"Yes, precisely. Thank you, Spike." Giles drew the longsword, checked the edge, resheathed it, then buckled it across his chest so that the sword rode on his back. "Buffy, would you like some weapons? I believe we brought a crossbow."

"No, I'm good." She glanced at Dawn, then they went to Joyce, who hugged them tightly.

"Be careful, you two," she whispered.

Dawn sniffled and nodded. Buffy managed not to squish her mother when she hugged back. "You stay under cover, you. Please. OK?"

"OK." Joyce pushed them back. "Best get a move on."

Buffy nodded and headed back. Dawn hesitated, then ran towards Spike, who gave an audible oof when she hit him. He hugged her as tightly as a vampire who didn't want to hurt someone could.

"Look after Mom," Dawn said.

"I will. You mind your sis, now--and Ripper, so long as it doesn't seem like he's--"

"Like he's trying to kill me, right." She looked over her shoulder to where Buffy waited with mixed impatience and uncertainty. Dawn kissed Spike's cheek. "Don't bite anybody."

"Nobody who doesn't want me to. Go on."

Dawn ran to Buffy, who was almost glaring at Spike, then at her sister. Dawn only smiled at her pleasantly.

Giles sighed. "Are we ready?"

Willow hugged Buffy and Dawn. "I'm ready."

"All right, then. Together."

Willow nodded, took a deep breath, and waited for Giles' nod. They began to chant.

The air in the courtyard vibrated, then began to turn. The chickens in their coop squawked loudly.

Out in the Knights' camp, the horses stamped nervously. Xander watched one of the monks run up to General Gregor, who was glaring at the gate. The General listened a moment, then strode to the gate.

"You can just back off there, General," Xander called. "Our hour isn't up yet."

Giles, still chanting, glanced up worriedly, then at Spike. Spike nodded and ran up the steps to join Xander.

The General glared at Xander. "There is foul sorcery afoot, boy! I demand you stop and turn over the Key."

"We have an hour, General. You will get your answer then." Xander glared at Spike but made room for him.

"What is that spell your wizards are casting?"

"I don't know much about magic." He hefted the M16 to port arms. "I know weapons. Do you?"

His knightly order may shun modern technology, but General Gregor obviously recognized it. He stepped back.

Down in the courtyard, the wind had become visible and thick with light. Giles and Willow raised their voices to be heard over the wind. A tiny vortex appeared, slowly spinning larger.

In the doorway of the chapel, Tara watched the portal form. "Giggling stones jump," she whispered, moving forward. Sister Agnes, watching the proceedings next to her, gently took her arm.

"Best stay back, nina."

Tara frowned at the nun. "Pictures tear. Black words eat. The red turns black."

"Go inside, Taracita. This is upsetting you."

Gregor stood below Xander. "Cease this magic. Give us the Key."

Xander flicked off the safety on the rifle. "No."

"Then you give me no choice." Gregor turned to go to his troops.

Xander rose smoothly, put the rifle to his shoulder, and fired a single shot into the ground at Gregor's feet.

Buffy whirled. "Xander, no!"

Spike waved her back. "Warning shot, keep going!"

Xander watched Gregor's livid face through the scope. "You've got lots of choices, General. You're the only one who can make them. And I already know what my choices are."

A last shout from Willow and Giles, and the vortex bloomed into full life. The wind whipped out across the courtyard, then stillness fell, leaving a swirling silver hole in the air.

Which is where my pen ran out of ink and my fingers gave out on the transcribing. Still, thrills and angst and pain, all on the express track coming your way.

Right, well...

Continued from P.M. Marcontell "Bitchy Fic: It Could Be Plot Bunnies" May 3, 2003 4:29:39 am PDT

***

Angel's living quarters had been designed especially for him, and didn't look like they belonged in the upper levels of a modern office building. The hardwood floors, Art Deco furniture, and lush Persian rugs all seemed to belong in a period film. Sketches of people and places Angel had known graced the dark plum walls, their simple black frames blending in with the shadows thrown by the numerous sconces. During the day, thick velvet curtains shielded the rooms from sunlight, more out of choice than neccessity. Ordinarily, Wesley found the place soothing, but nothing had been ordinary for the last couple of weeks.

"It doesn't really surprise me."

"What doesn't, Angel?"

His friend turned from the drawing he'd been examining, a placid expression on his face. "Buffy not wanting to see me."

"You're not disappointed?"

Angel shrugged his shoulders. "If I am, I'll get over it. I've lived through worse. You seem more upset by it than I am, Wes. What I can't figure out is why."

There was no sense in prevaricating; Angel could almost always tell if he was doing so. "I want her," he stated. "And I'm worried about that affecting my judgment. I am also concerned because the desire appears to be mutual, and she's in a very vulnerable place right now."

"Did you suggest she come see me because you thought it would be good for her, or because you thought it would prevent anything from happening between you two?"

"I shouldn't be telling you any of this, should I?"

"I'd get it out of you one way or another."

He would have, and in all likelihood, with little to no difficulty. Angel knew him better than anyone else. The number of bonds, betrayals, and bereavements between them was testament to that. After all their years working together in one form or another, Angel remained the closest thing to family Wesley possessed.

"Perhaps a bit of both," he admitted. "Though either way, I did have her best interests at heart."

One dark eyebrow quirked upwards. "Do you really think you'd be that bad for her?"

"My record with women is only slightly less disastrous than yours, Angel."

Angel walked over and sat down across from him, frowning slightly before answering. "Good point."

"Do you have any suggestions?"

"You mean other than don't kill her friends and terrorize her family?"

The tone was more rueful than flippant, but Wesley still glared at him. "As she hasn't either, yes, other than that."

"Not really, Wes. Buffy's Buffy, there's no getting around that. She'll make you feel crazy and off balance, drive you up the wall half the time, and you'll still find yourself willing to do almost anything to protect her." There was perhaps a threat contained within the words, or at the very least, a warning.

"You still miss her, don't you?"

"Sometimes."

They sat quietly for a time, the soft strains of some piano concerto, on too low for Wesley to identify it, the only sound. He looked over to the sketch Angel had been examining earlier; it was one of a much-younger Buffy, her mouth stretched in a half smile as she slept. The girl in the drawing scarcely resembled the woman living with him. If he hadn't known her then, he wouldn't have thought it the same person.

"Angel?"

"Yeah?"

"How can you forgive me for what happened to her?"

The response was carefully, painfully, neutral. "It's not like you had much of a choice."

"Neither did she."

• **

Buffy set down her hamper and steeled herself to confront her host.

She'd been here for seven weeks now. At six, the doctor gave her a clean bill of health. As usual, he wasn't telling her anything her body hadn't already mentioned; she only went to see him because Wesley had started bugging her about it again when she mentioned wanting to pick up her training where she'd left off.

Her first serious workout in nearly three months left her frustrated and winded. She'd lost a little flexibility and more than a little strength, and she wasn't very happy about either. At least it gave her something to do while she was stuck in the house. Her last day of freedom had been spent shopping for books and movies, but that had been three weeks ago, and she was running low on both.

Outside of bugging her about going to the doctor, Wesley had been doing a good job of avoiding her. He was usually gone when she woke up, and he'd go back to work after dinner four nights out of five during the week. When he was forced to talk to her, he was polite but distant.

She supposed he meant well, even if it did have the effect of making her feel more alone with him in the house than when he was gone. Actually, that was probably the point, but if it didn't stop soon, she was going to start hitting things. With a sigh, she lifted her hand and knocked on the door to his room.

"Come in."

"Laundry?" she asked, stepping gingerly into his space. It wasn't totally an excuse; she hadn't done it yet for the week.

He didn't lift his head from the book in front of him as he gestured towards the wicker hamper at the foot of his bed.

Buffy forced herself to keep her voice light. "You're really frustrating sometimes. You know that, right?"

Maybe it hadn't been as light as she thought, based on his clipped response. "It's for your own good."

"Wes--"

"Buffy, don't." He set the book down and looked at her, his eyes troubled. "Don't make this any harder than it is."

"I'm not the one doing that." She sat down next to him, careful to not brush against him. "We should talk."

"I thought you were here for the laundry."

"It can wait." She looked at him expectantly.

With a stifled sigh, he caved. "How are you feeling?"

"Stiff. I think I overdid it again yesterday. I'm not used to having to hold back."

"Turn around."

"What?"

He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her ninety degrees, and started to rub them gently. "Does that help at all?"

She closed her eyes and leaned into his hands. "Mmm-hmm. It's nice. You're good at this."

"I've had a fair amount of practice."

"I can tell."

Light pressure up and down either side of her spine loosened the tight muscles in her back and neck. He rubbed her shoulders for a while longer before starting to work on her arms. "This is more than just stiffness from overexertion, isn't it?"

"Told you you were frustrating."

"Are you sleeping any better?"

She hadn't been, but it wasn't worse either. "I'm fine." She watched the rhythmic motion of his fingers against her skin, fascinated by the steady movements. "Mostly." Pulling away reluctantly, she stood and gathered his hamper. "Are you going out?"

Wesley shook his head. "I'm making more progress here; I don't want to lose any momentum."

Balancing both hampers, she made her way to the laundry room. Washing the clothes made her feel useful, but she hated the small, windowless place. She sorted it quickly: three loads worth, whites, blacks, and colors. The whites went in first to get them out of the way. Hopefully, the bleach smell wouldn't be too bad when she went to swap them over.

There were still a couple of hours of daylight left, and it probably wouldn't be too dangerous to just walk around the block. Buffy weighed safety against boredom. Boredom won. She took her keys and let herself out of the house.

The walk was uneventful, but by the time she got back to the house, she was shaking. Every noise or footstep she'd heard had made her jump, and she'd managed to convince herself twice that she was being followed. The scent of chlorine still clung to the laundry room, so she tried breathing through her mouth as she put the whites in the dryer and started the next load.

• **

Frantic screams woke him from a sleep that hadn't been especially sound to start with. Wesley fumbled for his robe, throwing it on as he hurried to Buffy's room. The alarm hadn't gone off, so it couldn't be anything more than a nightmare. It sounded as bad or worse than the one she had suffered the first night under his roof.

The sheets were tangled around her legs and arms, twisting like ropes as she fought in her sleep. He dodged flailing limbs as best he could while he tried to shake her awake; she connected with his chest and the side of his face before coming to.

It was worse than the first night. Wide eyes dark with fright stared at him without recognition from the pallid face, and she shrank away when he reached for her.

"Buffy?"

When she spoke, her voice was small and shaky. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine."

He lifted her from the bed and carried her to the living room, setting her down on the couch and covering her with a blanket. The kettle then went on to boil while he got out the tea, the cups, and a bottle of whisky. Both cups received a healthy splash of the last item.

She took the cup from him, frowning a little at the taste, but drinking it never the less.

"Worse night than normal," she explained, handing him the empty mug.

"So I'd gathered from the screaming. You're not usually quite so loud."

Buffy gave him a wan smile. She was still too pale, but the shaking had lessened. Hers, at least. Looking at his hands, he realized he was shaking as well. He refilled her tea, adding more whisky to his own cup as he realized he wouldn't be sleeping again for at least an hour.

"You're face is starting to bruise," she told him. "Did I hit you? My hand feels like it hit something."

"Once in the face with your hand, and twice in the ribs with your knees. More tea?"

Her expression was bland and her response flat and final. "More whisky."

As far as ideas went, more whisky seemed like a very good one indeed. He brought the bottle over and set it on the table between them. After calculating how many sick and personal days he had remaining, he added more of the alcohol to his mug.

"I had nightmares after Faith tortured me," he said. "For months, I would feel the edge of the glass she used to cut me, pressing into my skin. She'd let it skip sometimes, to vary the pattern, or change the angle as though it were a calligraphy pen, widening and narrowing the lines of blood. I was gagged, a rag stuffed into my mouth, so the entire time I felt as if I was choking." He poured another shot into his cup. "If she thought I was about to pass out, she would slap me--or worse--until my eyes opened."

Buffy took the bottle and poured some out, stopped, then poured out a little more. "Why do I get the feeling that I don't really want to know what the 'or worse' was?"

"Probably because you don't. It was not pleasant."

"And yet you tried to save her, even after everything she'd done to you."

"Things change, as do people. Time and circumstances had altered the both of us, and I had an entirely different set of things to keep me awake at night by then. As I've said, I owed her a great deal."

She looked at him skeptically from over the top of her cup, but said nothing. He hadn't really expected a response; her own history with Faith wasn't exactly a shining example of camaraderie. Of course, neither was her history with him. If it had been, she probably wouldn't be here. He watched her as she slowly sipped her drink, her expression distant and pensive.

"I think I loved her," she said at last. "Faith, that is. In a weird, messed up, confusing way. Which, of course, I can't explain." Buffy fidgeted with the mug, twisting it around and around in her hands. She looked at him with the solemnity of the slightly intoxicated. "I must have, right?"

He shrugged, watching as her teeth worried at her lower lip, wondering both how to respond and why he was choosing now of all possible moments to fixate on her mouth. "I don't know."

A sad smile crossed her lips at his lack of an answer, leaving him wishing he'd could tell her whatever it was she'd needed to hear, and wishing he knew her well enough to know what that was. It wasn't that he'd not paid attention to her during her stay; if pressed, he'd have been able to recite everything about her habits, from how often she showered (at least once daily, more often twice) to rate of toothpaste consumption (slow, the paste squeezed slowly and neatly from the bottom to extend the life of the tube). He would not, he realized, be able to say very much at all about the more subjective aspects of tastes and opinions that made up the girl.

It hadn't, and still didn't, seem appropriate to ask. More to the point, it would be borrowing trouble. Her tongue shot out to chase a errant drop of whisky from the corner of her mouth, and for a moment, borrowing trouble seemed a grand idea. He averted his gaze until the moment passed.

When her eyelids began to droop, Wesley took the cup from her and set it on the coffee table next to his own.

"We should get you to bed."

She blinked and looked from the empty mugs to him. "Only if you come with me." When he didn't answer, she added, "Just to sleep. I could use the company. Besides, you did it before."

"When you were much more inebriated, and I was much more sober." Not to mention, he thought, much less tempted.

"Please?"

Reluctantly, he nodded his agreement and followed her up to her room, hesitating momentarily before joining her in the bed, then not hesitating at all before pulling her next to him.

"Thanks," she murmured against his chest.

He rubbed her shoulders lightly. Even calm, they were stiffer than they had been that afternoon. She slid a hand along the bare skin of his back, nuzzling closer, her mouth pressing drowsy kisses along the line of his collarbone. His hands left her shoulders to tangle in her hair.

"This isn't sleeping."

"Suddenly, I'm not all that tired."

Kissing her seemed the proper thing to do, or perhaps the improper thing; he'd had enough whisky to make the line between the two blur. The warmth of their breath mingled as lips touched, making the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

They broke apart long enough for him to tug off her shirt. The faint light coming through the window reflected off the sweat-dampened skin, making a blurry halo around her body. He bent his head to the hollow between the base of her ribs, sampling where he wanted to devour until demanding hands pushed him closer.

He paused long enough to ask her if she was certain she wanted to continue.

A long moment later she answered, her voice filled with anxious determination. "Yes."

• **

It was strange to wake up sore and consider it a good thing. Buffy stretched experimentally to see just how her body was handling the morning after while her brain tried to figure out how it was handling it. Overall, it didn't seem to be too bad.

She opened her eyes to find Wesley watching her. His face was impassive, a hint of wariness in his eyes. Okay, so not too bad for her, maybe not so good for him. She reached a hand out to cup his cheek and tried to think of something to say while the silence grew strained and awkward.

"I didn't mean for that to happen," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not. Well, I wasn't. I don't want to be."

He smiled slightly and kissed her forehead. "You're all right?"

"Yeah, I think I am. No freezing, no panic."

"You were worried about that, I take it."

"Kind of. I was half expecting that either I wouldn't remember what to do, or I'd freak out and start screaming." She burrowed against him, enjoying the feel of skin on skin. It was nice to be able to just touch someone.

He wove his fingers through her hair, combing out the spots where it had tangled during the night. "There was some screaming, if memory serves."

They lay quietly entwined for a while, not bothering with anything more than the occasional lazy caress. That was nice, too. Actually, a lot of things about the situation were nice; it was just the talking about it part she was dreading.

"You realize this changes things, Buffy."

Apparently, Wesley wasn't dreading it as much as she was. "Is that bad?"

"I don't know." He paused, frowning. "With Faith, it lead to behavior both ruthless and reckless."

Buffy rolled away from him and stared at the ceiling, trying to find words that would sound reasonable and mature. Once again, she hadn't been prepared for the difference between suspicion and knowledge. Let that be a lesson to her.

"You were sleeping with her."

"It's a six hour drive from Stockton to Los Angeles, and she had been in prison for a number of years; given our history, there was a certain inevitability to it."

She turned to look at him, incredulous. "You go to bed with every woman who tortures and tries to kill you?"

The jolt of laughter startled her. "That did appear to be the pattern for a time. Unfortunately, one tends to run out of attractive enemies rather rapidly."

"I'm not sure how to respond to that," she said. "Doesn't that seem kind of... unhealthy?"

"It was never boring. Besides, it isn't as though you have much room to talk."

"Point taken. Grudgingly, but it's taken." She bit her lip and decided it was as good a time as any to bring up something she'd been wondering. "How long until the protection spell can be performed again?"