Summary: A slayer barters with a demon to rescue her lover, and finds herself unwittingly projected nearly three hundred years into the future with no memory of the life she left behind.
Buffy was quite certain she would never forget the look on his face. How his eyes widened, the way his jaw had all but crashed to the floor, and the gasp which had seized his throat before he ripped himself from her arms completely. She had no idea what had happened or why; one second she was enjoying the cool sensuality of his mouth, ready to die in a sea of blissful wonders that he was with her. That he believed her. That he wanted her at all. She’d been fighting back another wave of untimely sobs when he tore away from her as though she was made of fire. When he barreled over and anchored his hands against his knees, his dead chest clamoring for air he didn’t need.
Everything had changed. She didn’t know how or why, but everything had changed.
Something monumental had happened. Something beyond reproach. There had been an insanely hopeful beat wherein she’d allowed herself to dream the past had been returned to him—that he remembered everything. The notion died just as quickly; Spike bolted the second he seized a hold of himself.
William wouldn’t have run from her.
And yet there was a ringing in her ears which begged to differ. A ringing time could not eradicate once its awful sound tainted the air.
He might hate you. He might hate what you’ve done. What you’ve made him relive. He might wish you dead.
Paimon’s prophecy. Was it possible it had come true?
Had she really forsaken time and reason, nature and death…had she really sacrificed herself only to have the man who had once loved her now look upon her with hate?
William would never hate me.
No. No, he wouldn’t.
But colored with his own past as well as Spike’s, he might have reason to hate her.
Buffy shivered hard and pushed the library doors open. She knew if she dwelled upon these unhappy thoughts, her mind would set up a ring of traps in which to fall. She couldn’t allow herself to construct her own prison.
“Buffy.”
She glanced up and stopped cold.
No, she couldn’t allow herself to construct her own prison.
That was what her friends were for.
“Wow,” she said emptily, rubbing her arms. She was at once surrounded by familiar faces. Giles was standing behind the library checkout counter, looking apologetic and helpless. Willow and Xander were seated side-by-side, Indian-style, on one of the research tables. And Angel was, as expected, in the corner, his eyes dark and his expression worried. “You’re all…with the here.”
Giles’s eyes deepened with contrition. “I…urr…is Spike still here?”
She licked her lips and shook her head. “Umm, no. He…umm…something happened.”
Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “When did this happen?” she demanded incredulously.
The redhead at least had the decency to look embarrassed. She flushed and cast her gaze downward. “Umm…Giles…he showed us the book. A-and said he believed you.”
“The ‘him believing you’ thing went a long way,” Xander agreed, nodding. “If Mr. Skepticism is on board, then sign us up. Plus the book thing was all with the wigsome. How much history do you think has been gambled away like that?”
Her jaw clenched. “I didn’t mean to gamble anything away,” she said.
Nothing except her strength, but she decided to omit that bit of information. It seemed Giles had done the same.
Xander’s face went blank and his hands came up. “No, no. I’m so not with the judgment,” he clarified quickly. “Observe the non-judgment that is me.”
“No one’s judging here,” Willow quickly agreed. “We’re just…feeling lousy for the…the part where we thought you were…you know, crazy?”
The remorse on her two closest friends’ faces was so open and genuine she found it physically impossible to remain peeved. And Buffy tried—she really did. She’d spent the past couple days all but screaming from the rooftops the truth of her origin, and neither of her bestest buds had given her the benefit of the doubt.
Okay, so that was a little harsh. But there could have been a lot more benefit-doubting and she wouldn’t have complained.
“Well,” she conceded, a long sigh rolling off her shoulders. “Better late than never, I suppose.” She paused. “And for the record, it’s not like I couldn’t see how it was all with the crazy. It was kinda…ummm…out there.”
“But not so out there for the center of all things Hellmouthy and demonic!” Willow counteracted speedily. Her eagerness was almost laugh-worthy; she was very obviously determined to compensate for the past few days of being a friend of the not-so-good sense. “I…we shouldn’t have been so quick to jump on the wagon-o’-craze.”
“So this demon…” Xander set up, a wicked gleam in his eyes. It was a look she knew well—a look which occasionally gave her the idea that her friend might not be a bad demon hunter, should he overcome his overt-clumsiness. “A baddie of the Big Bad status?”
The simple thought of Paimon put a chill in Buffy’s spine and she straightened with a nod. “Oh yeah. I’d say so.”
“So what do we do? Gear up?”
She blinked numbly and glanced at Giles, whose eyes were focused on her with intensity which failed to surprise her. And without a word crossing between him, she knew exactly what he would say. What he was thinking. She knew because she was thinking the same thing. It had taken three hundred years and the selling of herself to get this far, but it seemed she had finally arrived.
She was at a place where she understood. All those little things Giles did to help her—to protect her. To get her to take her calling with the gravity it deserved. She understood now. She understood everything because she had lived it.
And it terrified her. The prospect of twice losing herself, twice losing the man she loved, twice losing everything—especially since her everything now had so much more inside it—was enough to give the devil chills.
She knew because Giles knew.
The battle they had to fight wasn’t for Xander or Willow. It wasn’t even for the ever-silent Angel, who was either waiting to say something thoroughly profound or had fallen asleep standing up. No, it was simply for Buffy.
She wouldn’t let anyone else shoulder the burden she’d brought on herself. She wouldn’t let anyone else die for her sins.
Nope. Been there. Done that. Got the t-shirt. It wasn’t the sort of ride she was itching to go on twice.
Buffy shuffled awkwardly when she realized she’d been quiet a beat too long, clearing her throat self-consciously. “The demon,” she began slowly, all too aware of everyone’s eyes on her. God, this had once been so easy. “The demon is mine, okay? This is something…this is bigger than anything you’re prepared to fight.”
There was a long, quiet beat. Both Willow and Xander stood gobsmacked.
“What?” the latter demanded.
“B-but,” Willow protested weakly. “We’ve…we’ve done this before, Buffy. The Master?”
“Of whose bones you crushed into mastery dust,” Xander agreed, nodding. “And this wasn’t your ordinary vampire. This was a big nasty of epic proportions.”
“W-we fought back the Hellmouth and everything,” the redhead added.
A thin smile tugged on Buffy’s lips. “Yeah,” she said. “You guys were great. But…look, this…” She hesitated, not wanting to voice the creature’s name. According to some mythologies—particularly the brief histories she’d glanced over in Kenneth’s books and now the volumes she’d borrowed from Giles— uttering a demon’s name gave it power. If she could avoid it, she would not breathe Paimon’s name. “This…guy…he’s bigger than the Master was. And way, way more powerful. The Master wouldn’t have been a blip on this guy’s radar.”
“Are you sure that isn’t something the demon wants you to believe?” Angel asked quietly, shocking the room with the intrusion of his voice. For all intents and purposes, he looked as though he’d prefer nothing else but to fade eternally into the background. “It sounds like something one would say if they wanted to antagonize someone into believing—”
Buffy held up a hand, effectively cutting him off. “No. No. This wasn’t a ‘my bumpies are bigger than your bumpies’ kinda thing. Believe me, I’ve seen that before.” She paused. “Guys…look. This demon is news of the massively bad sort. He has the power to erase history.” She gestured to Angel. “As Marcus Aurelius over here has so brilliantly demonstrated. He’s erased history…he took Will’s blood and dust and planted him in nineteenth century England. He made sure I was reborn to my mother and father. He was able to rearrange the universe without throwing anything out of whack. He—”
“How do you know?” Angel asked softly.
“What?”
“How do you know the universe wasn’t thrown out of whack? The sort of magic you’re talking about doesn’t come about without serious consequences.”
The weight of her debt thickened on her shoulders. “There have been consequences,” Buffy replied. “Massive.”
“To you, yes…but the world?”
“We’re all still here, Angel, what do you want from me?”
A long-suffering sigh heaved through his lips. “I’m sorry, I’m still getting used to this,” he said, his tone not sounding very contrite. “For over a hundred years, I’ve known Spike as my idiotic grandson. Now—”
Xander’s nose wrinkled. “Grandson?”
“Whatever.”
Giles cleared his throat. “Vampires…erm…have a formal title for the one who makes them,” he said by way of explanation. “That being sire. And as Angel has told me, sometimes the word ‘sire’ is instead applied to the vampire who, for lack of a better word, adopts a fledgling and teaches him or her the ways of the…of the demonic world, as it is.”
“I’m not seeing where the grandson thing comes in,” Xander volunteered, still looking very much of the wigged.
“Drusilla sired Spike,” Angel explained shortly. “I sired Drusilla. Spike is a fifth generation Aurelian.” Everyone stared at him with equally blank expressions. He sighed and held up a hand, pointing to each finger as he listed off the members of his vampiric family, looking very much put out. “The Master, Darla, Me, Dru, Spike. That makes five. Fifth generation.”
A thrill of pride ran down Buffy’s spine. “But Spike’s not yours,” she said. “I mean…I guess a part of him is, but Will was never Aurelian.”
Angel perked a brow. “You knew this much about him in the eighteenth century?”
“My watcher was a Nazi sans the whimsy. I knew a lot about a great many things.” She quirked her head cheekily, another rush commanding her veins. There was something about being knowledge-girl which she could definitely get used to. “When Will came to town…when I found out who he was, I did all the research I could.”
Giles perked considerably at that, looking both incredulous and proud. “What year was he born?”
“1502. Sired in 1527.”
Xander’s jaw hit the floor. Willow gaped. Angel just stood frozen.
Buffy frowned and shuffled. “What?”
Willow just shook her head. “Wow…” she mused. “And here I thought it was a little wigsome that you were crushing on a guy who was two-hundred and thirty years older than you.”
“Two-hundred and twenty-six,” Angel corrected, grumbling.
“Well, he wouldn’t have been five hundred years old when we were together,” Buffy retorted. “He would’ve been younger than Angel. And hey!” She turned to Willow, arching a brow. “Wigsome? Who was it that was demanding every little detail that involved smoochies?”
The redhead eeped but didn’t reply.
“I believe we’ve…erm…digressed,” Giles said quickly, already in heavy glasses-polish-mode. “As much as I’m going to have to pick your brain about Spike and his first life at a later date, I believe the point you were trying to make was—”
“The demon,” Buffy said with a nod. “Yeah. And how very much none of you are going to get involved.”
“We’re already involved!” Xander protested.
“I’m so involved I’ve made post-its,” Willow said, nodding furiously.
“It’s not fair. You can’t just change the rules like that.”
“And yet, see just how I did.” Buffy offered a small sympathetic smile. While her chest swelled with gratitude, their protests only furthered her conviction. These were her friends—her very best friends. People she refused to take for granted ever again. If they did something stupid and tried to help, chances were weighing heavily on the side of one or both of them getting killed. And that was something she simply couldn’t allow. Not for something she’d instigated. “Look…guys…I appreciate it. I really do…but this guy…he’s my problem.”
“Giles gets to help!” Xander argued. “Why does Giles get to help?”
“He doesn’t.”
“Oh, he bloody well does,” the watcher argued, his tone astonished and his eyes almost hurt at her abrupt shut-out.
A long, resigned sigh waved down her spine. “Giles…you know more than anyone what’s coming—”
“Yes, and unlike everyone else in this room, I similarly have a duty to upkeep. You are under my watch, Buffy. Like it or not, I will be a part of this.”
It was the strangest sensation—knowing what she would have said a week ago in contrast to what she wanted to say now. This was the sort of thing that would have once earned a flippant remark; perhaps she would have agreed to appease him, then proceeded to alter her method to do things her way. And while a large part of her wanted to do just that—the part screaming at her to keep Giles and the others safely detached from the Hell she’d brought on herself—the larger part was swimming in gratitude.
God, how she’d taken him for granted.
Kenneth had killed her—if not in deed, then certainly in action. Kenneth had killed her, and Giles was willing to die in her place.
There weren’t words enough to express her gratitude for him.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She hesitated. “But I swear to God, Giles, I am so gonna kick your ass if you get yourself killed. You hear me?”
A faint smile played across his lips. “Loud and clear.”
Willow ahemed, thankfully denying the room the expected long beat of stunned realization. For that, Buffy was more than glad. She didn’t know how many more stunned minutes of silence she could take.
“What about Spike?” the girl asked softly. “Does he get to help?”
“Absolutely not,” Buffy replied.
“Well, at least we know she isn’t playing favorites,” Xander muttered.
A frown marred Angel’s brow. “Why not?” he asked, stepping forward. “I thought you’d—”
“You think I’d allow the man I faced Hell to save to step into the crossfire for me?” she repeated with a disbelieving snort. “I’ve had to watch him die once. I won’t do it again.”
Willow’s brow furrowed in thought. “But if he doesn’t remember—” she began before her eyes caught something behind Buffy and grew unreasonably wide.
And before she could make a sound, Buffy knew. Her skin hummed with awareness of his proximity, her blood warming, every fiber of her being aching for the solace of his embrace. Her heart, however, was suddenly thundering and her mind had gone silly.
He’d left her just a short while ago. No, not left: bolted. He’d fled from her and she didn’t know why—only that he was back now.
“He does,” Spike said softly, his voice reaching her ears before her feet could fully pivot to face him. Before her eyes saw his. “Remember.”
Everything fell deathly still. Even the dust in the air froze in astonishment. Buffy found herself in mid-turn, her gaze locked with his, her brain ready to collapse and her eyes threatening to drown her in the tears gathering behind the dam. She saw him—caught in that impenetrable stare of realization. At once her heart felt like singing, even as the rest of her grew cold with dread. Dread which hadn’t a name, but existed nonetheless. Dread which wouldn’t allow her rest.
He knew. He knew. He remembered.
And yet he’d run from her.
“Will?” she asked softly, her voice cracking. God, she was going to dissolve right here and she didn’t give a damn. She just wanted to hear his voice. He could say anything he liked; hell, he could read her the morning paper and she’d be contented. She just needed his arms around her. She needed these fears banished and his love for her whispered in her ears. “Ohhh…”
Spike didn’t say anything. He seemed just as frozen as she. As though he didn’t know if he was truly prepared to look at her.
The thought alone made her want to break.
“How do we know?” Angel asked suddenly. “How do we know he remembers?”
“What?” Willow demanded. “Look at him!”
“Giles said—”
“Angel, man,” Xander said gently. “Just…shut up.”
“I remember,” Spike repeated, and again the library fell utterly still with his revelation. He hadn’t even blinked at the others; his eyes were focused entirely on her. “I remember everything.”
Tears broke through her barrier and began making silent, steadfast rivers down her cheeks. “Will…oh God…”
“Your mates want proof?” he asked, taking a slow, methodical step forward. “Can’t offer much, I guess. There’s this: you painted the sunrise on our bedroom wall. You love dancing in the rain. Your left foot’s ticklish but your right one’s not. You were with me when…” A heartbreakingly poignant smile split his face. “When it happened. Your eyes were the last thing I saw.”
“Will…”
Buffy heard a tearful gasp behind her—one she identified as Willow’s. Everyone else was stunned silent.
“I remember everything, darling. Everything.”
If nothing else, that was the one thing which finally had her moving. Had her break from the glass prison where she’d trapped herself in her hopeful bewilderment. Darling was something Spike had never called her. Never. It was wholly a William-expression. A call to a world-apart. Something spoken today often in jest, never mindful of how much it meant to others.
Meant to people like her.
It was real. God, it was real. It was so, so real.
He was here.
“Will—”
Buffy didn’t realize she’d stepped forward until Spike stepped back, holding up a hand, his expression pained and wrought with emotions she didn’t want to name. And the world went cold around her.
Oh God.
“I…” He was breathing hard, his expression lost and conflicted. “I can’t do this right now.”
“Will—”
“Spike,” he corrected. “Still Spike.” He glanced up, and she saw part of him break at the sight of her tears. “I can’t do this now,” he said again. “’m so sorry, love. I jus’ can’t. I’ll…I jus’ thought you oughta know…that I know.”
“I don’t—”
“Sorry for runnin’ out on you earlier. Din’t mean to like that. I jus’…” He broke off, shaking his head. “I need to think. All right? I’ll…I need to think.”
He turned then and as silently as he’d come, he began to walk away, his body lacking its usual confidence. He looked, for all the world, like a half-man.
She’d done that to him. Dear God.
And yet, unable to help herself, she knew she couldn’t allow him to leave like this. Not like this. Not with the dreams of a lovers’ reunion shattering around her. She had to let him know the one thing—the fundamental which had gotten them here. She knew he had no reason to not believe her, but knowledge only heightened the words’ importance.
She had to tell him again.
“I love you.”
There was a pregnant silence. Spike paused just as he reached the library doors. “I love you, too.”
How those words could sound so heartfelt but so distant at the same time she didn’t know—only that they did.
Spike met her gaze over his shoulder. He meant it. He really did. He loved her.