Title: Possession (Chapter One)
Author: Trixie (trixiefirecra16@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer: Joss owns Buffyverse. JK Rowling owns Harryverse.
Rating: NC 17
Author's Notes: Yes, this is a re-write. I wasn't satisfied with the
original, and since I got about a million new ideas over the summer when I
didn't have my computer, I decided it would be best just to re-write the
entire story.
Author's Notes part deux: This will be written in alternating POVs- Buffy
first, and then Dawn.
Timeline: Six years after "Two to Go/Grave" and "Tomorrow". Six years after
"The Goblet of Fire" in the HP verse
Summary: Sex, souls, past lives, the Ventrue, Voldemort, dream kings and
castles, psychotic princesses and magic, time travel and learning to live
with remembering. Passion and Possession.
Main Pairings: Buffy/Angel, Dawn/Spike, Harry/Hermione, Draco/Ginny
<i></i> - denotes italics
<b></b> - denotes bold text
Weak Translation: La vie suce, pas il? Mais, laissez moi allez, ok = Life
sucks, doesn't it? But let me go, ok?


<b>Buffy</b>

<i>
I remembered.

It was long ago. I awoke from a heavy sleep, my eyes gasping open, my mouth
stretched in a hideous howl of fear. There was satin overlay above my head,
with tiny bows I felt with fingers which were knitting together after months
of unravelling. My bones creaked, my insides heaved, as they were cruelly
thrust into being, into life- pulsing with blood and grey matter. Everything
tingled and stretched and hurt- hurt with the deep sting of a thousand paper
cuts, of a thousand broken hearts, broken bones- and I screamed. Screamed
with pink lungs new to the world, screamed into dead silence, as the air
around me shivered and shook itself into waking.

I remembered then, I think. Just as I was beginning to move- to breathe, to
*exist*, I remembered. My mind shuddered with the onslaught of images, of a
rushing torrent that enveloped my brain and seized my throat. I pulled at
the satin overhead, felt sleek, polished wood and broke it with my fists,
the edges shattering the pale, translucent flesh of my knuckles. Chunks of
rich earth fell over my nose and eyes, obscuring my vision which had already
been blurry and slightly distorted. Coughing, I kept pulling and pulling,
wondering what six feet of dirt and ants and beetles would feel like if it
crushed my body, wondering what was happening, wondering, I suppose- where I
was. Who I was.

Tearing my way up through the world, I breathed in brown air and slimy
tendrils of grass, and the scent of rotten flowers, and I remembered. Even
as my hand broke free, groped for purchase, I felt the pressure of hundreds
of years, hundreds of nights, hundreds of dances, hundreds of dawns,
hundreds of deaths- thousands of kisses that I could still taste on my lips.
As I choked on the night sky, stood on shaking legs and stared at my own
grave, I realized that my name was Buffy Summers.

I realized that I had been dead for a long time.

Stumbling, running, I fled from the trees, and the stone marker which bore
my name.  I sought to escape the burning stars, the waxing moon, and stepped
into the realm of the damned. Fire, hot and sure, licked at the edges of the
buildings, clung to heaps of silver metal, scorched it's way through leafy
bushes, and poked enquiringly at my toes. Motorcycles roared past my quaking
body, and I pressed my hands to my ears in reflex, as the sound reverberated
like the crashing of a dozen planes. Demons, shot with silver, moved in
groups, their hands inviting destruction, their touch poison, their mouths
breeding despair. I watched, unable to do anything, my limbs useless
appendages without any suggestion of movement beyond the basic.

But I'm the Slayer, I thought absently, wondering if this was some sort of
test. Wondering if maybe this was my own personal Hell- if I was going to go
through eternity watching demons destroy Sunnydale without the ability to
protect it.

I remembered many things as I watched them kill my mirror image, watched as
her pieces scattered over the ground like ashes.remembered the white seas
surrounding us, the tang of the girl's cheek under my lips, the quick beat
of her pulse as I gripped soft inner wrist and whispered the words I hoped
she would take with her through life. Remembered bolts of blue shooting
through my skin, sucking my Summers blood and sating itself on the veins
which made me whole. Remembered peace, remembered feeling. Finished.

I accepted then, that even if I wasn't in Hell-I might as well have been.

I could see two different lives. One without the girl, one with the girl.
We'd make another day like it tomorrow but the sound of wind chimes tolled
in my ears and I remembered. Sweaty nights and foreign bazaars. White noise
and hot, drugging kisses. The smell of burning flesh and the sharp,
unforgiving point of a sword. Red dresses and coiled hair with roses and
trailing vines. Hell and Heaven and fiery eyes seeing a tomorrow beyond my
reach. Rolling hills and misty forests. The glittering leaves, the
glittering gold. The weight of fire trucks and the sound of sirens- and
someone.is.gone.

I accepted then, that there were things I had to carry with me, that no one
would be able to understand- that in effect, everything was changed forever-
especially me.

So I lost myself in the fires of Sunnydale, and hoped I would burn to ash.
</i>

+ + +

Dim lights shine from the windows of the apartments lining the street, their
wavering glow like tiny eyes blinking in my direction each time I move.
Staying close to the shadows, I breathe in deeply, smelling the faint scent
of salt and yeast, the pastry chef at the boulangerie on the Rue de
Montemarte obviously still baking in his vast kitchens. The air is cold, and
fresh, only a slight cloud of smog floats over the city, and as I glance up,
I see the red lights of a plane as it soars into the stars.

Every so often, a car purrs past me, turning down onto one of the winding
streets which tangle through Paris with a never-ending ness that never
ceases to amaze me. The pavement is rough beneath my booted feet and I curl
my fingers into the black leather of my pants. It's been a slow night, and
I'm itching for a fight that lasts past five minutes. Out of the corner of
my eye, I watch a couple emerging from a house-party, diamonds glittering
from the woman's throat, the man by her side holding her waist possessively,
his fingers gleaming in the wash of moonlight. I ignore the momentary surge
of jealousy, simply enjoying their careless laughter as they step into the
waiting taxi, her arms holding him up as he stumbles, her giggles like peals
of silvery bells. If drunken people didn't irritate me as a general rule,
I'd want to go over and join them. I wonder sometimes what it's like to be
young and in love, without a care in the world. I don't think I'll ever
know, and maybe that's not such a bad thing- after all, the only thing worse
than not getting what you want, *is* getting it.

Suddenly a hand snakes around my leg, the fingers like claws. I kick back
reflexively, and realize it's a drunk, lolling in the darkened alcove of a
store front, his breath heavy and foul from years of abuse. The bottle of
vodka in his smooth hand shimmers against the black like a watery lantern
and I lean down, prying his palm from my calf muscle, muttering, "La vie
suce, pas il? Mais, laissez moi allez, ok?"

"I don't think so. Slayer," he hisses without preamble, grabbing my arm and
twisting it behind my back.

With an undignified squawk, I struggle as he pushes me against the wall and
my head slams against knotty brick. His nails rake over my arms, thick
trails of blood appearing on the surface of my skin, which has been
abnormally thin since Heaven. My teeth grind together as I wrestle
backwards, not quite sure what angers me more- the fact that he tricked me,
or the idea of blood stains on my new leather pants. Using my legs to propel
me up the side of the wall, I flip over him, my fists to his face
immediately as my knuckles drive up through of his nose, sending the bone
splinters to his brain. Any human would have died instantly, but he howls in
rage, his frantic, messy kicks to my sides making my breath come in hurried
pants, as I punch him again, and again, our whirls over the street like an
obscene dance in a ballroom from Hell.

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," he snarls as he rounds to the right and then
backhands me across the face, his rings scraping my cheek.

"That's so last year," I shoot back, knocking him flat with a fierce left
hook to the jaw. "I'm going by Skank now."

He looks up at me and shakes his head. "Be afraid Slayer. Be very afraid.
The end is near."

Reaching down into my boot for my stake, I slam it casually through his dead
heart, making it even deader. "For you maybe. And by the way, you hit like a
girl."

Walking straight through the dust, I laugh wryly, as I realize my mood has
been lifted by the fight.

"Nice one," a voice says from behind me.

"Did you expect anything less?" I respond, turning slightly to gaze at him.

"Of course not," Angel answers, his smile slight. "Good night for you? It's
been slow for me. Only got two over on the Champs Elysee- three in the back
ally behind Harrods."

"It's the designer clothes," I grin. "Attracts the females in droves."

As he falls into step beside me, he arches a brow. "Is that a smile on your
face? What happened to the bad mood from earlier?"

"I know," I bemoan. "I'm sick and twisted. But maybe kicking ass is just
comfort food. Like ice cream, but without the fat."

Angel laughs low. "Maybe. Did you see those limos that passed by the
Pantheon?"

"No, why? Any good celebrities in town?"

He shrugs lightly, his shoulders broad and strong beneath the black leather
of his jacket. "I don't think so. There was just something off about them-
the limos I mean. And the smell."

"What smell?"

"Coppery," he answers. "It hung over them like a cloud." Passing a hand
through his tousled hair, he glances down at me. "That's never good."

"I'd say no," I shake my flaxen head, my hair flowing down my back like
waves of pale gold. A lock slides over his arm, as I lean close, the bite of
the wintry air stinging my nose. "Want to check it out?"

"I think we should," he says, reaching down and lacing his fingers through
mine, our palms cleaving together with quiet desperation. "Your hands are
sticky."

"It's blood," I respond casually. "Goddamn vampire scratched my arms with
his girly nails. I guess they *do* still grow after you die."

Angel's eyes meet mine and he nods dryly. "I think that's been
scientifically proven." Stopping in mid-stride, he pulls gently on the
sleeves of my pea-coat, sliding them up so he can inspect the livid welts
criss-crossing my inner elbows and wrists. Blood oozes from a deep one near
my ring finger, and he presses his lips to the cut, kissing it softly. "I'm
sorry," he whispers, and I remain perfectly still, the slow, sinuous heat in
my belly thrumming for release.

"What for?"

He shakes his head. "I should have been there to protect you."

"I'm the Slayer," I remind him in a voice I usually reserve for small
children and especially stupid adults. "It's my job."

"Not to get hurt," he points out.

My smile is strained. "That's what being Buffy is all about." Noticing the
red on his mouth, I reach up and press my thumb to the stain, his lips cool
and slightly chapped underneath my skin. "Besides, I barely felt it."

His tongue flicks out, just barely, and licks away the drop of my blood. My
breath hitches and as a car roars past us, I stare at the fading headlights,
their yellow cast on the street sickly and pale. I feel dizzy and step back,
his hand on my elbow too much to bear. Bending down, he brushes my forehead
with his lips, his fingers tangling in my hair briefly. "Just look out for
yourself, love," he murmurs.

For one moment, I allow myself to sink into his embrace and press my face
into the cool fabric of his sweater, which peeks through the opening of his
long jacket. He smells of the water-coloured roses he bought me this
morning, of the hot, buttery crepes we ate in the quiet hush of our
apartment, of sweet sweat and of the bitter winter chill. My breath comes in
hitching gasps as I look up into the burn of his stare, and his mouth slides
over mine, slowly, tasting of copper pennies and mint. I groan softly, his
fingers curling around the back of my neck, underneath the heavy weight of
hair. His teeth rasp over my swollen bottom lip for a moment and then he
draws away, not looking at me.

"We should probably go," he says roughly and I nod.

"In agreement."

We don't join hands this time. We walk separately, lost in our own thoughts,
as we keep to the inky blackness of the buildings which are crammed together
with a busy elegance in the heart of Paris. There have been dozens of
moments like that one before, in the six years since we left Sunnydale and
LA to make a new future together, and each time, its harder to pull away-
harder not to let him yank me, naked and panting, into some dark ally and
finish it. Finish everything.

"Are we working tomorrow?" I ask him, to fill in the blank silence.

His face glows under the streetlamps, casting the bones of his cheeks and
jaw into sharp relief. "Yes," he answers. "Harry told me something about a
special meeting. Must be a new big bad in residence."

"Hooray," I clap without any enthusiasm. "It's always horrible when Harry
labels a meeting 'special'. Usually means we'll be there for three hours
while Hermione pulls out every book written on the subject and proceeds to
give an essay on each." I laugh. "But maybe she'll surprise me this time and
keep that cute mouth shut."

"I doubt it," Angel says dryly. "Has she ever? I got the feeling it was
pretty serious though. A task force is being assembled- but Harry wouldn't
tell me what it was about. I assume they think Voldemort is finally getting
ready to make a comeback."

"Did a Death-Eater escape from Azkaban? Hermione told me that's usually when
they start the extreme panicking."

"Not that I know of," he shakes his head. "But I heard that the Dark Mark
was spotted somewhere over Germany. Harry'll tell us more, I'm sure. By the
way, did you send their engagement present yet?"

"I don't know what to get them," I wail, suddenly panicked as I remember
their wedding is in two months. "I've always been horrible at choosing
presents, you know that."

"Relax," he chuckles quietly. "I already picked out a painting for
them-didn't I leave a note on the fridge asking you to get it wrapped and
sent over?"

Slanting him a withering glance, I step over the curb as we cross to the
other side of the road. "Didn't I tell you once that leaving me little notes
accomplishes nothing? In fact, didn't we figure that out after the whole,
'Pick up the dry cleaning for that important dinner with the Minister of
Magic' fiasco?"

His mouth curves into the familiar half smile, and one of his fingers curls
around mine in a chaste gesture of affection. "I should have learned my
lesson."

"But you never do," I squeeze his thumb, "And it never ceases to amaze me-"

My words trail off into a gasp of complete and utter horror as we turn a
corner and come across carnage. Angel recoils and grabs me, pulling me back
into a wall. Hundreds of vampires swarm over a group of famous politicians,
who I know are in the city for an important summit on world peace and gun
control. Blood glistens on silver fangs, and the sounds of snarls and
shrieks, of mayhem, of *death* reach my ears.

"Oh god, what do we do?" I whisper desperately to Angel. "There are hundreds
of them."

"I don't know," he scans the crowds, and then points to something in the
distance. "They're taking most of them prisoner."

"What?"

I look over and see what he's pointing at. Scores of limousines line the
street alongside the hotel where the politicians were meeting, their open
doors like dark mouths, as the vampires begin to herd up their prey. I
notice their gold masks, which glitter with jewels- rubies, peridots,
sapphires, and tourmalines. The lights move over them, pinpricks of colour
sparking in my eyes as I wonder what about those masks is giving me a
strange sense of déjà vu.

"The Ventrue," Angel remarks grimly, figuring it out before me.

"Oh, fuck," I add succinctly, thinking that sums it up well.

"My expletive exactly," he agrees. "We have to do something now-figure out
where they're taking them-what they're up to."

"Maybe this has something to do with the meeting that Harry wants to have,"
I comment, my insides curdling a little as I see the vampires jostling the
groups of men and women into the sleek cars. I'm glad I can't see the fear
on their faces, even though I know it's there. "Could the Ventrue be
involved with Voldemort?"

Angel scratches his chin absently, nodding. "I wouldn't be surprised.
There's no telling how far they'd go for their own gain. Cordy and I once
had a run-in with them in LA. Nothing to write home about- but I remember-
they scared the Hell out of me."

"You?" I repeat, clamping down on the swift surge of jealousy the name
'Cordy' invokes.

"Me," he confirms, touching my cheek. "I get scared too."

"I thought only your *inner* demons scared you," I joke weakly, and he
shrugs, staring off into space.

"They scare me because I was a part of them briefly- back in the 1800s, when
I was with Darla." He pauses, and shifts against the wall, his body so tall
and strong that I find it hard to imagine him being frightened of anything-
even though I do know that it's entirely possible. "They're ruthless, Buffy.
Back then they were bad-I can't even fathom the level of -" his voice breaks
off and he shakes his head. "We have to find out what's going on."

"I'm sure Harry will have news for us tomorrow," I soothe him. "You know we
can't do anything for these people. We'd be outnumbered, and then who's
going to save them?"

His muscles are so tense that I can literally feel him shaking against me
with anger. "I hate this."

"I know," I whisper and I do. The same helplessness poisons my own blood
when I have to stand by and watch something happen. But even I, reckless and
impulsive as I sometimes am, can see that to do anything now would be
suicide. We need a plan.

The limousines pull away from the curb, their engines almost noiseless in
the night. Frozen stars glitter in the vast sky, and Angel's hands curl into
fists as he stares after the vehicles, his eyes almost yellow with rage and
fear. As they slide over the area one more time, they suddenly alight on
something that makes him smile- but it's not one of amusement- it's more the
one his face wears when he's enjoying a kill. It scares me. It reminds me of
Angelus. Never would I tell him that, however. His horror would be so acute
I don't think he'd be able to cope.

"Look," he mutters. "They left someone to deal with the bodies." I look to
where he points, and see the vampire, obviously intent on his task of
quickly moving the dead men and women into an ally beside the hotel. We move
stealthily towards him, watching for any sign he knows he's being stalked.
There's none.

As we come within a breath of grabbing him, he suddenly speaks, in a low,
smooth voice. "You can't stop us, you know."

"Who says we want to?" Angel counters, in equally soft tones. "I don't
recall being asked for my opinion."

"Neither do I," I point out. "But if you *are* taking a poll, I think I'd
check the 'no, thanks' box for Paris being destroyed by the Ventrue."

"So you recognized us," the vampire crows, obviously delighted. He's
actually attractive, in a brash, almost Scottish fashion, his hair bright
red and dishevelled, his eyes cornflower blue. It would be easy to forget
he's evil, which I suppose, is probably his greatest weapon. "Most don't.
And who said we're here to destroy Paris? It's a beautiful City. We don't
want to destroy it." he pauses silkily. "We want to cultivate it. Make it
our own."

"Destroy it," I reaffirm and his eyes flash with something akin to
annoyance.

"So you think you're above us, I take it?" he snaps. "And what clan are you
with?"

"Clan?" Angel repeats, his hand on my arm. "What do you mean?"

"You're not with another clan?" the vampire asks, suddenly appearing faintly
panicked. "Then who the hell are you?"

"The people who are about to kick your ass," I inform him tightly. "Unless
of course, you tell us everything you know about what just happened. Like
where they took those people, what's going to happen to them- blah blah
blah, in short, we want an explanation."

"And why should I tell you anything?" he counters, his hands on his black
clad hips.

"Didn't I do the whole 'we'll kick your ass' part of the speech?" I ask
Angel.

"You did," he affirms. "So I don't see where the confusion is."

The redhead glares at us for a moment, obviously considering his options.
Shifting slightly, he narrows his eyes and then extends a hand. "My name's
Connel, by the way," he greets us belatedly.

Angel stares at the proffered hand with askance, and shakes his head. "Info,
not pleasantries."

Connel sighs dramatically. "Look. I don't know a lot. I'm not exactly what
you might call, 'high up' in the Camarilla. That's why I'm stuck with jobs
like this one. The Ventrue rely on the loyalty of it's members. They'd more
than kill me if they found out what I'm doing. Perdita would have my guts
for garters, if you catch my drift."

"And Perdita would be?" I pounce and he looks uncomfortable.

"She's the Princess. What you might call the Matriarch of the clan. Perdita
controls everything that happens within her family, and all others connected
to it. It was her idea to move from Prague to Paris. She wants. she wants
something from this area, I believe. But I don't think she wants the City
specifically."

"So she doesn't plan to destroy it?" Angel asks, and Connel shrugs.

"I couldn't tell you. No one's really been told what's happening."

"Why did she take those politicians, then?"

He shuffles his feet, and the scent of blood begins to rise from the ground,
syrupy and thick. I cough slightly, wishing suddenly for the slide of honey
and lemon down my throat, which was what my Mother always gave me whenever I
caught a cold. Blankets and milky lullabies. Cornflakes and soap operas. Now
there's nothing but death.

"She's keeping them prisoner. Not for food- she can take regular people for
that." I wince as he says this casually, but my interest is quickly engaged
when he remarks, "It's something to do with a spell. I'm not sure what kind.
Perdita dabbles in everything from the dark arts to witchcraft to the power
of healing. She has her finger in every bit of the pie."

Angel runs a careful hand through his spikes. "Does she have any particular
wizard working with her?"

Connel looks perplexed. "None that I know of. I rather thought she was
teaching herself, to be honest." He grins, showing a full set of gleaming
red teeth. My stomach lurches as a droplet of fading blood sticks to his
upper lip. "She's a wise one, Perdita. I wouldn't. I wouldn't get mixed up
in any plan to try and control her, if I were you. Bloody scary, she is. Her
eyes-they're like fire."

"We don't want to control her-" Angel protests quietly, seriously. "We want
to join her."

"Oh?" Connel appears sceptical. "Well to do that, you have to apply to
Summer. She's the Judge-you go through the tests, the blood bond, and you're
set. If you fail-you're fair game. Some vampires don't get through, and
that's it." He demonstrates by crossing one long finger across his neck.
"They're toast, if you know what I-"

"I think we do, Connel, thanks," I cut him off, irritated as I realize that
Angel has decided this will be an undercover job without discussing it with
me first. "Where do they live? We want to go over and apply for our
entrance."

He smiles in my direction, evidently deciding he likes me more than Angel,
and points past the hotel, through a skein of streets which lead to the
Pantheon. "You know that large mansion which used to be owned by someone
famous?"

"Despite the huge amounts of vague in that description, yes, I do know which
one you mean," I answer. "That's the one?"

He nods. "That's where we've set up for the next month. Then it's off
somewhere else, I'm sure. Perdita hasn't settled in all the years I've known
her. And she's not likely to anytime soon."

"Thanks for the information," I murmur, as Angel tugs on my arm. "I hope we
see you on the inside.

"Me too," Connel calls out, waving, and then he goes back to his job.

"Well, definitely not the brightest crayon in the box," I mutter, glancing
up at Angel. He looks tired. Sad, and familiar in the twilight and my
annoyance vanishes. Oh, Angel. Sometimes I wish for a world in which I
didn't belong to him but that's a world I can't understand. "Are you ok?"

He looks down at me, and then draws me close, into his embrace. With my
cheek pressed against his heart, I breathe out dreamily. "Angel?"

He drops a kiss on my lips and then takes my hand. "Come on, let's go home.
We'll sort it out with Harry tomorrow."

+ + +

I awaken to Angel. His eyes are dark, fathomless, filled with tenderness and
dread, longing and sweet, sharp desire. I shift on the dark blue sheets,
sweat trickling down the hollows of my back. It's much too hot in here. Too
much linen. My hair sticks to my forehead, and as I glance at the window, I
notice the brilliant pinks and golds streaking a morning sky. Dawn is
breaking and I remember. Sugary frost gathers on the black of the pane, its
white edges creeping over our apartment building like tendrils of fog.

Angel lies on his side, clad in a thin T-shirt and drawstring pants. His
eyelashes flicker as he watches me stretch, my tumble of hair obscuring my
vision for a moment before he pushes it back from my forehead.

"What were you dreaming of?" he asks me softly.

"Xander," I answer simply, the one word enough to convey years of bitterness
and muted hatred.

Sometimes Willow does respond to the postcards I send her every week, her
shaky scrawl on the back of the envelope enough to make the my throat sting
with tears. She lives in Iowa now and sometimes I think she's soothed by the
endless cornfields and farms, by the flat blue sky and blinding sun. Her
house is small, ramshackle. Her life is simple. But her sculptures- all of
the same figure ((curves, tilt of the head, full lips,
gentle-gentle-gentle)), are famous all over the world. Sometimes her letters
make me think of Riley- of the smell of his cologne ((like butter)) and of a
smile that was just.never.enough but mostly, and sadly, they remind me of
Xander.

We haven't spoken since the week after I left. I called him from a dusty
rest stop north of LA, using my last quarter to try and explain something
that I could barely fathom myself. I remember watching Dawn cling to Angel's
hand as they sat on the hood of his car, swinging their legs against the
bumper in perfect unison. Her head fell against his shoulder, and she
snuggled in- and I knew- I was right to leave.

"How could you do this, Buffy?" his voice was so twisted and furious that I
shrank from it, curling into the telephone booth as if it would offer some
protection.

"I'm sorry," I murmured uselessly. "This is something- I had to do it, Xand.
I'm sorry you can't understand."

"Did you even stop to *think* what Willow and I would feel, Buffy? Or did
you only think of him?" he sneered the word, and I felt a familiar, old rage
bubbling inside my belly. "It's still all about him, isn't it? God, when are
you ever going to grow up? When are you ever going to see that he's no good
for you- that there's no future?"

"This isn't about him," I said softly. "This is about what I need to be able
to live."

"And you need him?" Xander spluttered over the line, his voice drenched in
disgust. "What about us?"

Helplessly, I again glanced over at the car. Angel was squinting against the
sun, the Gem of Amara on his finger glinting in the golden light. Quietly,
but firmly I said, "I'm going to die if I can't be with him, Xander. That's
the difference."

There was nothing after the sharp end of those words. Only the steady beep
of a dial tone.

We have never spoken since that day.

I still don't regret it.

"Want some coffee?" Angel asks me. "We have to get going soon." His thumb
traces a thin, winding scar on my shoulder, left over from a fight in
Greece.

"No," I answer sleepily. "Let's stay here a little while longer. You should
get more sleep. You're so restless at night."

"I can't sleep with you," he reminds me gently, his finger moving up and
down, down and around, over the knotty skin of the closed wound, his lips
brushing my forehead briefly. "Sing for me?"

"What do you want to hear?" I inquire quietly, and he leans back, pulling me
close, so my chin rests on his chest. He's cool and bright underneath my
touch, and I can feel the slight vibrations of his dead lungs and windpipe
as he speaks.

"My favourite."

Draping my arms over his sides, I press my mouth to his ear, humming softly
at first, and then slipping into a simple, tender rendition of "La Vie En
Rose", my throaty tones capturing the yearning of Edith Piaf's voice. Soon
his unnecessary breaths grow slow and easy, his ribs rising and falling with
the regularity of a child in sleep. I keep singing for long moments, the
French lyrics slipping and sliding over my skin like caresses, as I pause to
kiss the edge of his ear and sit up, the sheets falling around my hips in
wisps of navy.
It was about five years ago now, I think. We were in Venice, staying in a
tiny terraced apartment overlooking the canals. Each morning we would eat
fruit and toast out on the balcony, the air filled with the scent of
flowers, the water lapping green below. Our days were spent in the sun,
walking, walking. as we re-discovered what it was like to be free. When we
were far from shade, I would hold Angel's hand tightly, worrying the Gem of
Amara with my fingers, turning it round and round to make sure it was still
there, protecting him. Protecting me. Because I already knew then, that
living without him was something I would never survive.

At night, after we patrolled, I would sing Dawnie to sleep. She was missing
Mom more and more, and so I would tuck her in, smoothing her hair with my
palms as I sang lullabies and fairy tales, love songs and sweet melodies.
Soon, Angel was joining us on the bed, and we'd all fall asleep that way,
weaving our way through the darkness with music.

Now Dawn's in New York, but Angel and I still sing each other to sleep each
night.

Leaving him to rest for a little while, I go into the bathroom to shower,
wondering what the day with Harry will bring.

+ + +

When Angel and I walk into their co-joining offices, it becomes clear that
something's up. For one thing, they're as far away from each other as they
can possibly be without climbing out the windows, Hermione's eyes are red
and a little blotchy, and Harry looks as if he hasn't slept in about five
years.

"Hi guys," I greet them brightly.

Both look up apathetically.

"Hi," Harry returns, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Hello," Hermione says, tucking a shiny, truffle-coloured curl behind her
ear. She arches a brow at me. "You're up early."

"Didn't we have a meeting?" Angel asks, and Harry unwinds his long, lean
body from the chair, nodding.

"We do, yes. She doesn't know about it."

"She'd like to be informed occasionally about things," Hermione snaps at
him, and I swallow, trying to smile.

"Trouble in paradise?"

"It's nothing," Harry mutters, completely ignoring his fiancé. "To get down
to business- we're assembling a special task force-"

"For the Ventrue?" Angel breaks in. "We met them last night."

"Killing and capturing the politicians at the gun control summit?" Hermione
asks and I nod.

"Oh yeah, you should have been there. Major chaos. We thought it would be
best to wait a bit and plan, before we did anything. Apparently they're
taking them to that mansion beside the Pantheon."

"We know," Harry says grimly. "It's a known magical dwelling and a
particular haunt for dark wizards. It's not protected under any sort of
historical or cultural landmark, so they feel free to use it as they wish."

"You think its Voldemort," Angel states without inflection, his eyes black.

"We do think so, yes," Hermione confirms, her mouth strained and slightly
twisted. She looks so thin it's as if she's going to break. "The Dark Mark
was spotted above the castle Neueshwanstein."

"Isn't that the Cinderella castle?" I wonder aloud, and Harry smiles
slightly, his upper teeth a little crooked. Pushing the fringe of dark hair
off his forehead, he blinks at me.

"It's called that, yes, because of Disney World. But it was actually built
by King Ludwig. Also known as the Dream King, and the Swan King. It's now a
tourist trap, so we're attempting to put some sort of enchanting spell over
it to protect the Muggles who flock there on a daily basis."

"Is that even possible? Shouldn't they close it down for now?" Angel
inquires, and Hermione lifts her slender shoulders in a gesture of
resignation.

"That's what we'd like, but it's very well nigh impossible right now. The
castle brings in so much money that the Ministry of Magic would have to come
up with quite a good excuse to close it."

"Great," I sigh. "So what part do Angel and I play in this?"

"You're going undercover," Harry informs us, picking up a sheaf of papers
from his desk. "You and Angel will pose as Angelus and a turned Slayer.
Accompanying you will be our Agent- Draco Malfoy, and another one of our
agents, Ginny Weasley. We were also hoping-" he trails off, and gives me a
beseeching glance.

"What?"

Hermione appears worried. "Could you call Dawn? We need her on this."

"Dawn?" I repeat, dismayed. Bring my little sister into this? After I've
spent six years attempting to protect her from the monsters under her bed?
Jesus. Angel's hand wraps around mine and he shakes his head.

"If you don't want to, we won't."

"We could really-" Harry stops for a moment as Angel shoots him a glare.
"Only if you want to, Buffy. It's not imperative that she join the force,
but we need at least two others, and she could fill one space. Usually
vampires join the Ventrue, or attempt to join- in groups of at least six.
All couples."

"I-" pausing, I try to imagine how Dawn would feel if I didn't include her.
Pretty goddamn pissed. "I'll call her."

"Great," Hermione replies, obviously relieved. "So while you go do that,
I'll get Draco and Ginny."

"And Angel and I can go through the basics- clothing, weapons, plans and the
like."

They all disappear and I pick up the phone lying prone on Hermione's desk.
Dialling Dawn's number in New York is second nature to me, and as I listen
to it ring, I wonder just what in the hell I'm getting myself into. Posing
as a vampire- as Angelus' childe? That is, if we even get past the Judge.

"Hello?"

"Hey Dawnie."

"Buffy!" she exclaims, sounding anything but excited. "What - I mean, why
are you calling me? It isn't Wednesday."

"I know," I say softly. "I've got a job for you- with Harry and Hermione. We
have to go undercover. I can't really talk about- but will you come to
Paris?"

She takes a deep breath and I can almost hear her shrug. "You know I'll come
but Buffy-someone's here. Someone who I could bring."

"Who?" I ask.

There's no warning, of course- when someone comes back into your life. No
warning at all.

Dawn sounds like she's going to weep but also has a tinge of defiance in her
voice that I haven't heard in many, many years.
"It's Spike."

Part 2

Dawn


It was only as the salt on my cheeks began to sting that I realized I was
crying. Her words echoed in my ears, like tiny bells, and I stepped over the
figures of my fallen friends, their bodies convulsed in sobs as they avoided
any glimpse of her. But I placed one foot in front of the other, staring
steadily at where she lay, strewn over the remains of Glory's castles in the
sky. She was tiny and broken. Her arm bone stuck out in one place, so white
and bare - it thrust towards the sky almost as if it was guiding her way to
the heavens. My hands reached out to touch her hair, and tiny sparks lighted
on my fingers; remnants of the hungry electricity that left her empty and
me. whole. Later, I noticed Spike's palms smoothing the sleek skin of her
twisted legs, and I could hear the jumble of bones grinding together as he
moved her towards him. It wasn't all right with the others- him wanting to
hold her- but I let him, for a few minutes. Let him have his embrace before
we put her in the ground.

They took her body quickly, and kept it safe and clean and cold. I remember
watching calmly as Giles tucked the bones back into her skin, as he stitched
the bloody wounds with careful fingers.  Willow dressed her, and I hated the
dress- and I remember thinking a few months later, how silly it was- the way
we made up her face, and slicked lipstick on the mouth that could spin puns,
and laugh, and kiss and be *alive* and it was just.a.dress. But we fought
over it. I didn't win.

The summer was long, and faintly muggy. Every so often, I would take a
breath and hope it would be my last. Sometimes I thought that I must have
been saying her name over and over again in my mind. The softer B, the
breathy fs, the yyy, that could become a scream if I formed it correctly.
Pins and needles. Poking and stinging. Buffy, Buffy, Buffy.  I didn't adore
my sister, back then. I loved her, yes. But she must have adored me- to take
that leap into heaven. To let the sky swallow her. To die.

I dreamed of her often. We would fight sometimes. Eat cereal and watch TV.
Her flesh was always blue. Her hair, white- like an old woman's.  Mom would
be there, but she was always crying, always just out of reach. Buffy would
come into my room and stare out the window, her eyes vacant as she
whispered, "There's no one out there." Once she pointed to the mirror and
asked, "How do I look?" She was rotting, from the outside in, her skin
turning yellow and green and black and I didn't scream. I told her she was
beautiful.

(Live.for.me.)

Spike was the only person I ever told about the dreams, and he was the one
person who didn't want to listen. He didn't want to talk about her. He
thought it would go away if we didn't say her name. If we didn't love her
enough to make her stay with us. But I knew we didn't have a choice, and so
did he. She made us who we were, and that had to be enough to last. The
crypt smelled like dirt and dust and vodka, and sometimes I would cough as I
walked down into the bowels of the earth, watching as Spike flicked his
fingers over an open flame, lighting a cigarette or seeing how long his
flesh could burn before I would stop him. I'd spend long hours with him,
sitting so *still* and wishing the world would fall away and leave us be.

Buffy, my sister.

I only saw Angel once, and it was enough, because he was dead just like her,
and I couldn't bear it. I resented him. Just enough to make my breath hitch
a little, because he was dead. but he still walked the earth, and he still
mourned, and he still.was. And Buffy? She was not.

I could feel him locking himself away as he held me, his arms large and
strong and cold. He stroked my long hair just like she did, and I wanted to
tell him things about Buffy that he had missed, but somehow I knew if I said
her name, he would break down, so I never did. He told me was going away. He
didn't know for how long, or where- but he gave me a number I could call,
and he never once said her.damned.name. And I started to wonder if she was
really dead. I started to wonder where she had gone, and why I was the only
Summers left and if I was still a Key and did Angel still love her even
though he'd left? Was my life going to be one long summer of stopping Spike
from burning to ash, of screaming her name in the back of my throat, of
watching the robot speak with her voice, of living for *her*?

Was my life going to be lived through the memory of her?

Buffy, my sister.

But then, she came back. She thought she was in Hell, but she was back, and
I expected things to become simple, I expected things to become something
they never were, and a year passed in Hell, and then she decided to take me
to Heaven with her. and I agreed.

So we left. And sometimes I think only I looked back.
</i>

+ + +

The streets of New York are shot through with rain. I walk quickly, pushing
my way through the sweaty crowds, their sharp elbows nudging my ribs as I
move. Silver liquid drips down the length of my hair, pooling in the hollows
of my jacket, getting in my nose and eyes and making me cough, my vision
blurry. I'm jostled slightly, and I regain my balance, ignoring the itch in
my throat. I can feel that I'm getting a cold, but I don't care, because Mom
isn't here to feed me milky porridge and sing me lullabies, and without a
mother, does illness really mean anything?

Inwardly cursing my editor (who promised me that the book signing would only
take two hours and was off by about five), I cut down the ally behind a
large department store near my building. It smells of rot and oranges, but
my nose is stuffed anyway, and the buildings block out a little of the rain.
Absently, I kick an empty bottle of tequila, its stained edges brown with
mildew. Slight sound of shattering glass, and I move on. There's nothing
here. Just torn bags of garbage and crates full of abandoned cardboard
boxes. It's very dark, and I hear the faint sound of someone coughing and
moaning, and god, I hope it's not a drunk getting sick, but as I edge around
the side of a dumpster, I see that it's not. It's not.

It's Spike.

I used to dream about him too. Not a lot- but often enough that I'd wake up
gasping, my stomach in knots, my legs tangled in the sheets. He was usually
on fire. Burning to the ash he so wanted to become after she died. I'd dream
of his smell. Peroxide and cool winter and sharp berries, and that ever
elusive copper that clung to his clothes, his mouth. His mouth. I dreamt
about that to. How sometimes in that long summer after her, he'd come close
to kissing me, our lips just breaths apart, but then he'd stop, mumble
apologies- never knowing that wasn't what I wanted. Never knowing I just
wanted to forget, and if I could do it with him, then so much the better.
Maybe we weren't Heathcliff and Cathy, doomed to love each other forever,
but I knew then that we could have something. Something real- which was
sorely missing in my life. But he was scared, and I was young, and nothing
ever came from it.

He's thin. That's my first thought as I stare at his twisting, pale form, at
the broken angle at which he's lying on the dirty, sodden blankets in the
corner of the ally. His bones are clearly visible underneath his flesh, and
he's so white that for a moment it looks as if he's been covered in wisps of
snow. His eyes open and shut and I blink in reaction, bending down
carefully. I haven't seen him in six years, and it feels as if my past is
echoing around me. I can hear my own screams as Buffy told me Mommy was
dead, and I can taste my own blood when I bit my lip as my sister killed
herself to save my life. I can remember.

"Spike?" I whisper, the name strange on my tongue. "Spike?" I ask again,
testing it. The sound of that name. Railroad spikes and torture and white
noise, and I do remember him.

He looks at me briefly, but I don't think I'm what he sees. His eyes are red
as blood and he curls up suddenly, his body shifting, the black fabric
stretched tight. Strangely, he doesn't smell bad. I sniffle a little, trying
to clear my sinuses, and inhale the scent of berries and Sunnydale and dirt
and the bitter cold. Reaching out, I touch his head, my fingers coming away
brown from the dust cloaking his flesh. He shifts, and moans slightly.

"Who'n 'he bloody 'ell ar'you?" he slurs, his voice unrecognizable.

My breath hitches, and I make a conscious decision then. He's coming home
with me. I can't leave him here, to be eaten by rats and to become just a
ghost of who he used to be. I suspect that it may be too late, but I don't
care.

"It's." I pause, and then say firmly, "It's Dawn. Come on. I'll give you
some blood, if you'll just get up Spike."

He squints and grasps my arms. "Blood?" he mumbles sickly.

"Yes, blood. Red, gross, veins. come *on*," I groan with exertion as I hoist
him up. He leans against the wall, his head lolling onto the knotty, slimy
brick and I wrinkle my nose in frustration and disgust. "Spike. do you have
any idea where you are?"

He peers at me closely, his throat working as he tries to swallow. He's so
sharp. All angles and shadows, such a whipcord of panther-like sleekness.
But there's no recognition in his expression and if I wasn't twenty-one and
past the crush I had on him when I was fifteen and naïve- I'd been hurt. But
I am past it, and I can't be hurt. Not now.

His voice is rough when he asks, "Who're you? I can't- can't see you."

"Oh boy," I mutter, taking his arm and balancing his weight on my shoulder.
"Let's get you back to my place. I think I have some old blood bags in the
freezer from when Angel visited." Considering a moment, I smile weakly. "Of
course they may be rotten by now."

We walk carefully. He leans on me heavily, the leather of his jacket
scraping my arm. The rain has quieted a bit, drizzling down like a cool,
sweet shower. Every so often he mutters something incomprehensible, the
ravings of a vampire half starved. It confuses me that he hasn't leapt on me
yet, attempting to dig through the flesh of my neck to find the rich veins
I'm sure he desperately yearns for. I can tell he smells me, and it must be
driving him crazy, but still he does nothing, makes no move towards
violence.

My building is on the corner of East Seventy Third Street, up high- high
enough so I can see the whipped cream clouds. He struggles up the stairs,
his body weakening with each step, his legs fumbling for purchase on the
slippery steps. The rope of my hair drips water down my back and I shiver,
chilled to the very marrow of my bones. Fitting my key into the lock, I let
us in and help him to the couch, letting him lie down. I'm not even sure he
knows where he is- who he is- who I am. I'm trying not to let it bother me
but I feel like since I remember him, shouldn't he remember me? It's
irrational, and it's petty, but I want to believe. That I'm not just green
energy and fragile bone. That saving him from the candle flames *meant*
something.

My hands shake as I push aside frozen steaks and old loaves of bread,
searching for the bags of blood Angel left behind. They're almost black and
solid rock. Shrugging, I stuff two in the microwave and take out a jug of
cream to add some thickness to the liquid. It's red, hot and faintly pulpy
when I remove it, moments later. Years with Angel took care of the ick
factor when it comes to this stuff, and I punch holes in the bags, pouring
the blood into a huge earthenware mug, adding a dollop of pure, white cream
and watching it disappear into the nothingness.

Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror in my hallway, I wonder briefly
if I look different and if that's why Spike doesn't remember me. My hair is
still long, and a rich chestnut brown- and I'm a little thinner in the face,
my cheekbones standing out in sharp relief when I frown. I glance at my red,
red mouth and the bones of my ribs, which I can see when I breathe in. Maybe
it's because I'm taller. Maybe it's because I finally have breasts. Maybe
I'm just not blonde, and not a Slayer and not someone who saves the world.

Sitting behind Spike on the caramel coloured shabbiness of my couch, I prop
up his shoulders. It's hot in here, and I can feel beads of sweat forming on
my upper lip. He leans back into me, his head pillowed by my chest. I cough
again, and raise the mug to his lips, coaxing him gently. "Open your mouth,
Spike. Drink." ((Don't touch the flames, Spike. Stay.with.me))

He drinks; his throat working as he swallows, and mumbles a little. He
starts to make greedy, hungry, desperate noises as he realizes that it
really is blood, and he really is eating, and his hands reach up, grasping
my own as he pulls the mug closer, devouring the liquid with an impatient
tongue. "It's okay, just drink," I croon, tears stinging in the back of my
throat as I hold him.

Moments later, he collapses back, his mouth tinged with pink, his
un-necessary breaths laboured and harsh. I stroke his forehead absently,
wondering if he's going to recall the past, wondering where he's been in the
last six years.? In his letters, Xander has never mentioned Spike being back
in the 'Dale, and I suspect that's because he avoided it like he would
sunbathing.

Slowly, he sits up and regards me. His eyes are like black opals, the
pattern of red and green pinfire so distinct and startling.

"Dawn," he says hoarsely. He sounds resigned. He's so pale I can almost see
the dead veins underneath his flesh. Shifting away from me, he gazes into my
eyes and then swallows thickly, the muscles of his mouth obviously strained.
"What's.?" he pauses and then his fingers clench. "Where'd you find me?"

"Moaning and groaning in a disgusting ally," I inform him. "Maybe you'd have
liked if I left you there?"

He glares at me. "Never said *that*. What year is it?"

"Oh my God.if you don't know what year it is, we've got big problems," I
opine, getting up and sniffling slightly. Reaching down for a Kleenex, I
press it to my nose, rubbing lightly. "And it's November. 2008. That clear
things up?"

He nods. "Only lost a couple months then." His smile is grim as looks me up
and down. "You'd be what, 21 now?"

"Almost 22," I snap, my throat itching. Coughing again, I imagine having a
fever and get even angrier. "And you'd be? Three million and forty seven?"

He ignores me and leans back, the fabric of his black shirt stretching taut
over a lean belly. "So why New York? Didn't want to swan about as a UCLA
co-ed?" His voice is scathing, and faintly mocking.

"What's the big about New York?" I ask. "It just seemed like a good place to
start."

"Start what?"

My whole head hurts. "My writing thing," I downplay it and walk over to the
kitchen. "Everyone always asks why I came here after." Pausing, I stop and
look back. "After I lived in all those other places."

Spike looks bored, and cocks his head. "No need to pussy-foot around it. You
went with your sister and Angelus. I got the boring memo from Xander."

"Xander saw you?" I'm surprised for a moment. "He's never mentioned it."

"He wouldn't now, would he?" the blond vampire grins cruelly. "The boy'd be
sick if he thought I was talking to you now."

"Xander doesn't control my life," I reply brattily, and then check myself.
Tried to clamp down on the whininess after Angel told me gently a few years
ago that I sounded much more charming when I was acting like an adult. My
temples throb and I press my shaking knuckles to the dented bones, rubbing
gently.

Spike regards me silently for a second and then says almost gently, "Have
some chicken fingers and mustard, niblet. You look ill."

I'm startled. "What?" Pausing only for a breath, I stare at him. "You
remember.you remember that's what I like when I'm sick?"

He looks uncomfortable and sits up, twisting the cuff of his black leather
jacket round and round his white, white wrist. Shrugging, he answers, "I
remember a lot of things. Besides, I made it enough times for you, didn't
I?"

It's true, I guess. I was always getting sick after Buffy died. He never
seemed to mind me throwing up in his sink, or the way I'd collapse, sweaty
and pale onto his couch. Sometimes he'd watch "Passions", sipping a bottle
of vodka, mixing a little in with my chocolate milk. Watching my face turn
green. Stroking the hair back from my face, absently and roughly. His hands
were so cold but I didn't mind because the world was always cold without
her. We'd talk sometimes, of inconsequential things, and life went on. and I
stopped getting sick.

But his hands stayed cold.

"Right," I agree, going into the kitchen to warm up another bag of blood.
I'm afraid to ask, but I have to know. "Where have you, you know, been? I
mean, since we all left?"

There's silence for a long time, and it's only after the microwave has
stopped beeping and I return with a steaming mug of blood that he begins to
speak.

"In Africa for bit." He touches his chest briefly, and takes the mug, his
throat working as he swallows. "Interesting place, that. Spent some time in
LA. Hooked up with Cordelia for a while." He smirks. "Always thought she
could use a good time."

"No you didn't-you obviously wanted to hurt Angel," I cut in snappishly, and
cross my arms over my chest. "But it won't work, you know. He's all with the
Buffy love now. He's *so* over Cordelia. Not that he ever felt anything deep
for her in the first place..." I amend hurriedly.

Setting down the mug of coppery liquid, Spike slides his hand into the
pocket of his coat, withdrawing a packet of cigarettes. Lighting up, he
cocks his head before placing it between his lips and drawing the sinuous
smoke deep into dead lungs. "Touchy subject," he finally observes with a
casual grin, his pointy teeth glinting in the light.

Rain still cascades against the large windows overlooking my street, and I
stare fixedly at it for a second, attempting to quell the burning anger in
my belly. "If you had lived with Buffy and Angel for four years, you'd have
issues with Cordelia to," I finally remark and he barks with laughter.

"Bloody hell, if I was living with those two for that long, I'd have bigger
problems than Cordelia."

"Whatever," I respond inanely, sitting down suddenly in a large, velvety
love seat that rests across from the couch. Tapping my nails on the sleek
black coffee table, I play with the edge of one of the horror books strewn
across the dark surface. "Did you-what did you do in Africa? I didn't even
know that you went there."

Taking another long drag of the cigarette, he looks around, at the deep
purple walls, the hangings that come from every country we visited, the
paintings of Egyptian Bazaars and domes of white, at the candle wax dripping
over each book shelf, the lines of magazines and paperbacks and the splash
of deep yellow from my collection of National Geographic's.

Ignoring my question, he nods to our surroundings and comments, "You sure
are the Phoenix, aren't you, niblet? Rose from the ash of Sunnydale quite
well, I hear."

"What do you hear?" I ask sharply and he lifts his shoulders carelessly.

"Nothing to get excited 'bout," he drawls and jams the smoke between his
teeth. "Read your books."

Humiliated for no good reason, I can sense the red flush creeping up my neck
and glare waspishly in his general direction. "You did?"

He nods blankly and sets down the cigarette, his cup of blood quickly
replacing it. "I did. Fuck, my stomach hurts."

"You drank the blood too fast," I chide him. "I didn't think vampires even
felt pain."

"Did my poncey Grand-Sire tell you that load of garbage?" he inquires
blandly. "I feel every kind there is, and more."

"Oh," I answer inadequately and cough as the back of my mouth itches.
Sniffling, I curl back into the recesses of the love-seat, its warm velour
cushioning my knotty back. "Does it hurt-to be hungry?"

"'Course," he scoffs lightly. "That's the worst kind of pain there is. It's
a niggling, gnawing, bloody fucking horrible ache deep in my throat and
bones and teeth. You don't ever want to know that kind of hurt, Dawn."

"I do know it," I whisper uselessly. "After Buffy died. it was like that."

Spike looks surprised for a moment and then concedes, "Guess it was. She
died for you. Must have been hard to get- how she could do something like
that. For little you, right? Well lemme tell you something, pet. She wanted
it. Wanted death." He's faintly bitter and sucks on the searing end of the
smoke like it's going to burn away any memories of my sister. "Trust me, I
know."

"You still love her?" I ask.

His laugh is harsh and mocking. "Who in the fuck knows?" Standing, he walks
with a rough grace over to the window, leaning against it weakly. There's
still a certain elegance to his movements- a hunter's predatory instincts
that he can't hide. But he's not at his best, and I know it. Stamping out
the cigarette on the sill, he watches the sparks glow orange for a moment
and then die. "I must've in the past. Got a fucking soul for her- that
spells devotion, doesn't it?"

"A what?" For a moment I can't breathe, and it's like a crack of brilliant
lightening- he.got.a.soul.for *her*. For her- not for me- never for me. And.
Oh god. He got a soul for my sister. Who never wanted him. Never wanted him
for any kind of forever.

"A soul," he responds absently. "Fucking funny, isn't it? I just wanted to
give her something- give her what she deserves."

"You mean instead of rape?" I ask evenly.

He twists around and then shakes his head. "Should've known. Xander told
you?"

"Yes."

He turns back to the window, to the reflection-less glass and his shoulders
slump a bit. "That little shit."

"He was just trying to-"

"Be a little shit?"

"No!" I protest. "He was trying to stop me from defending you. I always
defended you. So he told me that-"

"That I tried to rape your sister? He'd be right. I did."

"Why did you do it?" I ask helplessly, my belly lurching with the urge to
vomit. Buffy never speaks of it. I don't even know if she told Angel- and
somehow I doubt it. Angel wouldn't have rested until Spike was dust beneath
our feet.

"Not going to explain it," he says dismissively.

"Spike-"

Dimly, I hear the sound of the phone ringing and break off, reaching over
and plucking the cordless off its stand on the coffee table. Pressing
"talk", I mutter, "Hello?"

"Hey Dawnie." Buffy's voice. Slightly strained, but like sunshine.

Startled and annoyed I answer, "Buffy!" and think for a moment. This isn't
the usual time she calls. Why did she have to choose now? "What - I mean,
why are you calling me? It isn't Wednesday."

"I know," she says softly. "I've got a job for you- with Harry and Hermione.
We have to go undercover. I can't really talk about it- but will you come to
Paris?"

Harry and Hermione. I spare a fond thought for them and take a deep breath,
drawing air deep into my lungs. If Buffy needs my help, she knows I'll be
there. We've been through too much for me to turn away. And I can do my
writing anywhere. The problem is Spike-but I know the answer.

Shrugging, I reply, "You know I'll come but Buffy-someone's here. Someone
who I could bring."

Spike's head snaps around at the mention of my sister's name, and he raises
his eyebrows mockingly at the next sentence.

"Who?" she inquires innocently.

I feel as if I'm about to cry. How can I bring him back into her life after
everything.? But then there's a part of me that wonders why she can have
Angel and I can't have--? What? Do I think I can have him? God, my head
hurts.

"It's Spike."

There's a beat, just a few seconds really, where she says nothing, and I
start to wonder if she's fallen down, or if she's hung up because she hates
me and then she finally returns with a blank, "Spike?"

"Yeah," I say hurriedly. "I. well, we sort of met again. He was in bad
shape. All gross and you know-um, hungry. So I gave him that blood that
Angel left behind and now we're just talking- and maybe I could bring him-
that is, if you don't mind, because I'm sure we need help- Harry and
Hermione always need help and-"

"Dawn!" she interrupts and then lowers her voice. "You're babbling."

"Sorry."

"I s'ok," she murmurs gently, but she sounds far away, as if she is trying
to conceal her emotions from me. "Bring the former Big Bad, by all means.
Makes no difference to me. We could use the extra man-power anyway."

I sigh with relief. "What kind of job is it?"

"Undercover. Big stuff," she hesitates and then admits, "I didn't really
want you involved, but Harry persuaded me and we do need a team of six on
short notice. Is he still chipped- because I don't want any complications--"

"Actually-" I break in, "he has a soul. Just like Angel." Taking a breath, I
cough, wishing that there had been an easier way to tell her that. "Weird,
isn't it?"

"Weird," she repeats without any inflection. "When did he get a soul? *How*
did he get a soul? I didn't know they were selling them at the local
discount mall now."

Ignoring the scathing note to her voice ((anything about Angel is sacred to
Buffy and always will be)) I shrug, "Long story. Not worth telling over the
phone. Anyway, this is expensive time. We'll take the next flight out."

There's a desperate tone to her now and she whispers, "Maybe this isn't such
a good idea-"

"Bye Buffy!" I call, hanging up before she can say more.

Sighing heavily, I sniff, rubbing my nose with smooth fingers. Spinning
around, I suddenly recall Spike and realize that I've just signed him up for
something that he might not want to do.

"Before you freak out-"

He cuts in, asking, "Where are we supposed to be going?"

"Paris," I respond weakly, raising my eyebrows in an expression of apology.

He shrugs. "Ok. Have any cigarettes in this place?"

And that's that.

+ + +

The flight is long, and by the time we land in Paris, I want to kill him. He
kept sneaking up to the bathroom to smoke, setting off every alarm on the
plane, not to mention making the other passengers loathe us. I think if we
hadn't been 6000 feet up, the pilot would have tossed him out head first.

It's muggy but rainy when we reach the heart of the city, and Spike removes
the blanket he had draped over his head and torso. We take a taxi to the
offices of Harry and Hermione and the rest of the task force that I worked
with briefly back when I lived with Buffy and Angel. It's so familiar to me
that I feel an odd sense- like I've come home- but also feel a pang for New
York and for my cozy apartment. God knows what I've gotten myself into. A
big fat mess, no doubt.

As we round the winding steps to the offices, I hear Angel's voice around
the next bend. Racing up two steps at a time, I call, "Angel?!"

He turns, dressed in black and pale and beautiful and *so* my big brother.
Throwing myself in his arms, I laugh as he twirls me around, kissing the top
of my head. "Dawn," he greets me tenderly, setting me down and touching my
hair. "How are you, sweetheart? Buffy's been worried sick. She didn't know
when your flight was coming."

"It was delayed a bit," I answer, grinning at him. "I should've called. I
know she's not the only worry-wart in the family." Reaching up, I touch the
spikes of his hair. "I think I see some grey in with all that gel."

He half smiles. "You could be right. I was a little-" Breaking off as he
sees someone over my shoulder, the curve in his mouth disappears and is
replaced with one of displeasure. "Spike."

"Angel," Spike greets him, sounding bored. "Where's the Slayer? Haven't seen
the bint in a few years. I'd like to say hello in private if you don't
mind."

I glance up at Angel, worried, but he merely nods to the office a few doors
down. "She's in there." As Spike begins to pass, he grabs the younger
vampire's arm. "And I'm within earshot, so don't try anything boy."

Spike smirks. "Give the Knight in Shining Armour bit a rest. I'm just saying
a friendly hello, is all."

When he disappears through the door, I expect to hear a shriek of horror,
but there's nothing. Taking Angel's hand, I lead him over to a set of chairs
near the desk dominating the office.

"Don't worry. He's.Buffy doesn't feel that way anymore," I try to reassure
him. "About Spike, I mean. Not that she ever really did. Oh God. I so have
foot in the mouth disease."

He glances at me gently. "Don't worry, Dawn. I'm not worried about Spike and
Buffy. That door closed a long time ago. Tell me what's been happening with
you- did the book signing go all right?"

"I guess," I respond cheerfully, trying to be upbeat for his sake. "But my
agent under-estimated how long it would take to sign all those copies. My
hand still hurts."

"Ouch," Angel mutters sympathetically. "Buffy hurt herself patrolling last
night so she can sympathize. We ran across a huge band of vampires and one
of them sliced up her elbow fairly badly."

"That must sting," I recoil. "I hope you killed it extra dead for her."

He laughs softly but his mouth tightens as well with remembered anger. "I
did."

"Good. You always were her biggest Protector."

"Is that all I am?" he inquires bleakly.

My eyes wide, I shake my head. How can he think that? "Of course not. Geez,
Buffy loves you more than anyone else in the world. You know that, Angel.
She was so wrecked after you left. She only came alive again when she
finally decided to leave with you- and she was on that hill with me." I
trail off, lost in sweet memories. "I never thought when she said, 'let me
show you the world', that she meant literally. And with you. But I was happy
to go wherever she was going."

"I know you were," he responds quietly. "And I was glad to have you with
us."

"Were you really?" I ask uncertainly, even though I'm fairly sure I know the
answer.

He catches me in a quick hug. "Of course. Who else would make me listen to
N'Sync and eat peanut butter toast in the morning?"

I giggle. "Forgot about that."

"I didn't forget that laugh," a familiar voice smiles from the doorway.

I look up, immediately crossing the room and stepping into the arms that I
love. The only arms that make me feel truly safe. With her, I'm home. Maybe
it's the Summers blood that binds us. Maybe it's the sacrifices. Maybe it's
the fact that the Monks made me from her. Or perhaps it's simply because at
the end of the day, we are sisters.

We hug for a long time. Her pulse beats against my chest, and her hair is
thick underneath my palms. She smells of vanilla and of dry linen, and I
smile, glad to be back wherever she is. There's still bitterness, but years
on the road forged something between us that can't be easily broken.
Stepping back slightly, she touches my cheeks and nods. "You're still
beautiful. I was worried."

"That I wouldn't be beautiful?" I grin and she laughs.

"No. You're late."

"I know, Angel already read me the riot act, thank-you-very-much," I snap
good-naturedly. "Seriously, you might as well be one person."

"Yuck," Buffy wrinkles her nose and pokes me in the belly. "That would be
gross."

"Seriously?" Spike drawls. "Always thought you two were into the whole 'two
souls, one groin' thing."

"Shut up Spike," Buffy says wearily, obviously noticing the storm clouds
creeping over Angel's face. "Can you please find an elsewhere to be?"

"Like where, Blondie?" he asks silkily. "Wanna find a house to destroy?"

Buffy goes white and I stare at them both, angry at Spike for putting us all
in this situation- at having to confront a past I know all of us would
rather forget. Laying a trembling hand on my sister's arm, I whisper,
"Ignore him. Tell me. who else are we working with on this?"

"Draco Malfoy and Ginny Weasley," she responds tensely, tearing her gaze
away from Spike's for a moment. "They've been working for the Agency for a
few years- and friends of Harry and Hermione's since Hogwarts." She pauses
and glances towards the door. "They should be here soon. We have to go over
some things."

"Is this going to be . dangerous?" I inquire nervously, but not without a
bit of excitement.

Angel gives me a wry glance out of the corner of his eye. "You sound
faintly. pleased at the prospect of danger."

"Well she can stop being pleased," Buffy puts in. "No danger is coming your
way, Dawnie. I'm going to keep you safe."

"How touching," Spike mocks, leaning against the wall and regarding us all.
"So, Angelus, looks like we're both buggered. Having a soul's a son of a
bitch, eh?"

"I doubt you're overcome with remorse, Spike," Angel shoots back, his mouth
curled.

"And how in the fuck would you know?"

"*Boys*," Buffy warns them. "We have company now."

I look up from studying the carpet and gaze in the direction of the doorway.
Standing, framed by the yellow light in the hall, are two of the most
beautiful human beings I've ever seen, and I know beautiful. I've seen
beautiful. Slightly and irrationally intimidated, I let my eyes drift over
her fall of dark red locks, cat green eyes, and gorgeous, slender bone
structure, to his white blond hair, startling blue eyes, and black leather
outfit showcasing a body that I thought only existed on rare species of male
model.

"Hey guys," Buffy greets the pair, making an effort to be cheerful. "This is
my sister, Dawn Summers."

Extending my hand, I shake theirs.

"Oh, and this is Spike," Buffy adds as an afterthought.

"Don't mind me," the blond vampire scorns lightly. "Just part of the
furniture 'round here. I practically fade in with the wallpaper."

"Pleased to meet you both," Ginny replies pleasantly, her voice melodious
and slightly smoky. "I gather you'll be working on the assignment with us?"

"You've got it right," I answer, smiling. "Should be a huge barrel of monkey
fun."

Ginny looks perplexed. "Pardon?"

"Its slang," Draco explains lazily. "Which means 'incomprehensible American
speak'."

"British people have slang too, don't they?" I inquire uncertainly and Buffy
smiles gently.

"He's teasing you Dawnie."

"I know *that*," I reply crossly, and notice Spike's smirk.

Draco's lips curl in a semblance of a grin. "Don't worry. I tease everyone."

"Including me," Buffy says mock-furiously. "Which reminds me, we're in
charge of buying the clothes for the operation. Do you want to go now?"

"Whatever," Draco answers, but I notice a glint in his eye as he watches
Buffy move to get her purse.

Angel's gaze seems to slide all over the room, but there's grimness in his
expression that doesn't bode well.

Taking a fresh pack of cigarettes from his pocket, Spike withdraws a smoke
and lights it, drawing in noisily. As everyone, including me, looks askance
in his direction, he shakes his head. "Sorry, forgot to ask. Anyone else
like one?"

Yes, it's going to be an interesting few months.

TBC...