled over Spike, rocking him back and forth, his face mere inches from the other vamp’s.

He’d apparently not heard a word she’d said. 

“Angel? Angel?” She reached back and gently shook his knee. She didn’t recoil at his sudden growl, or that he’d barred his fangs at her. Her heart nearly broke at the anguished look on his face that not even the demon could hide. “Angel,” she called out in her most soothing voice. “Buffy’s not dead. She’s being protected somehow… Look…” 

It was another few moments before her words seemed to penetrate, and by then, Wesley had reached Buffy and stopped about ten feet in front of her. Cordelia sat back, allowing Angel an unobstructed view of Buffy out the front windshield. “See? She’s okay…” 

Angel stared at Buffy curled in a fetal position on the beach, crying. His nostrils flared, the demon slowly processing what his eyes were telling him. Buffy was alive. Spike’s mate was alive. 

Spike. 

He tore his gaze away from the Slayer and returned his attention to the vampire he held in his arms. 

“Will…” he called softly, trying to break into his childe’s trance. “Will…” 

Spike didn’t respond, didn’t even twitch. 

“Will… wake up. Buffy dinna die. Please, Will…” 

Not even a flicker that he’d heard. 

“Cordy…?”

Cordelia nodded, understanding Angel’s unasked question. She looked at Connor, who was seated in the back row of the SUV. “Can you help me, Connor?” 

The two stepped carefully from the vehicle, conscious of the two vampires, and slowly approached the swirling mist surrounding the Slayer.

“Wait here, mom,” Connor told Cordelia, and while she was fuming at the moniker, hands on hips and ready to light into him about her being nowhere near old enough to be his mother, Connor stepped forward and was instantly enveloped by the green energy. He held his breath, waiting to feel… something – his spleen ripped out through his nose, a crushing chest injury, sudden oxygen deprivation. All he got was a cool tingling sensation that swept him from head to toe, that quickly settled into a soothing warmth.  

He took that to mean he’d passed muster and knelt carefully next to Buffy. 

Connor had a vague recollection of what the Slayer looked like. He’d only seen her that one time right before the gang had left to deal with Illyria. The girl before him looked nothing like her. She looked dead, and not given that she was a vampire either. Skin stretched tight over sharp features. Her eyes were sunken. Her hair, lackluster, a dull dingy brown. The clothes she wore came straight out of Hobos-R-Us, and the brief assessment he took told him they probably hung on her slight frame. 

She was still crying, completely unaware of his presence. Huge wracking sobs that appeared to tear at her soul. Carefully, so as not to startle her, he fitted his arms beneath her neck and knees and picked her up. He made his way back to the SUV, pleased at seeing the green mist shadow his movements – to the point where it even followed him back inside the vehicle.

Angel had managed to get him and Spike into the back row so that Connor could easily slide into the middle seat with the Slayer. When he was in, the door shut by Cordelia, and she back in the front passenger seat, the mist stretched to encompass them all within the interior of the SUV, treating everyone to its calming presence. Smiles graced the lips of those conscious; Buffy continued to cry softly, while Spike was locked away in his trance. 

It was a quiet ride back to the hotel.

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