Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: I don’t own or profit from BtVS.

What I really love about BtVS fanfiction is the weight it carries.  There’s a depth to it.  So many brilliant authors put genuine thought into the moral and ethical complexities of the universe, from the meaning (or lack thereof) of the soul to Buffy's rigid stance on humans versus non-humans. How she defines evil sparks such rich discussion.  What makes a monster?  What makes a man?  How do you handle conflict when it’s humans on the other side?  Buffy captivates me deeply, and those questions pull me in every time.  We love to sink our teeth into those moral dilemmas.  That kind of storytelling is truly powerful.

But sometimes you just got to John Wick some people.

Buckle up, Buttercups.  We’re about to do the murder.

Chapter One

Spike used a damp paper towel to dab at the blood on the starched white collar of the pilot’s uniform, turning it a pale pink.  Frowning, he shrugged on the dark blue jacket, turning up the collar a bit to hide the splotch.  Fitting the hat jauntily on his head, he strode out of the bathroom, making his way towards the private hangar on the east end of the small Sunnydale airport.

No one stopped him as he sprinted up the steps of the private Council jet, already prepped for take-off, just awaiting its passengers.

“Oh, where’s Jed?”  The co-pilot blinked up at him.

“Last minute, ain’t it?  They called. He didn’t answer.  I did.”

The co-pilot nodded.  “I’m Eric.”

“William.”  They shook hands.

“Cold night?” Eric asked, and William nodded.  “You have a little something on your collar.”

William smiled, a little lazy, a little hungry. “Had myself a bit of company when they called.  No time to change.”

Eric grinned back, wishing he had had some company, but he had struck out at the hotel bar.  Oh well, it would have made it harder to get out of bed for the impromptu flight anyhow.

“Good morning, gentlemen.  I’m Roxy.  I’ll be your attendant for the flight.”

Eric smiled at the girl, giving her a good once-over in her white blouse and dark blue skirt that showed more than a bit of leg. William nodded.

“I’ll take your orders now for service once we level out.”

Eric shook his head.  “I’m good.  I won’t need anything until later, maybe.”

Roxy frowned.  “I don’t mind.  The more time I spend up front, the better.”  William raised a brow, and Roxy looked chagrined.  “You know the rich entitled ones.  Always handsy.”

William nodded.  “Once we level out and I put on the autopilot, come bring us some water.  Take care of you proper.”

She smiled brightly.

“Do me a favor, would you, pet?  Shut all the screens for the windows in the back?”  The flaw in his plan was that they would be flying east, right into the rising sun.  He checked the schedule, and he had just enough time to level the plane out before the sun rose and burned him to ash in the pilot seat.  The flight would take approximately eleven hours, meaning the sun would set just as it was time to land, which could be a problem.  Spike shot a sly glance over to his co-pilot.

Roxy shrugged, frowning a bit.  “Sure, but I can’t stop the clients from opening them.”

“No worries, pet.”  Even if they did open one or two, it should still be dark enough in the cabin for him to move around. 

“I think I hear a car.  Show time, boys!”  She put on her fake customer service smile.

Eric began the preflight check.  “I like these private flights far better than commercial, but I feel sorry for the girlies.  I know they make more money, but the crap they have to put up with, you know?”

“Yeah.”  William began his own preflight checks while listening to the stamping of feet up the stairs.  Soon, everyone was settled, luggage was loaded, and the preflight concluded.  While communicating with the tower, they began to taxi out to the strip.  It had been a few years since William had flown, but the protocols were the same.

As soon as he leveled off and put on the autopilot, he slammed Eric’s head into the window.  Not hard enough to kill him, but he was knocked out cold.

“Is he sleeping?”  Roxy appeared with a serving tray.

“Rough night.” Spike took the tray, setting it aside, before wrapping his hands around Roxy’s throat.  She fought, eyes and mouth wide, but eventually fell still.  Spike listened, hearing her heartbeat.  Both would be out for a while, giving him time to come back and tie them up when he was finished in the cabin.

He cracked the cockpit door, listening to the conversation and counting heartbeats.

Four men, but only two were talking.

“Once we are back in the office, we will arrange for a team to bring in both Miss Summers and Miss Lehane.  They are in dire need of reeducation,” snarled Quentin Travers.  Ice tinkled, and Spike could smell cigar smoke.  Cuban, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“I understand, Miss Lehane.  After all, the Slayer line runs through her, but must we lower ourselves to bother with Miss Summers?  She’s merely surplus.”  Spike didn’t know who spoke, but he did know he needed to die painfully.  He slipped his iron railroad spike from his pocket.

“Perhaps, but it needs to be studied further.  What if, by splitting the line, it weakens the current Slayer?  She may need to die to heal the fracture.  Besides, Miss Summers is a powerful weapon that can’t be allowed to run about unchecked.  We will bring her to heel so that she might learn her place.  I will not tolerate such disrespect, especially from a little girl.  Her insolence will be punished.”

“Bringing her in may prove difficult.”

“We have entire armies of trained watchers at our disposal.  She’s just one girl.”

“Mrs. Summers will no doubt protest.”  Spike heard crystal ping against crystal, and the strong scent of cognac perfumed the air.

“If she does, she’ll be dealt with,” Travers replied crisply.  Undoubtedly, many protesting parents had been managed throughout the years.  Some more stringently than others.  Spike remembered fondly how Joyce had whacked him over the head with an ax for daring to touch her precious darling.  Yes, Joyce would protest violently at some lecherous old men daring to take possession of her daughter, and the Council would manage her—prejudicially.  Spike felt his temper rise.        

“True, it’s not as if anyone will listen to some alcoholic single mother.  She is nothing and no one.”

Travers grunted in agreement.

“And her friends? Mr. Giles?”

“Nothing more than teenagers, and as for Rupert, well, his standing in the Council isn’t as solid as it could be.  His reckless youth irreparably damaged his family name.  Any disagreement he brings to the Council can easily be dismissed.”

“Miss Summer is quite strong and resourceful.  It may take more than a single team to bring her in.”

“She’s no more special than any other Slayer.  They are just girls lucky enough to be chosen to be the Council’s weapon in our war of good versus evil.  Miss Summers is a little girl with an inflated sense of importance.  A spoiled brat who needs to be put in her place and made an example of to show Miss Lehane and future Slayers what happens when they defy the Council.”

“We are fortunate that her recklessness hasn’t caused more damage.  Look at how her spreading her legs brought Angelus down on the defenseless people of that nowhere burg.”

Spike glared through the crack in the door.  Whoever the second man was, he clearly hated women.  The thought of him anywhere near Buffy or around any woman, really, made Spike uncomfortable in a way he hadn’t considered since his human years, when he became aware of how some of the men in his circle were less than gentlemanly to their female staff.  It wasn’t mere bullying that earned Rodney a railroad spike through the skull.
“Yes, her promiscuity is troubling.  As well as Miss Lehane’s.”

Spike had heard enough.  He moved quickly, whirling through the cabin before they could even shout.  The two guards near the front went down immediately.  There was the crunch of skulls and splattering of blood.  Brain matter squelched as Spike pulled the railroad stake free of the man’s skull, who had called Buffy surplus.

“Drop it.”  Spike’s grip around Travers’ wrist tightened painfully.  The stake he had pulled from his breast pocket clattered to the floor.  Spike applied more pressure, and Quentin resettled in his seat as the lean man casually took the seat across from him, setting his gory weapon on the polished mahogany table between them.  Nigel’s blood was in his crystal-cut snifter, and it bloomed dark as the vampire poured good scotch into it.

“Do you know who I am?”

Quentin glanced at the iron spike, covered in brain matter and blood, that lay at the man’s elbow within easy reach.  “William the Bloody, I presume.”

Spike nodded, removing his pilot’s hat and placing it next to the spike, before taking a sip of blood-drenched scotch.

“What I don’t know is why you are here.”  Quentin dared to glance around the darkened cabin, swallowing hard at the blood and gore.  He shifted his eyes to the shuttered window beside them. 

Spike smiled, showing human fang.  “Try.  You don’t need a hand to talk.”

Quentin shifted, tugging his vest in place before setting his shoulders.

“And what is the topic of conversation?”

Quentin expected it to be about Miss Summers.  Or perhaps Miss Lehane.  After all, they were leaving Sunnydale.  This intrusion must be regarding the Slayers.  What else would the Slayers of Slayers be interested in?

“You have your sycophants in place.  A well-set hierarchy within the Council to keep your traditions and whatnot ongoing.”

Quentin frowned.  “It will do you no good to threaten me with death.  To answer your question, yes, there will be someone to step into my role, once I am gone.”

“Someone who shares your ideology?”  Spike took another sip.  It was damned good scotch.

Quentin’s frown deepened.  He didn’t understand where the vampire was going with his line of questioning.  “Of course.  Traditions must be upheld, as you say.  The Council has existed for centuries, a bastion against the darkness.  A beacon of light in an ocean of evil.”

“Poppycock, the Council is nothing more than dirty old men bullying young girls.  The Slayers are the true light in the darkness.”

“Lies.  Propaganda spread by our enemies.  The Watcher’s Council is dedicated to protecting the world from the forces of evil.  The Slayers are the tip of the spear, which we wield.  When the tip breaks, another is forged to replace it.  It is the Council that is steadfast while the Slayer is transient.”

“Only because you pillocks set them up for failure.  Where’s the army of wankers you were just bragging about when the Slayer is facing down an apocalypse?  Instead, you sit back, patting yourselves on the back, toasting your greatness as the Slayer dies to save the world.  And if by some chance a Slayer does make it to the age of majority, you poison them so you might get yourself a fresh meek one.”

“You know nothing of the responsibilities of the Watcher’s Council.  The Cruciamentum is an important rite of passage for Slayers.  It teaches them cunning and resilience.  A Slayer who survives their test is better for it.”

“Sure, that’s why you were planning to bring Buffy to heel.  Because she’s better for surviving that rigged atrocity, and not because she bested you and bruised your delicate tweed-clad masculinity.”

Quentin’s jaw tightened, his voice remained measured and cold as he replied.  “Mock if you like, but centuries of order are not undone by the emotional outbursts of the rebellious or the undead.  Tradition has a way of asserting itself, and those who stand against it rarely do so for long.

“Funny thing about traditions, mate.  They break a lot easier when someone’s not afraid to hit back.”

“I suppose that’s you resorting to violence, then.”

“I do love a spot of violence, but some things take a bit more finesse.  When you think of all the people who could possibly wear your tweedy crown, who puckers your arsehole the most?”

Quentin blinked.  “I don’t think I follow.”

“Who in your organization do you hate the most?  Who disagrees with your traditions?”

Quentin couldn’t stop the flicker of distaste that flittered across his face.  Spike smiled, lazily unwinding a finger from his glass to point at Travers.  “There.  Who did you just think of, Quentin?”

“My name is Mr. Travers, and you will address me as such.”

Spike chuckled, deep and dark.  Travers couldn’t control the shiver that slithered down his spine.  He wasn’t a man to be cowed, though.  He may sit behind a desk now, but he had been in the field for many years.  This wasn’t his first vampire.  Though mayhap this was his first master. The first vampire who was ruthlessly sane for all his evil.

“Give me the name, Quentin.”

“I think not.”

Spike leaned back in his luxurious leather chair.  It swiveled to the aisle, giving him room to cross his ankle over his knee.

“This flight is roughly eleven hours to Heathrow.  It would be a bit tight, but I am a master.  You’ll be rising as we set down.  So you see, Quentin, you’ll tell me one way or another. Either live or undead.”

Quentin paled, his fingers trembling, realizing that every watcher’s worst nightmare sat across from him.

The chauffeur loped up the jet’s steps when no one exited the plane.  Spike knocked him out, putting him with the rest of the crew he left alive.  Slinging Quentin’s body over his shoulder, he headed for the limo.  Once he tossed the body in the back seat, Spike took a moment to look out the hangar door into the purple velvet gloaming.

It had occurred to him, while listening to Quentin and his lackey talking, that cutting off a single head of the hydra would be useless when there were so many waiting to rise in its place.  A regime change was needed.

This was so much more than just getting some petty revenge on those who had hurt his Slayer.  A nearly impossible task.  He doubted he was up to it.  He was impetuous and easily bored.  More often than not, his plans went to shit merely because planning took all the fun out of it.  Spontaneity was Spike’s lifeblood, and while a bloody coup would be glorious in its violence, it would take patience, too.  Something of which he wasn’t fond.

He stretched his arms, and the scratches across his back burned, still not healed after so many hours, and he smiled.  Maybe he would give it a go, try to walk that line between impetuousness and patience.  Keep the eye on the prize and all that rot.  Besides, it promised to be a right fine lark.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer:  I don’t own or profit from BtVS.

Chapter Two

The chit liked to stop at the arcade after school.  Hang with her chums, flirt with the boys.  It didn’t take her long to notice him in the shadows, dark and mysterious.  Teen girls ate that shit up like candy.

It only took two days of snogging her to get an invite to her home.  He declined at the doorstep, smiling at her disappointed moue as she closed the door.  All he needed was for the invite to be issued.

Abigail Harcourt strode into her home office, her sensible heels sinking into the burgundy and navy Persian rug, and flicked on the antique banker’s lamp on the corner of the mahogany desk before realizing something was horribly wrong.  She reached for her desk drawer, withdrawing the small derringer inside.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.  Just annoy me, it would.”

The man coalesced out of the shadows cast by the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.  No, not a man.  A vampire, carrying with him a faint metallic scent.  She glanced at the closed door.  Her daughter and partner were upstairs, sleeping soundly.  Weren’t they?

“They’re fine,” he answered her unasked question.  “For now.”

He sat in the plush chair opposite her desk, and she sank into hers out of habit.

“Had an interesting talk with your boss.”

Abigail tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry.  Mr. Travers’ jet had landed three days ago.  The crew was minimally injured, but Nigel and their bodyguards had been brutally murdered.  Travers was missing.  The Council had been in a tizzy, which was why she was so late getting in this evening.  Plans were being made for his successor to take power, while others were trying to figure out what had happened in Sunnydale that resulted in a full-scale attack on the Council.  It seemed the answer sat across from her.

Abigail took a deep breath, folding her hands on her leather desk blotter to keep them from shaking.  She had no idea what the vampire wanted from her.  She wasn’t low on the ladder, perhaps fourth or fifth from the position of Head Watcher, but it was a position she would never acquire.  Not with her ideologies.

“How can I assist you, Mr…”  Manners had never steered her wrong.  It would be the height of prudence to be polite to the dangerous creature sharing her space.

“William the Bloody.  You can call me Spike.”

Marjorie had set out a decanter of good brandy and a single glass on her desk, knowing her lover would need it after returning from the office.  With a shaking hand, she poured herself two fingers.  She knew who William the Bloody was.  All Watchers did.  He was the monster they had nightmares about.

“Care to share, pet?”

Abigail was proud of how tall she stood as she stepped around the desk, coming only close enough to hand the vampire her glass of brandy.

“Ta.” He raised the glass to her before taking a sip.  She slowly walked to the sideboard to retrieve a second glass for herself before returning to her desk to pour herself another two fingers.

“How may I help you, Mr. Bloody?”

“Seems your boss right despised you.”

She blinked slowly before her head turned to glance at the wide three-ring binder that was shelved with her other books.  “Yes, I suppose he did.”

“Tell me why.”

Abigail wasn’t sure what was happening.  Whatever it was, it was surreal.  “It would be easier to show you rather than to tell.”  He nodded, and she rose to retrieve the binder.  It was quite heavy, and it took two hands to hold it.  “This is my plan for a massive overhaul of the Council.  It will never be utilized.  I received quite a bit of scorn, in fact.  But I do what I can with what little power I have,” she told him as she handed the binder over.

He set it in his lap, flipping it open to the Table of Contents.  Instead of returning to her desk, she sank into the chair next to him.  Only a small round table separated them.

“Salary, health benefits, education fund.” Spike flipped the page over, seeing more headers on the back.  “Support staff.  Abolitions of the Cruciamentum.”  Spike looked at her, his eyes dark.  “All this for the Slayer?”

She nodded.  “And potentials.  After all, they still need training, and if they are never called, they still need an education and support in a chosen profession.”

“This is quite progressive.”

Abigail fingered her collar and looked away.  “Yes, quite.  It will never be enacted, of course.”

“Why?”

She shot him a look of mild disdain.  Not of him, but of the institution as a whole.  “I will never be promoted into a position of power where I would be able to enact such changes.  The traditions of the Council are deeply ingrained at all levels of the institution.

“What if you were Head Watcher?”

She gaped at him before catching herself.  “That would never happen, and even if it did, I wouldn’t have the proper people in positions of support to make it so.”

“So there are other progressives like you in the Council?”

“Well, yes, but not in positions of support.”

“How hard would it be to move them into the positions?”

“Very!  Most positions are lifetime appointments.”

Spike raised a scarred brow.  “So they would need to die for their positions to be filled, and if you were the Head Watcher, you could ensure that.”

Abigail’s heart didn’t know whether to fly or sink into a pit of despair.  Her stomach was in chaos, her mind in turmoil, as it finally correlated with William the Bloody’s intentions.

“Why are you doing this?”

Spike flipped to the next page of the binder, skimming through all the changes she would enact if in charge.  “It’s a shame what the Council does to these bints.  They are meant to be magnificent warriors.  Glorious in battle.  Truly an unparalleled opponent to fight.  Instead, the Council weakens them.  Makes them less than.” He glared at her, his jaw hard.  “Poisons them.”

Buffy Summers. This was about Buffy Summers in Sunnydale.  She had strongly protested having the girl go through such a barbaric ritual as the Cruciamentum.  But then again, she protested it every time.  But here was this monster.  This vampire.  Casually sitting in her office, asking her questions on how to reform the system that had brought Slayers to their knees.  Although, to read the reports, the Council had failed to bring Ms. Summers to heel.  She had defeated her opponent despite being weakened.  Additionally, it seemed she had won another vampire to her side.

“Did Ms. Summers send you to wreak vengeance on the Council?” she asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

Spike snorted.  “The bint is a sodden beacon of good.  She’d never raise a hand to you wankers, even to save herself.”

Abigail let out a slow breath.  “Then why are you here?”

“She deserves better, don’t she?”

“They all do,” Abigail agreed.

“Don’t care about any others.”  Spike flipped to the next page.  “Now tell me what would have to happen to put you in charge.”

Breathing was becoming too hard.  On shaky legs, she rose only far enough to snag the decanter and her glass off the desk before collapsing back into her seat.  Her hand trembled too violently to pour herself another finger.  Spike took the decanter from her and poured her an impolite four.  Gratefully, she took the glass and swallowed a good portion.

“A lot of people would have to die.  Not just here in London but in other satellite offices.”

“I can only do so much, pet.  A coup is bloody, and if you want it, you’ll have to get your hands dirty.”

She stared at Spike, slumping back in her chair.  He let her sit and stew as he read her manifesto on impossible change.  Did she want it?  The Council was corrupt to its core.  She knew the true purpose of the Cruciamentum.  To cull Slayers before they could reach their cumulation.  There was so much blood on the old men’s hands as they ruthlessly kept rigid control of the women supposedly in their care.  To the Council, they were merely tools, disposable and malleable.  They weren’t young woman with hopes and dreams of their own.  Just objects to be used and discarded.

The Council was so deeply entrenched in its traditions—in its misogyny—it could never be changed with pretty speeches.  The institution’s very structure didn’t allow for change.  And while the bylaws didn’t specifically say a woman could not lead the Council, no woman had ever risen higher than her current position.  This was an institution of hate, and its target was women.

Her gaze slid to the vampire.  Here was an opportunity.  A bloody one.  A risky one.  Yet, it was an opportunity that may never again appear for years, perhaps hundreds, and by then, how many more young women would die?  How many potentials would be abused by their watcher?  Oh, yes, Abigail knew of the vile things swept under the rug by those in power, by the boy’s club that lived with the privileges their maleness granted them.

Could she do it?  Her legacy would be monstrous.  But if she managed to pull it off, it would be glorious as well.  A true revolution.  And all revolutions had their casualties.

But what was the vampire’s motivation?  The desire to breed stronger foes for him to fight to increase his prestige?  Perhaps, but it seemed unlikely.  The reason had to be deeper.  More personal.

There had always been rumors floating around the more romantic set in the Council.  More than rumors, she knew.  She had proof of it, in fact.

She rose from her chair.  Spike stiffened in his seat, but didn’t stop her.  It took her a moment to find the slim blue volume.  She held it out to him.

He eyed it suspiciously.  “What’s this?”

“The last known record of a vampire falling in love with a Slayer.  1600s, France.”

Spike sneered at the book.  “No use for that rot.”

Abagail smoothed her hand over the leather cover.  “The Council executed them both.  Witnesses say his ashes coated her body as he tried to shield her to her very last breath.”

Spike steadfastly refused to look at her.  She placed the volume on the table between the chairs.  “Some more ideological watchers.  The ones who don’t progress up the ranks very far, and have time for romantic musings, believe that a Slayer is always meant to take a vampire lover.”

Spike looked at her then, his eyes hard.  “The Slayer already has one of those, and it ain’t me.”

Abagail nodded as he went back to his reading.  She headed toward her desk, flipping on her laptop.

“You would take care of the obstacles here in London?” Her voice sounded hollow to her own ears.  Spike looked up at her, his eyes cold as glaciers.  He nodded once.  Slow, deliberate.  Deadly.

“I’m going to get you a list of names and addresses.”

“What about those in satellite offices?”

Her mouth was in a grim line as she spoke.  “Part of the curriculum I want to introduce is to induct the Slayers into the demon underworld.  How to navigate it.  Form alliances with benign demons, and even the more pragmatic ones such as yourself.”  Spike’s mouth quirked up.  Some would view a certain level of pragmatism as evil.  After all, it often called for assessing the risk of the fewer good verses the greater.  “To do that, some alliances had to already be in place.”

“You know the demon underworld well, luv?”

“I was quite adventurous in my youth.” 

Abigail started putting together a list of men who would need to be eliminated before she could take power.  After that, she would begin to send out various emails and magical messages, putting into place alliances she would need in other countries.  Setting up contracts with her more pragmatic contacts to eliminate even more threats to the congregation of her power.

By the time she handed him her list of men, Spike had finished reading.

“You’ll put all these practices in place once in power?” He tapped the hard cover of the binder with his finger.

“Yes,” she promised solemnly.

He nodded, taking the list from her as he rose.  Abigail glanced at the side table and noticed the thin blue volume was missing.  She didn’t allow herself to smile, but the tightness in her chest loosened.  The first hint that maybe she was doing the right thing for the Slayer she was sworn to protect, even if that protection was awash in blood.

“One more thing, Mr. Bloody.  I need to tell you the real reason for the Cruciamentum.”

Together they sat back down, and she proceeded to divulge the Council’s most tightly kept secret.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer:  I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Trigger warnings for sexual abuse of a child and copious murder.  All of which takes place off-screen.

Chapter Three

Giles' stomach rolled.  He eyed the tea and digestives at his elbow, but declined to partake.  He didn’t know if he would be able to keep the nourishment down.

The last few weeks had been a study in shame.  Every day, his contact in the Council kept him informed of the ever-growing pile of bloodless corpses, courtesy of Giles and the devil’s bargain he had struck with William the Bloody.  When Giles had called the number Spike had given him that fateful evening, informing the vampire of Travers’ hangar and departure, he hadn’t conceived of the barbarism he would let loose.  He had abstractedly imagined Travers’ death.  A bloodless fantasy, he reveled in it.  Guilt-ridden for sure, but puffed up by his own sense of righteousness for taking the necessary steps to protect his Slayer as penance for his despicable betrayal of her.

Yet, as the weeks went by and more men lay dead, and quakes of change shook the very foundation of the Council, did Giles realize what Spike had meant when he spoke of cutting off heads until he found one with any sense in it.  Heads had rolled until the progressive-leaning Ms. Harcourt had risen to the top.  The idea of her as Head Watcher was unfathomable.  She was everything the traditional Council stood against.  She believed in the agency of vampires and demons for heaven's sake!  She was wholly unsuitable for the role she thrust herself into, and Giles could do nothing but bemoan his part in it.

Once again, his recklessness had resulted in tragedy.  He hadn’t felt this way since Randall’s death.  It was a reminder of why duty was so important.  Important for him as a Watcher and for Buffy as the Slayer.  Once strayed from the path of duty, disaster lay in wait.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been so lenient with her.  If he hadn’t let her strong personality bulldoze him into loosening the strictures of his teachings.  If he had just kept a better watch on her, perhaps she wouldn’t have let loose Angelus onto them.  She was the Vampire Slayer, and he should have put a stop to the relationship from the very beginning. Innocent as she may be in the whole debacle, it should never have come to fruition. 

She was just so impetuous! So unfettered with her emotions! He needed to remember she was just a young, emotional girl and needed a steady hand to guide her. He mustn't fail again in his duty.

He glanced to where she sat beside him at the table. They were alone in the library.  A rarity since the Cruciamentum.  She was skittish in his presence. He had noticed how she had carefully examined their surroundings for crystals before taking a seat.  How she had waited until he had sipped the tea he had served from the same pot before sipping her own.  How she only ate the cookies she had brought from the cafeteria and not the digestives he provided.  He noted it all, and his heart hurt with every accounting.

“I have something serious we must discuss about the Council.”

Buffy paused, half a cookie crammed in her mouth.  The flash of panic on her face made the guilt in him ease a tiny bit, because no matter how wrong Spike was in massacring half the Council, there was no disputing the results.  Buffy was safe.

Buffy swallowed her cookie.  “What’s happened?  Are they after me again?”

His heart gave another painful twist.  “No, the Council has suffered a significant blow.  Travers is dead.”

“Oh.”  She blinked owlishly.  Buffy wasn’t a petty person.  Vengeance wasn’t in her blood.  But she couldn’t hide her relief either.  He saw immediately that the news eased something inside her.  “How did that happen?”

“That isn’t important, right now.”  The last thing he wanted to do was explain his part in Travers’ death.  How in a moment of weakness­—of irrationality and fear—he had committed a worse atrocity than calling forth a demon who slaughtered his boyhood friend.  That had been a misstep, a youthful indiscretion, but what he had done to Travers, to the Council?  That was far worse.  He had set loose a demon on them, and now dozens were dead.

“Seems kinda important.”

“Not as important as what is happening now,” Giles deflected.  As hoped, Buffy took the bait.

“What’s happening now?”

“The new Council Head has come to Sunnydale and wishes to speak with you.”

Buffy tensed, glancing at the weapons cage.  “Speak with me or kill me?”

“Only speak.”  Giles put a reassuring hand over hers, but she slid it away, opting to pick up the digestive and break it apart on her saucer.  Giles looked away from her strong hands before clearing his throat to continue. “Ms. Harcourt is an entirely different creature from Travers.”

“In what way?”

It was impossible to count the ways.  If someone had told him days ago that someone of her ilk would rise to power in the Council hierarchy, he would have scoffed.  Now he only grieved.  Her rise to power was a direct result of his imprudent actions.  “She has some very unprecedented views on how the Council should be run.”

“Oh, like the Slayer should be kept on a leash at all times.  Maybe chained in their Watcher’s bathtub?”

“No!” Giles was aghast.  “Ms. Harcourt is quite the reformist.  She believes in supporting the Slayer in all their endeavors.”

Buffy frowned.  “Support sounds nice.”

“Indeed.”  Despite his distaste for the vile woman, he couldn’t help but agree.  Buffy deserved all the support she could garner.  “We have an appointment to visit with her this afternoon.”

“Is it safe?”

“Ms. Harcourt has proven herself to be a very dangerous woman, but I believe she presents no danger to you.”

“Dangerous how?”

“Let’s just say her rise to power is as unprecedented as herself.”  Giles felt his nausea rise until it nearly choked him.

A young woman in a tweed suit and a tidy bun opened the door. She ushered them inside the well-appointed suite, decorated in warm sun-kissed tones that made Buffy want to melt into plush luxury.  Sunnydale Pavilion Hotel, perched elegantly on the western bluffs, offering breathtaking views of the golden Californian beach on a side of town Buffy rarely ventured to.  Not many vampires hunted on the expensive west side of Sunnydale, where the property values never seemed to plummet.  If Buffy wasn’t mistaken, the Mayor resided not far down the road in a lush gated community.

The young woman led them deeper into the suite, her practical heels sinking into the high pile carpeting.  They passed through a sunken living area, the expensive-looking furniture arranged in a circular fashion, and into a more private seating area.  An older woman sat before a western-facing glass wall, revealing a large patio overlooking the splendor of the Pacific Ocean.  Buffy almost didn’t notice her, so fascinated she was by the infinity pool, its water seemingly pouring off the edge of the penthouse patio.  Tropical plants bloomed orange and gold, backdropped by massive dark green leaves.  If Buffy was going to die, she knew exactly what she wanted her heaven to be.

“My name is Ms. Harcourt.  It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Summers.” The woman stood, holding out her hand to the Slayer. She was an older woman dressed in a sensible gray linen suit in deference to the West Coast heat, even in January.  She towered over Buffy, nearing Giles in height.  Buffy noted she wore flats.  Her height was entirely her own, as well as the ingrained intimidation.  Buffy stiffened her spine.  She had stared down Quentin Travers and Principal Snyder, the biggest bullies she knew.  She wasn’t about to be intimidated by some newly minted authority figure.

She shook the other woman’s hand briskly.  “I’d say likewise…”

Ms. Harcourt smiled faintly.  It wasn’t ridicule or pretentiousness.  She seemed genuinely happy to be meeting Buffy.  She had a narrow face with a hawk-like nose, but it was her hair that captured Buffy’s attention.  Steel gray at the roots, it was dyed bright fuchsia at the ends.  It was so incongruent to the woman herself, it made Buffy anxious with the realization that Ms. Harcourt was wholly unpredictable.

“But your experience with Mr. Travers has left you wary.”

Buffy nodded.  “Giles says Mr. Travers is dead.”

“Yes.  I killed him myself.”

Both Buffy and Giles jolted.

“Would you please sit and have tea with me?”  Ms. Harcourt motioned to the cream-colored chairs and the low, hardwood table arranged with a full tea service.  Buffy and Giles shared a look before staring back at the woman.  “I mean you no harm, and I will tell you everything that I know.”

Buffy sat delicately, poised to jump if the woman made any threatening moves.  She clocked the other woman standing at Ms. Harcourt’s shoulder, but couldn’t sense anyone else in the suite.  That meant little if they were human.  Buffy knew she could escape out the door, placing herself between Giles and a threat.  She could even scale the side of the building if necessary, but she quickly discarded the idea, knowing there would be no way to get Giles to safety.

Ms. Harcourt poured the tea.  “Milk? Sugar?”

“No.”  Buffy had no intention of eating or drinking anything offered to her.  She knew Giles felt the same way when he declined sugar.

Buffy waited until Ms. Harcourt took a sip before speaking, hoping to catch the woman off guard.  “So you murdered Travers?”

Ms. Harcourt didn’t so much as jolt.  She swallowed her tea and nodded grimly.  “Yes.  He had been turned into a vampire and sought to wreak havoc on Council headquarters.  He didn’t get far as I was exiting the building at the same time he was entering.”

“So you staked him.”  Buffy gave her an appraising look.  She wondered how Travers got himself turned.

“Yes.  It wasn’t too terribly difficult as he was just a fledge.”

“Are you going to tell her who turned Travers?”  Buffy glanced at Giles, surprised at the venom in his voice.  His face was hard and uncompromising, but he was flushed at his collar.  She wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, never having seen him in such a state before.

“I fully intend to disclose all to the Slayer.  But first, Mr. Giles, we are here to review your employment and discuss your role in the Slayer’s service going forward.”

Giles bristled at the woman's clipped tone.  “I believe your predecessor,” Giles spat the word derisively.  “Already fired me. I don't see what further there is to discuss.”  While he heavily disliked Travers, he was disgusted by how Harcourt had used the tragedy to her advantage to strong-arm herself into her position. He shied away from the voice that whispered that it was his fault that Travers, along with a multitude of his peers, were dead.

“Your termination was never made official. Besides, I don't have the power to do so.”  Ms. Harcourt took another leisurely sip of her tea.  Buffy had to give her points for poise.  She doubted the woman ever got ruffled.

“You are the new head of the Council, are you not?”

“Yes, I head the new Watchers Council, and in the restructure, it has been decided that all hiring and firing of those working directly with the Slayer will be by her direction.”

“What?” Buffy yelped, uncertain she fully understood.  Ms. Harcourt wanted to give her hiring and firing privileges?  But she was just the Slayer.

Harcourt set her teacup down on its saucer with hardly a whisper of sound, her tone warm. “You get to decide, Ms. Summers, who works for you and who doesn't.”

Buffy blinked, looking between Ms. Harcourt and Giles.  “Oh, well, of course I want Giles to be my Watcher.” The woman at Harcourt’s shoulder shifted, her expression never changing.

“No, of course, about it, Ms. Summers. Your Watcher conspired to weaken you and put you in mortal danger.”

“Yeah, that was bad.”  Cold sweat prickled under her arms and down her spine.  She could still smell Kralick’s breath, feel the soft give of his belly on the back of her knuckles as he had slid her hand towards his crotch, his skin burning at the touch of the cross she held.  If she had been moments too late, or just a little bit slower, not so clever, then she and her mother would be dead right now.

“I had no choice,” Giles snapped.

“Of course you had a choice.” Harcourt’s tone went from warm to subzero.

“If I hadn't gone along with the test, they would have fired me.”  Giles took off his glasses to polish them.  His tone was measurably more controlled than it had been just moments before.  Buffy watched his ritual, understanding for the first time that it was about control.  Being measured in his responses by focusing on handling something that could easily be broken.

“Then she would have been assigned another Watcher.”

“I couldn’t trust that another Watcher would have her best interests at heart.”

“Who can say what another Watcher would have or wouldn’t have done.  What we do know is that you chose your job over the Slayer's life.”

Buffy could hear her heartbeat in her ears.  Harcourt was voicing thoughts she hadn’t allowed herself to ruminate on. Thoughts that had crept up in the night just before she fell into a restless sleep.  Giles had made a choice.  Sure, he changed his mind in the end.  Had felt guilty for it. But that hadn’t changed the outcome.  She had been rendered powerless by him and set up for slaughter.

“That's not true!”  Giles shoved his glasses back on his face, and Buffy knew he had given up on his exercise of control.

“It is categorically true.”  If possible, Harcourt’s voice became icier.  Buffy surreptitiously checked the room to see if frost was creeping in.

“If I lost my job, the Council would have deported me, and then I would not be here to assist Buffy.”  If they were sitting at a desk, and not at a coffee table, its height below their knees, Buffy imagined he would be pounding it to make his point.  The red beneath his collar was climbing his smooth cheeks, enhancing the razor burn she had barely noticed before.

“All of which is inconsequential, as Travers fired you anyhow.  It would have been doubly inconsequential if Ms. Summers had died.”

Harcourt words dropped like a slimy ball into Buffy’s guts.  She had almost died.  Her mother had almost died.  Because of Giles.  Because of the Council.  But here was the new head of the Council taking her watcher to task for doing as he was told.

“I had faith that Buffy would succeed.”  The words sounded weak, even to Buffy’s ears.  Or maybe they sounded weak to her, because it wasn’t a strong justification for his actions—just a weak excuse for bad behavior.

“If that is true, then why did you protest the execution of the test so strenuously?”   

Giles took out his handkerchief and blotted his forehead.  “It is an archaic ritual, and I have made my distaste of it known many times.”

This entire conversation was making Buffy uncomfortable, but she had a duty to Giles.  A loyalty.  “He didn’t want to do it.  You forced him, too.” Buffy glared at Ms. Harcourt, who merely lifted a sculpted brow at the accusation.  They both knew Ms. Harcourt had done no such thing, but the Council had.

“Yes, and it boggles the mind that you systematically stripped the Slayer of her power through the course of weeks. Lied to her. Manipulated her. Entranced her, injecting her with poison against her knowledge and consent.”  With each word, her volume rose, the last word snapping above their heads like a whip. Buffy and Giles flinched at the raw description of his actions.  Buffy felt scoured on the inside.  Glancing at Giles confirmed that he felt the same.

“I had no choice.”  His voice wavered, just as his convictions had.  The conviction not to betray his Slayer hadn’t stood up well against the pressure of his peers.  His superiors.  Of duty.  His love for her had faltered in the face of tradition.

“Ah, so your convictions are so weak that the slightest threat to your comfort, you throw the Slayer to the wolves?”

“Comfort?” he gaped at her.  “It had nothing to do with comfort. My position has nothing to do with pay and everything to do with my ability to assist my charge.”

He sounded so pained, Buffy couldn’t help but grip his hand in support.  His palm was sweaty, and he didn’t grip her back.

“But your £250,000 annual salary certainly helps,” Harcourt said dryly.  Buffy's mouth dropped, her hand slipping away from his.  She didn't know much about finances, but she knew her dad had some fancy title and didn't make that much

“Hardly a consequence.”  Giles glanced down to where her hand had been in his.  “Besides, it calculates hazard pay,” he muttered, looking away.  The woman at Harcourt’s shoulder shifted again.

“Hazard pay while the Slayer receives nothing for risking her life nightly.”

“Yeah.” Buffy frowned, first at Giles, then at Ms. Harcourt.  She could buy a lot of shoes with that kind of money, not to mention help her mom out. Buffy knew that even though her dad had a really good job, he wasn't that great at sending support payments. Buffy heard her mom worry about money when on the phone with Aunt Darlene.  Meanwhile, Giles was apparently raking in the cash.  For what?  Reading moldy books?  Muttering, ‘oh, dears’ and squawking about apocalypses like Chicken Little?

“It does matter.  Your salary, less hazard pay, of course, would continue after the Slayer's death, but not if you were fired. So yes, it sounds to me that you weighed your future comfort against the Slayer's life.”  That bomb exploded all over the room.  And not the fun glitter kind.  The bad kaboom kind. 

Giles jumped to his feet, face flushed in outrage.  “You have no room to talk. You used William the Bloody's rampage to catapult yourself into the Head Council's chair. A very comfortable position indeed,” he sneered.

Spike’s name zinged through her like a live wire.  Where before she had grown colder with each snarled accusation being flung back and forth, the mention of Spike lit her up.  Hot sparks in her blood.  In her brain.  In her chest where her heart beat overtime.   “What is he talking about?”

Harcourt turned her gimlet eye on Giles, and he visibly wilted.  “You haven’t told the Slayer?”

“It hardly seemed necessary.”  Buffy knew the dance of deflection when she saw it.  Her dad did it often enough.

“She is the Slayer. She should never be kept in the dark.  Especially regarding something so momentous.”

“I would hardly call a vampire's rampage momentous,” Giles sneered.

“It is when it births a revolution.”

“What the hell are you guys talking about?”  Harcourt opened her mouth to reply to Buffy, but Giles cut her off.

“Revolution? A bloody revolt, more like.”

Harcourt snapped her attention back to Giles, who still stood.  Towering over them more like, since they had both stayed seated.  Her dad had loved using that intimidation tactic.  Loved to tower or her and her mother while he thundered at the top of his lungs.  Harcourt’s lips thinned, and annoyance glinted in her eyes.  “Tell me, Mr. Giles, what offends you more, that a progressive now heads the Council or that I am a woman?”

Buffy’s brows rose.  That was a damn good question.  How many times had Giles ridiculed her for her girlish behavior?  She had thought it was just about her not taking her duty seriously, but now she had to wonder if Giles would have made sly little jibes at her for dating and having a social life if she had been a boy.  Would he have poo pooed a male Slayer every time they tried to have a date, or would he have waved it off with a boys will be boys attitude?  And how many times had Giles dismissed her opinion?  Her instincts?  Would he have done that if she were male?  Would the mostly male Council strip a male Slayer of their power and put them through the Cruciamentum?

Giles drew back his shoulders at the implication. He believed himself to be more moderate when it came to Council doctrine. Like any other leaning faction, progressives were extreme in their beliefs, but nothing too dangerous. 

Giles respected women. After all, the most powerful creature in the world was female.  But Slayers were supernatural, and always female.  There was no choice in the matter, even if a male would be more logical.

However, when it came to watching, men and women approached it differently. Many of the women who recently rose in the ranks to Watcher were formidable. His grandmother was one of the first female Watchers, much to his grandfather’s chagrin, but when one of her potentials had been called, her position had been replaced with a more experienced male Watcher. 

Watching was emotionally and physically harrowing, and a woman’s natural inclination was to nurture. A Watcher couldn’t afford to coddle a Slayer.  It was to their great misfortune that they had a duty to train them and then watch them go off to die.  It was terrible to contemplate, but it was true.  Slayers eventually died, and that sort of heartbreak was traumatizing.

It had nearly too much for him to handle, and he had been trained by his father, one of the most stoic men he had ever met.

Women had only been allowed to be Watchers of active Slayers in the last decade or so.  He had applauded the move, remembering his own grandmother's heartbreak of not being allowed to continue with her Slayer. He had dismissed his colleagues' concern that women weren't as dedicated to the job due to the distractions of raising their own families, or emotionally stable enough to make the decisions necessary that endanger their Slayer. It was a Watcher's greatest test of fortitude to send their Slayer into danger knowing they may die.

He had to admit to some reservations after his encounter with Ms. Post. She had proven his colleagues' arguments that women shouldn’t be allowed to be Watchers of active Slayers.  The stress had obviously driven her into emotional extremes.

As for Ms. Harcourt, she wasn’t a role model he’d have other young women aspiring to.  She would surely fail in the heavy responsibility of Head Watcher. After all, she had hardly worked for the seat of power she now sat in. She took it. She probably hadn't earned her previous position either. More than likely, she connived for it.

“Your gender is not the concern, Madame.  Rather, how you came to your role, riding on the bloody coattails of one of the most notorious vampires in this age.”

Hardcourt snorted.  “Ah, so I didn't earn it. Had to be handed to me by a man.”

Giles' smug expression said more than any words could.

“Excuse me, Slayer over here." Buffy waved her hand to get their attention. "All in the dark.”

Harcourt dismissed Giles, turning to the Slayer.  “Somehow,” her eyes flicked to Giles, who settled himself in the chair, “William the Bloody managed to ascertain Mr. Travers’ departure time and snuck aboard his jet as he flew out of Sunnydale.”

“Buffy doesn't need to hear this.”  Giles didn’t want this to go any further.  He already knew he had committed an atrocity by making the fatal call to Spike’s hotel room that night.  He didn’t need Buffy knowing his complicity.

“She's the Slayer. She can't do her job if she's handicapped by ignorance.”

“And I'm sure you'll divulge your part in it.”  Unsettled, Giles bolted back his lukewarm tea, despite the possibility that it might be poisoned.

“Every single action.”  Buffy had forgotten the other woman in the room until she stepped forward and placed a red folder in front of her, before stepping away. “I've already written a full report for the Slayer to review.  She can then decide if she wants to dismiss me from my position, although I hope she will allow me to enact some changes before she does.”

Giles gaped at her. He didn't believe for one moment the woman would come one hundred percent clean.

“Giles, she's right. I need to know.”  Buffy glanced at the folder, knowing she would be in for some heavy reading later that night.

He didn't want Buffy to hear this. He knew his charge would take every single death onto her shoulders. She would carry the guilt of it as her own while never knowing that it was he who had given Spike the information to gain access to Travers’ jet. He watched as Buffy turned to Harcourt, squaring her shoulders, preparing to take on the weight of the world.

“The vampire Spike snuck on board and slaughtered the Council members, including Travers, although he left the cabin crew unharmed.”

That surprised Giles, but perhaps Spike needed someone to fly the plane.  Buffy took the news like the blow it was, but she kept her spine stiff.

“He must have used that time to interrogate Travers because a few days later, he managed an invite to my home.”

“Your family?” Buffy gasped, and Giles felt a lurch in his stomach.  More innocent blood on his hands.

“Are perfectly fine.  Mr. Bloody wanted to know about the initiatives I have proposed over the years to improve the Slayer's quality of life.” She held out her hands, and the other woman picked up a very thick binder from the side table along the wall, on top of which were a multitude of files and books, and handed it to her.  When Ms. Harcourt placed the binder on the table, the china rattled.

“We spent the night discussing how to change the Council for the better.  How it should serve the Slayer, not enslave her. In the end, he asked me how we could make it happen.”  For the first time, she broke eye contact with Buffy, resting them on the binder that contained her life's work. “And I told him,” she finished softly.

“Arranged executions, you mean,” Giles accused.

Buffy glanced at Giles.  His face was a mix of fury and grief.

“What does that mean?” Buffy asked.

Ms. Harcourt flicked her gaze to Giles before looking Buffy dead in the eye while answering.  “I gave him a list of men in London, who would need to die before I could move into the position of Head Watcher.  Meanwhile, I reached out to my contacts both inside and outside the Council to coordinate the moves,” Her eyes were flint gray, her mouth hard as she continued, “and assassinations outside of England that would need to occur. In short, we orchestrated a revolution.”

“A bloody coup!  More like a bloodbath.”  Giles was seething next to her.  She could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him.

“All revolution is bloody.  After all, the demise of slavery in the Americas wasn't accomplished over tea, was it? It was a war,” Harcourt countered.

“It is not the same!”

“Isn’t it?  The Slayer was enslaved by the Council. Now we have freed her.” Harcourt nodded to Buffy, who sat in stunned silence.  A coup?  A bloody revolution?  All so Slayers could be free?  How was Buffy free when all the power was still held by the head of the Watchers Council?

“You had innocent men murdered so you could greedily grasp power.”

“Yes, some men who died may have been innocent, though many were not.  Most were given a choice to resign, but many did not because they had sins to hide.”

“The sin of being successful?” Giles sneered.

“I assure you, Rupert Giles, the high-ranking men in the Council were guilty of heinous crimes.”  Buffy would have thought the woman would have reacted more emotionally to having such vile accusations flung at her, but she responded with cool grace.  Only her chilly tones belied her distaste for her Watcher and his accusations.

“I believe no such thing, but I do know that you are a power-hungry harridan who used William the Bloody for your own ends.”

“Yes,” Harcourt paused to sip her tea with hands so steady she could thread a needle.  “I used the upheaval of his rampage to my own advantage. Yes, I strong-armed men into resigning, and when they stood in my way and refused, I had them assassinated. But I did not do it for myself.  I did it to stop the rampant rape, abuse, and murder of young girls.”

Buffy’s gasp was subverted by Giles’ loud snort of disbelief.

“I gave the men whom I knew to be innocent the choice to leave, but other men I had assassinated, because I knew they’d not face justice otherwise.”  Ms. Harcourt held out her hand a yellow folder appeared in it.  Behind her, the young woman stood with an armful of like folders. “This is Mortimer Smythe’s personnel file, found in Travers’ safe.  Over the years, he had a total of six 'potentials' given to his care.  With every wardship grant, the Council coffers received a donation of one million pounds from the Smythe estate.  Feel free to peruse Traver’s personal notes in the files where he states the Council must be sure to never grant Smythe the wardship of an actual potential, as Mr. Smythe likes to systematically abuse the girls in his care.  Traver’s also noted Mr. Smythe’s preferences.  No older than ten, preferably blonde and blue-eyed.”

Buffy felt sick as she picked up the file, holding it in shaking hands without opening it.  “Where did they get the girls if they weren’t potentials?”

The look Harcourt gave her was full of pity.  “There are many ways to procure unwanted girls in this world, Ms. Summers.”

Giles looked green.  He didn’t watch as Buffy opened the file.  The first thing she saw was a young, blonde, blue-eyed girl about eight years old.

“That’s Rachael,”  Harcourt told them.  “His last ward, whom we liberated after Mr. Smythe was executed.  Her injuries were excessive. She had been sexually assaulted over several years. Travers knew what he did to those girls, but because he had very deep pockets and paid for the privilege of being a Watcher, Travers sent him a girl whenever he requested it.  No report was ever made as to what happened to his previous wards.  They were wiped from the Council rolls as if they never existed.”  Ms. Harcourt motioned her hand, and the young woman placed the rest of the files on the table.  “Here are all the files of the men I had assassinated.  Their files are filled with sexual harassment complaints and accusations of abuse.” 

“Did you know about this, Giles?  That girls were being abused?”  Buffy touched the face of the girl staring back at her.  Hollow cheeks, hollow eyes. 

“There’s always been rumors.”

“Did you ever look into them?”  Buffy closed the file, placing it atop the rest.  “Ever try to see if they were true?”

“Well, no.  It wasn’t within my purview.  Such things would be handled by those higher in rank.”

“By those in power.  Those who swept it under the rug and squashed the rumors.” Ms. Harcourt sneered.

“Not every single Watcher is a monster.  That is the narrative you created to justify your power-hungry bloodshed," Giles accused.

“I will not claim every single man in this pile was abusive, but I will tell you every single one of them was aware of the abuse and did nothing to stop it.”

“What about Archibald Penbroke.  He was my friend, and you had him murdered!”

“By all accounts, Penbroke was a good moral man. Ethical.  Godly. No hints of impropriety in his history.  I gave him a choice.  He could step down from his lifelong position, or I could remove him.  In response, he told me that it was the Slayer’s duty to serve the Council.  That it was their nature to be submissive.  He didn't believe that potentials should be allowed to remain with their families, and any abuse suffered under their Watcher’s hand was God’s will to teach them to persevere in the face of hell.  He didn't believe that girls should be educated.  He didn't even want them to read, as it might give them unnatural ideas.  He thought my progressive initiatives were immoral.  If he had stayed in his position of power, he would have undermined everything I've been trying to do here to help the Slayers.”

"You were friends with a man like that?" Buffy asked, wounded. How could Giles justify his friendship with a man who thought so little of women?

Giles ignored her. “It doesn’t justify murder!”  He bolted up from the table to pace the room. 

Buffy felt her insides wrench.  “Giles is right.”  She tried to sound confident, but the words came out in a whisper.  Giles didn’t even hear her as he continued his furious pacing, but Harcourt looked straight at her.

“The service of the greater good is rarely morally tidy,” Harcourt told her.

“How can murder be for the greater good?”

“It was for Rachel.”  Harcourt nodded towards the files.  “It was for all the young girls we removed from abusive Watchers and returned to their families.  It is for the Slayers who will come after you, Ms. Summers.”

Buffy fingered the files.  “They weren’t all abused, were they?”

“No.  Some were greatly cared for, but most missed their family.  Many were unprepared for what was to come after they had aged passed their calling.”

Buffy flipped open the three-ring binder, seeing an exhaustive table of contents.  “And the things you want to change, it makes it better for them, too?  Not just Slayers?”

“No one is just anything, Ms. Summers.  But yes, it makes it better for potentials as well.”

“This is all lies.”  Giles roughly jerked the binder away from Buffy, flipping it closed.  “You are spreading outrageous propaganda about abuses that aren’t true to strengthen your position.  You are overplaying your hand.”

The young woman placed a book on the table, the last object from the buffet.  The tome looked old.  Its leather binding was scarred and discolored.

“Do you know how many girls the Council has executed?” Ms. Harcourt asked.

Giles scowled at the thick tomb like it was a snake in the garden.  “There have been a few rebellious girls who cannot be corrected.”

Harcourt snorted. “Corrected. Like they received a spanking and were sent to their rooms without supper.” She tapped the book with her finger.  Her buffed nails were short and square-cut.  “This was found in Travers's possessions on the jet. I imagine that despotic troll used it as his wank bank.  It is a record of every girl the Council had put to death since its conception.”

“A few Slayers have gone dark in the past, which necessitated them being put down, but the Council does not execute Slayers,” Giles gritted out.  “That is utter ridiculousness.”

"Not only Slayers, Mr. Giles, but insubordinate potentials as well." Ms. Harcourt flipped it open, causing the tea service to rattle.  “Nafisa, executed for the crime of heresy. Tell me, Mr. Giles, what is heresy?“

He glanced away.

“Answer me, Mr. Giles, after all, your sacred position of Watcher is on the line.”

“To have an opinion against an orthodox religious doctrine.”

“How did the Council apply heresy? Come on, Mr. Giles, don't be shy.”

Giles sighed, seeming to lose his heft as he slowly sat back down in his seat.  “To believe contrary to the Council doctrine.”

“Yes, every member of the Council is taught from nappies that it is heresy to question the Council doctrine.”

Mrs. Harcourt flipped a good chunk of pages forward.  “Fatimah, executed 867 AD by way of crucifixion, crime: heresy.” She flipped more pages.  “Borghild died in 1129 AD by way of impalement, crime: heresy.  She flipped more pages.  “This one is different. Bianca died in 1482 AD, beheaded, crime: treason. It says here she dared to take counsel from her father instead of her Watcher. The 15th century was about when the Council started removing potentials from their homes immediately upon discovery, regardless of age. Hmm, I wonder why?”

More pages were flipped, all completely at random.  There was no way she was flipping to pre-marked pages.  “Ekaterina died in 1681 AD.  Drowned.  Heresy.  This is interesting.  Sara died in 1801 AD. Crime: desertion. Looks like the girl tried to run away. She probably didn't know how to shield herself from magic.  After all, it was common practice not to teach the girls to read to keep them entirely dependent on their Watcher.”

“We have no idea if this is even real.  You could have manufactured this drivel.”

“Good point.  Let's skip to the end, shall we?”  She opened to the last written page.  “I’m sure you can confirm this is Traver’s handwriting.”

“Such a thing could easily be replicated by a spell.”

“True.  If you want it enough, anything can be turned into an alternative fact.  But let’s assume this is real.  Ms. Summers, would you mind reading the entry for us?” Ms. Harcourt’s long finger with its buff, square nail pointed to the last thing scrawled on the page. The page was spotted with blood, her name nearly obscured by a splot.

“Buffy Summers, crime: heresy,” she whispered.

“It looks as if Travers decided this Slayer’s fate before he even returned home.  All that was left for him was to fill in the date of the actual deed.”

“You lie,” Giles defended faintly.  “For him to contemplate such a thing would be…”  Giles sat back, dabbing his pale brow with his ever-present handkerchief.  “All these girls…” He looked Harcourt in the eye, his Adam’s apple prominent when he swallowed. “Murdered.”

Hardcore sat back.  “Indeed, the question remains, what should your position be going forward?”

Giles shifted his gaze to Buffy.  His eyes, gray with remorse, were almost broken.  His worldview had been shattered in the last few moments, along with the same long-held beliefs about himself.  That he was righteous, wise, and loyal.  How could he be those things and still have betrayed Buffy?  Because at the end of the day, Harcourt was correct.  He had chosen his position over Buffy.  Oh, he had thought his reasons logical, and his family position had already been threatened once during his rebellious youth.  Really, he had feared for his own disgrace rather than Buffy's life.

The notion, never said aloud, but promoted insidiously by the Council doctrine, was that Slayers were meant to die, and as a replenishable resource, the individual girls were somehow less than.  Pawns to be sacrificed.  Lending weight to the idea that even something so ultimately inconsequential as his job was worth more than a Slayer's life.

The realization of the depth of his indoctrination sent quakes of remorse through him, opening up cracks throughout his sense of self.  His only hope for repair was with a stronger, purer material than his sense of duty.  Only love could repair what he had done.

“I would very much like to continue to be Buffy’s Watcher if she'll have me.”

“That is entirely up to Ms. Summers.  After all, the Council is here to serve and support the Slayer in any manner she deems necessary.”

Buffy could see the slight slacking of her Watcher’s shoulders.  The trembling in his fingers.  She remembered how determined he had been to accompany her to the Master's lair to fight by her side and see her safe.

Their relationship as Slayer and Watcher had been new then.  She wondered how it would have grown if it hadn't been poisoned by the events of Angelus.  Giles claimed he didn't blame her for any of it, not for the loss of Angelus’ soul or the death of Miss Calendar, but Buffy knew she was at fault.

How many times had she been told that having sex was wrong and would result in consequences?  Yes, they usually meant pregnancy or STDs, but she was a Slayer.  Her consequences were more dire.  The first time she had sex, Angel lost his soul and terrorized Sunnydale. The second time resulted in the deaths of dozens of Watchers and the downfall of the Council.  Although a revolution had been needed, she couldn't dismiss the bloodbath instigated by her last lover.

A small traitorous voice murmured that said bloodbath had been in service of her, to protect her and all the other girls who were and would be abused.  If Spike hadn't sparked this revolution, her death date in the awful murder book might have been filled in already, but evil was evil, no matter if it was supposedly in the service of good.  She had no doubt the Council thought murdering Slayers and rebellious potentials was in the service of good, too.

But for his faults, Giles was good.  He loved her, and she could see that these events had broken something inside of him.

“I know I said it before, but I deeply regret my actions.” He removed his spectacles, rubbing his wet eyes to keep back his tears.  “And I wish more than anything that I had done things differently.”

“Hush, Giles.” He had shrunken in the last few minutes.  No longer the strong, imposing Watcher, but a broken man. “No wishing on the Hellmouth.”

His mouth twisted.  “For this wish, I would gladly pay the price.”  He put on his spectacles, squaring his shoulders.  “I apologize deeply for my actions and beg your forgiveness.”

She grabbed his hand. It was still hard being this close to him.  Although he hadn't raised a hand against her, her body still tensed for an attack. “Of course, I forgive you.”

He shuddered, as if taking a blow.  “Buffy Summers, will you do me the great honor of allowing me to be your Watcher?”

“Yes, Giles, of course you'll be my Watcher.”  Impetuously, she threw her arms around him.  He grunted when she squeezed a little too hard.

Harcourt cleared her throat, watching as they separated. “Very well. Mr. Giles will continue to be the Slayer’s primary Watcher. However, I will be assigning a supervisor.”

“We don't need to be supervised,” Buffy spat.

“Perhaps not, but caution is never a bad thing.  Lydia will not interfere in any way, only observing and reporting.  She will also be the liaison here between the Council and your team.”  Ms. Harcourt motioned to the young woman, and Buffy finally had a name for the face.

“Team? You mean the Scoobies?”

“Yes, in addition to your support staff.  Of course, if the Scoobies, as you refer to them, wish to pursue a career in your entourage, then they will need proper training.  Ms. Rosenburg will receive a magic tutor, and Mr. Harris will begin training with our special forces.”

“Support staff?” Buffy was bewildered.

“Yes, Ms. Summers.  Traditionally, there has only been one Slayer in all the world, but that doesn't mean you have to be alone in the fight.  The new Council will see you and any identified potentials supported in any way necessary to see that you are successful not only in your Slayer duties, but in life.”

“In what way?” Giles leaned forward.

“A salary, medical insurance, a higher education fund, and of course, support staff, to name a few.”

Buffy gaped from her seat, but Harcourt remained all business. “For the next few weeks, I'll be meeting with you and Ms. Lehane to discuss your change in circumstances.  I'll also be meeting with your friends and family.”  Buffy opened her mouth to protest, but Harcourt kept speaking.  “You'll be present at all meetings, of course. If I am approached, as I am sure to be, asking for a private meeting, I will decline.  Nothing will be discussed without your presence, and ultimately, all decisions will be made by you.  Nothing will be kept secret from the Slayer.  There will be complete transparency.”

Buffy didn't have the words.

“That has a lot of responsibility for an eighteen-year-old girl.”  Giles' tone was measured, hinting at disapproval.

“So is saving the world,” Harcourt replied icily.  “Yet Ms. Summers has been doing it since she was fifteen.  I do recognize the next few weeks will be overwhelming.  I will be with you every step of the way.  I will endeavor to make sure you are comfortable with all changes and decisions that will be made.  I am nothing if not at your service, Slayer.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer:  I don’t own or profit from BtVS.

Chapter Four

It took almost a week to read through the files Harcourt had provided.  There were detailed reports on everyone who had been slaughtered in her rise to power, and one thing had become glaringly obvious.  The Council was guilty of systematic abuse of their charges.  While it wasn’t all men in the Council who were abusing the girls, thorough documentation made it clear that the upper leadership had full knowledge of the abuses and had turned a blind eye.  Some had opposed it, and they had been demoted.  Others said nothing, and they were the ones to retire when Harcourt had taken power, but others had actually hidden evidence and covered for the abusers.

It was a requirement that top Council leadership had to unanimously vote for the extermination of Slayers. This was not the roadblock it should have been. In the last decade alone, two Slayers had been executed, like Buffy’s predecessor, who had been sent on an unwinnable mission because her watcher had reported that she had developed an unnatural interest in why some demons didn’t seem actively hostile.

It was all so horrific, and Buffy could barely stomach it, but did it justify cold-blooded murder? Harcourt pulled no punches in her reports. She provided each man's personal and professional history. Every man she had handed over to Spike had committed some horrific Council-sanctioned atrocity, and the ones Harcourt had assassinated later had committed or benefited from such crimes.

As an institution, the Council was insanely powerful, with ties to nearly all governments worldwide. While it used that power to keep the world safe, it also used it to enrich itself.

In Africa, the Council had allowed for the slaughter of an entire village before sending in a team (yes, they had highly trained demon-hunting teams!) to clean out the threat.  The Council then purchased the land for a fraction of its value and initiated a highly profitable mining operation.

Did their deliberate inaction deserve the penalty of murder? Buffy stared at the glossy photos of the devastated village–at the mangled bodies–and couldn't find it in her to pity the men who could have stopped it and didn't. All so they could enrich themselves.

That was only one instance. The Council had engaged in similar activities to enrich itself all over the world, and it had been doing so for centuries. The lengths the Council went to in its greedy pursuit of money and power were odious and had to be stopped.

Harcourt had provided proposals on change, and nothing Buffy read did she disagree with, but could she work with a woman who had murdered men to get power?  Harcourt had compared her actions to revolution, and Buffy could see her side. She proposed dramatic changes that would enrich not only her life, but the lives of Slayers for generations.

Buffy didn’t feel that she was qualified to judge Harcourt, a human, for her actions.  Murder was wrong, but when she looked at Rachael's file, she couldn’t stop the rage and helplessness that percolated inside her.

Murder may be wrong, but with Harcourt in charge, nothing like that would happen to another innocent girl.  Harcourt had been right about one thing. Revolutions were bloody, and there was no doubt in her mind that change had been necessary.

She tossed the files aside and checked her appearance one last time in the mirror before heading downstairs.

“Are you ready, Mom?”  They had an appointment with Harcourt at her fancy hotel.

Joyce closed the large benefits binder, resting her hand on top, looking for all the world like some huge weight had been taken off her shoulders.

“Buffy, have you looked through this?”

“Some.”  Buffy hadn’t gotten much past her new salary.  It had made her feel a little dirty, knowing how many men had died for her to obtain it. Giles had droned on about how she had a duty to the world, but did that mean she shouldn't be compensated? After all, he did, and he wasn't the one out there facing the hordes of hell nightly.

“It’s very generous.”  Joyce’s voice shook a little.  A whopping six hundred grand a year, with apocalypse bonuses.  Buffy couldn’t even comprehend that amount of money. "Medical and dental.  Education fund.  Paid vacation.  Almost like it’s a real job.”

Buffy shrugged, “Except that whole not being able to quit thing.”

Joyce looked at her sharply.  Whatever she had to say was lost when Willow and Xander tumbled through the door.  They had met earlier in the week with Harcourt and were presented with the option of training with the Council.  Buffy and Faith were to receive a full support team, consisting of a battle mage, a medic, and a contingent of three special forces-trained soldiers.

“I’m going to have real witch training!”  Willow practically bounced.

“And I’m going to be trained in cool special forces moves.” Xander puffed himself up.

“You know that entails a lot of physical training, right?”  Buffy couldn’t help but point out with a smile.  Xander deflated a little.  “I do alright in the gym.”

“True, but get ready to say goodbye to donuts.”

“What!  That’s child abuse!”

They laughed on their way out of the house to meet with Harcourt.

“What Buffy does is very dangerous.”

Buffy watched her mother face off with Harcourt, tension making her muscles knot.  Her mother could be unpredictable.  One minute, she could be a loving, accepting mother from Hallmark specials, the next moment, glassware was shattered, and Buffy was getting thrown out of the house.

“This is true.”

“We’ll need her salary increased to a million dollars a year with bonuses.  Two million for minor apocalypses and five million for major ones, subject to negotiation depending on severity.”

Buffy stared bug-eyed at her mother.

“Preposterous,” Giles muttered.  Giles had made his stance clear.  Slayers had a destiny.  They were the chosen ones.  Getting paid for their calling was a betrayal of their sacred calling.

Faith had called bullshit. Telling him, Slayers still needed to eat.  Then she asked him if he wanted to know how she made the money to feed herself while staying at the dingy no-tell motel.  Giles had gone pale and declined.

Harcourt met her mother’s steely gaze dead on.  “Done.”

Buffy switched her bug-eyed gaze to Harcourt.  She could hear Giles muttering.

Joyce eyed him with disgust.  “Buffy’s money will be held in trust until she is twenty-one, and I will be named executor, not Mr. Giles.”

“Now see here!”

“Subject to the Slayer’s agreement.”  Harcourt nodded to Lydia, who made notations.

“Traditionally,” Giles began.

“We can agree that we are changing tradition,” Harcourt cut him off coldly.  “Mrs. Summers, your daughter is a legal adult.  I cannot put her money in trust unless she agrees to it.”

“She is hardly responsible enough to handle that kind of money.”

Harcourt tilted her head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.  Everyone looked to Buffy.  Millions of dollars was a substantial amount of money.  Buffy was overwhelmed by the thought of it.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you won’t have access to your money unless your mother allows it,” Giles informed her, a little too snidely.

“We can discuss a very generous allowance, but any big purchases will need to be decided together.  I won’t be able to spend your money.  It will be yours.  I just want you to be more comfortable with having that kind of money available to you before you have complete access.”

"We can add financial literacy to the Slayer's curriculum." Harcourt looked to Lydia. "We should include that for all potentials." Lydia nodded and scribbled more notes.

Buffy looked at her mom, whom she loved deeply despite all the misunderstandings and hurts over the years.  “But I want you to have access.  I want to pay off the house so you don’t have to worry about the mortgage, and pay off your gallery so you don’t have to worry about losing it.”

Joyce blushed.  “It’s your money, Buffy.  Not mine.  I’ve done nothing to earn it.”

“That’s not true!”  Buffy bristled.  “You raised me.”

“Not very well.”  Joyce couldn’t meet her eyes.  “The institution…and last year, when I kicked you out.”

Fire burned in her throat.  Those betrayals hurt, but Buffy had done a lot of growing in the last few weeks.  She had almost lost her mother in the most horrific way possible.  If she hadn’t been faster or less clever, her mother would be a vampire right now.

“We all make mistakes.  But it’s not like you’re not here trying to do your best by me.  Not like dad, who couldn't care less.”

“Buffy.”

“I’m just saying, we’re family.  Family helps each other.”

Joyce wrapped her arm around Buffy, petting her hair.  “You’re such a wonderful daughter.  I love you so much, and I’m sorry for what happened.”

“Yeah, we should probably talk it out or something.”

“Smart girl,” Joyce smiled. "Of course, we can discuss all of it.”

Harcourt cleared her throat.  “We do have mental health counseling available through our medical benefits package.  Lydia was good enough to add a list of approved supernatural therapists in Sunnydale.”

“Supernatural therapists?” Joyce asked.

“Those who are well aware of the supernatural world and the particular mental health strain that stems from such activity.”

“Yeah, finding half-eaten bodies of your schoolmates is pretty traumatizing,” Willow muttered.

“We should look into that, Buffy.”  Joyce stroked her hand down her daughter’s hair.

“We’ll see.”  Buffy glared at Harcourt as if she had committed a faux pas, which in Buffy’s mind she had.  Buffy did not give five cheers to therapy or anything related to the mental health field.  She had her fill of psychoanalysts in the hospital.

“But you did bring up another point,” Joyce said.  “I want to make sure you are legally protected from your father.”

Buffy rocked back on her heels.  “But it would be my money," she said in a small voice.

Joyce exchanged a dark look with Harcourt.

“We have exceptional solicitors.  Everything will be rock solid, and no one will have access to Buffy’s money who shouldn’t.  Should there be challenges, they will be handled with prejudice.”

Joyce took her daughter’s hand.  “All I want is for you to be protected.”

Buffy had to remind herself not to squeeze her mother’s hand too hard.  “Okay.”

Joyce nodded curtly, looking back to Harcourt, her expression hard.

“We also want guaranteed retirement in five years.”

Harcourt’s steady gaze faltered.  She looked to Buffy, her mouth softening.  “I’m afraid I can’t agree to that, Mrs. Summers.”

“You can and you will.”

Buffy flinched at her mother’s tone.

“Would you like to explain to your mother why that isn’t possible, Ms. Summers?”

Joyce turned to look at Buffy, and for a moment, the Slayer was frozen.  Face vampires every night, no problem.  Face off with her mother?  No, thank you.

“Mom.”

“I know what you are going to say, Buffy, but we have Faith now.  She or whoever else can be the Slayer.”  Joyce’s eyes shadowed regretfully.  It was wrong to condemn another girl to death, but Joyce was Buffy’s mother.  Her responsibility was to her daughter.  She couldn’t save everyone.

“True.  Faith is a Slayer too, but it doesn’t matter if I actively stop slaying.”

“Why?  There’s no reason to keep putting yourself in such dangerous situations.”

“Even if I stop, apocalypses will still keep coming.  Vampires will still be out there.  And even if I’m not actively looking for them, they will come to me.  They hunt Slayers as much as we hunt them.  Being a Slayer isn’t just a job that we can quit.  It’s who we are.”

“I don’t agree.”

“I know, but can we talk about it later?”

Joyce nodded, and Harcourt took that as her cue to move on.  “I’ll make salary changes to the employment contract.  Now, I believe Ms. Rosenburg and Mr. Harris have expressed an interest in joining the Council as support staff for Ms. Summers.”

Willow and Harris nodded eagerly, faces bright with anticipation.

“Very well, I have some employment contracts for you as well.”

“Where are your parents?” Joyce asked the children.  Everyone in the room froze.  “Have you even told them about this?”

Xander and Willow exchanged glances before shaking their heads.

“They’re children.  Their parents need to be the ones to decide if they can partake in a hazardous job.”

Harcourt looked dubious.  “Mrs. Summers, the Council doesn’t like to advertise their business.  We do operate in secrecy.”

“Which allowed for some very egregious conditions, wouldn’t you agree?”

Harcourt’s pucker turned sour.

Xander tentatively raised his hand.  “I’m eighteen.”  Everyone stared at him, so Willow hurriedly interjected.  “I’ll be eighteen in two weeks.”

“Legal adults,” Harcourt said drily.

“It’s not right.  They are still in high school.”

“How about this?  You’ve very handily negotiated on the Slayer's behalf.  Why don’t you do the same for Ms. Rosenburg and Mr. Harris?”

“No, their own parents should advocate for them.”

Xander snorted.  “The only thing my parents would negotiate is a salary for themselves and to make sure any of my money goes to them when I die.”

“My parents don’t care what I do, as long as my grades are kept up.  They’ve made it clear their obligation to me is only through college,” Willow said. “If I attend an acceptable university.”

Joyce stared at the children, horrified.

“Ms. Lehane is without guardianship. We’ve paired her with a solicitor, but I believe she would benefit from a non-council-biased advocate.”  Harcourt said.  “Would you be willing to advocate for them?”

Faith had sat next to the door the entire time.  She had no entourage like Buffy.  And unlike Buffy, she wasn’t yet eighteen.  The only time Buffy had seen Harcourt lose her cool was when she had found out the young Slayer was staying in a dingy motel.  Giles' ass still had to hurt from the reaming he’d received.  Faith was now staying at a suite at the Pavilion Hotel.  Not in the same rooms as Harcourt, but next door.

Joyce turned on the girl, and Faith shifted, glancing around for a quick exit.  No doubt Joyce was remembering their Christmas dinner the previous month.

“Of course, I’ll advocate for Faith.”  She looked to Willow and Xander.  “For them all, I suppose.”

“Excellent.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer:  I don’t own or profit from BtVS.

Chapter Five

“We are living in unprecedented times.  Two Slayers at once.” Harcourt told Buffy and Faith as she led them into the solarium of the posh hotel suite.  Everyone had left after the meeting, leaving the Slayers alone with Harcourt, who had excused herself.  When she rejoined them, she was dressed in fatigues and combat boots.  Her long steel-gray hair was pinned up tightly, the fuchsia tips fanned out like battle feathers.

The Slayers took a moment to absorb the intriguing change. The woman went from cool refinement to battle-hardened.  Harcourt’s words chilled Buffy’s interest.  She had yet to decide how she felt about Harcourt and her actions.

“And a big shake-up in the Council hierarchy.  What did Giles call it?  A coup?”

She read through the records of the Council’s atrocities against Slayers, against girls who had no one to shield them against those who claimed to have their best interests at heart, only to betray them.  Abuse them.  Murder them.

She'd read Harcourt's files detailing her actions.  Like the woman herself, they were direct.  There were no prevarications or justifications.  Just cold, hard facts.  She wanted control of the Council, and she made it happen by any means necessary.  Buffy couldn’t decide if it made her a hero or a monster.

Harcourt nodded grimly.  “Yes.  I prefer to call it a revolution.”

“You would,” Buffy said.  Giles had some pretty strong opinions about Harcourt’s fitness to lead, along with some scathing commentary on her actions.  Giles was firmly in Harcourt, 'being a monster camp', even after learning everything the Council had been party to.

“I don’t know what the big deal is.  People died.  People always die." Faith made a disgusted face. "Don't expect me to get all up in my feels about murders and rapists.” 

"Not all of them," Buffy snapped.

Faith stuck her fingers into the front pocket of her jeans with a shrug.  Of course, she didn’t care that people had died. Faith had the morals of an alley cat, Buffy thought.

“You told her,” Buffy accused Harcourt.

Harcourt’s smooth brow wrinkled.  “Of course.”

Buffy felt betrayed and a little scared.  No one had connected Spike’s actions to her yet, but if everyone kept talking about it, they’d figure it out.  They’d start asking why Spike was on Travers’ plane in the first place.  They’d ask if she knew anything about it.

She hadn’t told anyone about her night with Spike.  Not Willow.  Certainly not her watcher or mother.  Angel could never find out, even if they were kind of broken up.  Not even her diary was a safe place to keep that secret.  It stayed locked in the darkest part of her.

She still couldn’t reconcile Spike’s actions.  She hadn’t asked him to kill Travers, to wage war on the Council, or to help a more Slayer-friendly watcher come into power.  He had done that entirely by himself.  It had nothing to do with her, but she felt wholly responsible.  Just as she felt responsible for Angelus’ actions last year.  Because, while she knew deep down that she didn’t have control of other people’s actions, she knew she was the driving cause behind those acts.  It had everything to do with her.

The question that kept her tossing and turning at night was why?  Why had Spike done it?  It wasn’t love.  It couldn’t be respect.  How could he respect her after she slept with him?  No boy respected girls who gave it up so easily.  Only total skanks engaged in one-night stands.

Buffy gave Faith the side-eye.  Her sister slayer was standing loose-hipped and sultry-eyed, looking for all the world like she didn’t have a single problem.  Meanwhile, all she had done since coming to Sunnydale was cause problems.  Trying to steal her friends and flirting with her boyfriend.  No sister code there, that was for sure.

“What happened to me being present at every meeting?” Buffy snapped.

“She’s a Slayer,” Harcourt said evenly.  “She wasn’t present when we discussed your watcher, Ms. Summers.  I fail to see why you would be present while discussing hers.”

Faith was going to get her own watcher.  It made sense.  Buffy didn’t know why it made her jealous, though.  Everything about Faith made her jealous.  Just last night, while at the Bronze, Faith had tried to entice Angel onto the dance floor.  Her attention had made him uncomfortable, and he finally left.  But not before Buffy thought she saw a look of longing on his face.

“Better make sure her new Watcher isn’t male or she’ll sleep with him,” Buffy muttered.

Faith laughed in delight, and Harcourt’s brow flew up in a rare display of shocked surprise.  Buffy burned bright red.  She hadn’t meant to let her inside thoughts outside, but there was something about Faith that made her rage.  She wondered if Spike would want to sleep with her.

“I don’t know, B.  It depends if he’s hot or not.”  Faith rubbed her hands down her hips and gave them a lecherous swivel.

“Shut up, Faith.”  Buffy didn’t think her cheeks would ever stop burning.

Harcourt observed the exchange in a clinical way that made Buffy nervous.  It was never good when Watchers watched.

“If you both agree, we can have meetings together going forward.”  Harcourt offered the compromise.

“Yes!” Buffy seethed.  She didn’t trust Faith any farther than she could throw her, which admittedly was farther than she actually trusted her.

“Or,” In a rare moment of pragmatism, Faith countered. “We can discuss the meeting beforehand and decide if we both need to be present.”

“Very logical, Ms. Lehane.”

Buffy crossed her arms.  Logical or not, she didn’t agree.  She didn’t want them discussing anything together.  She was the Slayer, not Faith.  Faith was just extra.  Wasn’t she?  Buffy eyed her, remembering how, for a brief moment when she lost her slayer powers, she had thought the Powers that Be had taken them back because her existence was a mistake.  Maybe Buffy was the extra one now.

“We can arrange joint meetings if that is what we decide, at least until Ms. Lehane takes up her post in Cleveland.”

“You’re leaving?” Buffy rounded on Faith, who just quirked a brow.  She didn’t know how she felt about that.  On the one hand, Faith's leaving would be a relief.  On the other hand, if she were gone, then Buffy couldn’t keep an eye on the reckless Slayer.

“Yes, the Cleveland hellmouth is becoming quite active.  In the past, this would have necessitated a Council team to take up post at the additional hot spot, but we are blessed with two slayers.”

Buffy digested that.  The Council having teams was something she was finding hard to swallow.  All this time, she could have had help, but the old Council had sent her off to die alone.  Today, she had met her three-man special forces team.  Three-woman team, actually. The team lead, Lt. Teresa Collins, a hardened woman in her mid-30s, with a crew cut and scars on her knuckles, had explained to her that they were all potentials who had aged out.

“I get my very own Hellmouth to call my own.”  Faith rocked on her heels, a big smile on her face.  It made Buffy feel a little guilty, because that smile wasn’t catty, it was pure delight.  Faith had something to call her own.  Deep down, Buffy had always known Faith’s problem wasn’t that she wanted what Buffy had. It was that she wanted something for herself.  Wasn’t that what anyone wanted?  A place, a person, heck, a stuffed animal to call their own?  As far as Buffy could see, the only things Faith could claim were the clothes on her back.

“Today, Slayers.”  Harcourt clapped her hands, gaining their attention. “We are going to learn about your history.”  Buffy saw no hint of other watchers, but the large dining table was covered in weapons.  Buffy and Faith wandered over as if pulled by a magnet.  Faith gravitated towards a pair of sharp daggers, and Buffy ran a finger down a sword blade.

“Great, more book learning,” Faith muttered while dual-twirling the blades.

“This history was erased from the books so you’d never learn about the past Slayers and their Guardians.”

Buffy glanced at Harcourt with a frown.  The woman was strapping on a black tactical vest.  She was a far cry from the posh, refined woman she had presented herself as before.

“Guardians?  I’ve never heard the Watchers referred to like that.”

“That’s because the Guardians aren't Watchers.”  Harcourt armed up, slipping stakes into various pockets in the vest and cargo pants, blades in her boots and belt, before slinging a quiver full of bolts over her shoulder.

“Who were they?” Faith asked.

“Gear up, ladies.  Let’s go hunting and I’ll tell you all about them.”

“Whoa, aren’t you a little old to be playing Slayer?” Faith snickered, slipping the daggers into her belt.

“Yeah, Watchers are fragile and should stay safely tucked in their libraries.”  Buffy slipped the sword back into its sheath and slung it over her shoulder.

Harcourt sniffed.  “I’ll have you know I am quite seasoned in the field, and while I joined the Watcher Council and now claim the title as Council Head, I was first and foremost a Guardian.”

Harcourt hustled them out of the suite, leading them toward the east side of town.  The older woman kept a brisk pace, and the girls had to trot to keep up.  Faith was panting a bit.  Buffy was managing to keep her breathlessness on the down low, after all, she trained more regularly than Faith, but Harcourt wasn’t even breathing hard.  She reminded Buffy of those old grizzled war vets who still got up at the crack of dawn to do a thousand pushups or something.

They had just passed the Bronze when they heard a scream.  A quick jog to the alley showed a couple of girls cornered by a pack of vamps.  Buffy had definitely noticed an uptick in undead activity in the last few weeks.  Not just fledges either.  Older ones from out of town.  Almost like they were congregating for some reason.

Faith and Buffy attacked in unison, taking their opponents on flawlessly.  Faith was more reckless than Buffy, and she wasn’t as seasoned, but she fought like a cornered animal.  Together, they made a formidable team.  When they turned back to Harcourt, it was to find her unruffled with piles of dust around her.

“Whoa, Mama’s got some moves,” Faith leered a little, and Harcourt harrumphed, leading them out of the alley and towards Sunnydale cemetery.

When the Slayers caught up, she spoke.

“The first Slayer was called Sineya.  That wasn’t her name, mind you, that’s been lost, but her title.”

“Did it mean Slayer?” Faith asked.

“No, we think it meant commander or head warrior.  Something like that.  She was a great warrior for her village.”

Buffy and Faith flanked Harcourt as they entered the old graveyard.  Sunnydale Cemetery was one of Buffy’s favorites because it held the oldest tombs.  It was also the least busy since it had no room for new burials.

“How did she become the Slayer?” Buffy asked.

“She was made a Slayer before there was written word, and her story has been passed down through song.”

“Like the Odyssey,” Buffy chirped.  They were just starting to study Greek mythology in world history class.  The stories were fun.  Lots of monsters being slain by the heroes.  The only drawback was the lack of female heroes.  Most of the monsters, Buffy had noticed, were female, or witchy women bent on disrupting the hero’s journey, which just stank.

“Exactly.  Much of the world’s folklore was remembered through song, and Sineya’s story is no different.”

“You gonna sing for us, Mama?”

“Please refrain from calling me that.”

Faith chuckled.

“In the beginning, the world was dark, and demons crawled in the shadows.  Man discovered fire and held them at bay with light.  But fire wasn’t enough, and humans huddled like sheep waiting to be plucked off.  Shamans called Shadowmen mastered the art of shadow work.  Magic that manipulated the dark and, to an extent, the demons within.

But still it wasn’t enough.  They decided to meld demon and human together to create a warrior of the people.  They came to Sineya’s village asking for volunteers, but the great warrior was distrustful of their magic.”

Magic always had consequences, and the idea of melding demon and human made Buffy shudder.  She couldn’t imagine having a demon shoved down her throat, and what about the human soul?  Did it fly away?  Did the demon eat it?  Did it get trapped in some sort of hellscape with the demon?

“The headman’s son stepped forward, and the Shadowmen led him to the caves above the village.  For three days and nights, there was a great howling from the caves.  The third night, a terrible monster descended onto the village, tearing men, women, and children apart, feasting on their blood until Sineya was finally able to fend the monster off.”

“The first vampire?” asked Faith.

Harcourt nodded.

“Humans created vampires?” Buffy couldn’t believe it.

“Yes, the Shadowmen miscalculated, and when they shoved a demon into the Headman’s son, they created the first demon-human hybrid.  Vampires.”

Faith and Buffy exchanged a look.  Vampires, the evil creatures they fought each night, were man-made atrocities.  Men fucking the natural order up.

“Seems about right,” Faith drawled disdainfully. 

“Only three Shadowmen came down from the mountain.  They claimed to have learned from their mistake.  Only one who could hold life inside them could leash a demon.”

Buffy rolled her eyes.  She knew where this was going.  “A woman.”

“Yes.  They came to Sineya, but she refused, horrified at what they had done to her lover.  But the village was in disarray. The Headsman and many of their warriors were dead, so no one could stand against the men when they forged chains from shadow and manacled her to the earth.”

“They used magic to restrain her?” Buffy asked.  She had no defense against magic, and it frightened her. When she thought of all the spells that had been cast on her, like Xander’s love spell, she shuddered.  If Spike hadn’t slaughtered Travers, would the watcher have sent one of the Council's magic users to capture her?  Fighting off a special forces team didn’t frighten her, but a mage?  Someone who could restrain her with a thought?  That was truly horrifying.

“They called for a demon to invade her until it filled her very being.  From that atrocity, the Slayer was born.”

“We’re children of rape.” Faith’s bitterness made Buffy edgy.

Buffy felt sick.  One glance at Faith told her the other girl wasn’t feeling so great either.

Harcourt nodded.  “Freed from her chains, she ran into the darkness to hunt the demons within.”

“What happened when she died?” asked Buffy.  “I mean, how does the whole picking the next girl work?”

“Well, Sineya didn’t die for many generations.”

“What?” Faith gasped.

“That’s not possible.” Buffy was shocked.

Harcourt drew to a halt.  They were standing at the foot of a crumbling family plot.  The youngest interred was only two years-old.

“The secret I’m about to disclose was only known by the Head of the Council, disclosed to them when they took their position, and is the reason the Cruciamentum exists.”

Buffy held her breath.  She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know more Council secrets.  Every time she learned something new her whole world changed. Ignorance meant she would continue to fight to live.  Knowledge might weigh her down until she wanted to die.

“Slayers are immortal.  Unless killed, you won’t die.  When you were ill last year, Ms. Summers, that was your body purging the last of mortal disease from your body.  Ms. Lehane, I don’t believe your body has undergone the change yet, but you will soon.  As you age, you will only become more powerful, and consequently…”

“Harder to control,” Faith finished.

“Yes, an Immortal Slayer does throw a wrench into the Council’s rhetoric that Slayers are only a short-lived weapon to be wielded by the all-powerful watchers until it breaks.”

“The Cruciamentum is held on the Slayer’s eighteenth birthday to eliminate us.”  Buffy tasted bitter almonds in the back of her throat.

“And get a new malleable Slayer who’s still mostly mortal.” Harcourt nodded.

“What if the Slayer lives?” Faith asked.

“A few do survive, but records show they did not last long.  Either they faced an unbeatable threat or they fell to a mysterious illness.”

“Poison?” Faith sidled away, edging closer to the shadows for an easy exit.

Harcourt shrugged.  “I haven’t delved into the research too deeply, but the Council does have the means.”

“Did Giles know?” Buffy whispered, face pale.

“No.  As I said, only the Head Watcher knows the truth.”

“Is that how you know?”  Faith was fingering the hilt of her dagger.

“No, I knew before.”

“How?”  Buffy demanded.

“Because Guardians have always known the truth about Slayers.  When Sineya ran into the darkness, she wasn’t abandoned.  Her remaining relatives, her sisters, aunts, and cousins, built a shrine to her at the edges of the wilderness and gave offerings of food and drink.  They felt remorse for what they had been powerless to prevent.  The Shadowmen forbade them from aiding the warrior, so they congregated in secret and for generations taught their daughters to care for their Slayer.”

“What changed?”

Harcourt gave Buffy an approving nod.

“While the women had trained their daughters to care for the Slayer, the Shadowmen trained their sons in the art of shadow magic.  They wanted more Slayers to send to other villages, so they took a young girl and tried to replicate their spell.”

“It failed.”

Harcourt nodded to Faith.  “At the cost of the girl’s life.  When they realized they couldn’t replicate the spell, they captured Sineya and chained her to the earth with shadows.”  Buffy jolted.  It was as she feared.  If Sineya, the most powerful Slayer to exist, could be caught by magic, then all Slayers were weak against it.  “They then siphoned a part of her demon into a girl.”

“And that worked?” asked Faith.

“Yes, but she was far weaker than Sineya, and when they sent her against demons, she fell.  This did not deter the Shadowmen.  They tried again.”

“But it didn’t work, did it?” Buffy asked.  “Another Slayer had risen elsewhere.”

“You are correct.  A young girl in a nearby village.  Her mother was a Guardian and immediately knew what had happened.”

“What did the Guardians do?” Asked Faith.

“They aided her.  Cared for her.  Guarded her.  But while they could protect her from men, they could not protect her from demons.”

“She died too,” Buffy said.  It was the fate of all Slayers to die, despite what Harcourt said about immortality.

“Yes, and another rose.”

“And the Shadowmen?” asked Faith.

“They still had control of Sineya and had released her to fight an Old One who had risen.  They watched from a hilltop, and when the new Slayer arrived to aid Sineya, they realized what had happened.”

“What happened to the Slayers?” Faith asked.

“They died in the fight against the Old One, but not before imprisoning it back into the earth.”

“But now the Shadowmen knew that another Slayer would rise,” Buffy said.

“Correct.  They learned spells to lead them to potentials, but to this day, they do not understand who the potentials are.”

“Who are they?” Faith asked.

“They are the descendants of Sineya.  Every potential carries her mitochondrial DNA.”

“Her what’s it?” Faith looked at her hand as if she could divine it at a molecular level.

“DNA passed from mother to child.  It is an exclusively maternal lineage.”

They moved away from the family plot.  Wandering through the graveyard, Buffy kept an ear out.  No new graves meant some of the older crypts were used as hangouts for older vampires or demons.

“Guys don’t have this DNA?” Buffy asked.

“Paternal mitochondrial DNA recombines with maternal mitochondrial DNA to make cells unique for you, but then the paternal mitochondrial DNA is eliminated through autophagy.  The maternal mitochondrial DNA remains within the child unchanged.”

“What?  When did this become a science class?  I’d be in school if I wanted to learn all this fancy shit.”  Faith threw up her hands.  Buffy came to a standstill as she absorbed the information.

“That’s why it could only be a woman,” Buffy concluded.  “The maternal DNA from Sineya is passed down through the ages.”

Harcourt nodded proudly.  “Not just Sineya, but whoever shared her maternal mitochondrial DNA.  All the women still living in the village below the caves at the time the spell was cast.  Her aunts, nieces, cousins.  We believe the magic of the shadowmen infused her lineage with the demon’s essence.  Sineya manifested the Slayer attributes most strongly because she was the focal point of the spell.”

“And her female family members become potentials," Buffy concluded.

“Just so.”  Harcourt agreed.  “We have kept records for millennia of their lineage.”

“How is it possible to trace something that far back?”  All this knowledge since before the written word.  Buffy had learned from history class that there were languages out there that had no translation, and that was for stuff that was written in stone.  What of history before then?  How could you trace something back that far?

“Because we didn’t trace it back, we brought the knowledge forward with us.  The daughters of the first guardians married men in neighboring villages and took their knowledge of Slayers with them, teaching their daughters, and in return, they protected them.  As the men of the Council began to use magic to find potentials, Guardians used magic to cloak them.”

“What happened?”  Faith asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we’ve never heard of the Guardians, and the Council of Assholes is collecting us like knick-knacks and murdering us whenever they want.  My mother sure as hell didn’t know she was a potential, and she sure as shit didn’t teach me nothing about it.  All she taught me was how to trade food stamps for cigs and booze.”  Faith flailed her hands, letting them fall to her thighs with a loud slap.  “Something changed.”

Harcourt stifled a smile.  Even Buffy had to grin a little.  Council of Assholes sounded about right.  “Yes.  It took many years for the Council to figure out there was a secret network of women hiding the Slayers from them, but they couldn’t figure out who we were.  They only knew it was women working in secret with perhaps some magical inclination.”

“What did they do?”  Buffy felt a knot form in her chest.  Bad.  They did something bad.

“What the Council does best.  Manipulate and connive.  They orchestrated witch burnings.”

Buffy gasped, glad Willow wasn’t here to hear this.  The murder of thousands of men, women, and children wasn’t her fault, but she felt responsible.

“All the women burned were guardians?” Faith sounded skeptical.

“No.  Most were innocent.  Problematic women that communities wanted to dispose of.  But it served the purpose of not only devastating the Guardian numbers but also potential slayers.  Not to mention ridding the world of hedge witches and midwives, destroying their knowledge and allowing for men to claim dominion over healing and medicine.”

“And that’s why we backslide into the dark ages,” Buffy muttered.  She hadn’t learned that in history class.  That had come straight from Willow, who could rant on for hours about the atrocities of witch burnings.  She had become especially interested in it after MOO tied them to the stake and tried to set them on fire.

Heresy.  Buffy nearly came to a standstill as understanding washed through her.  Willow had told her that the final verdict handed down to the convicted persons before their execution was heresy.  The same verdict handed down to Slayers in Travers' murder book.

“How was getting rid of potentials good?” Asked Faith.

“Fewer potentials means a smaller pool of girls to be called, and a smaller number is easier to find and control.  It also scattered us, and as you pointed out, it left potentials without the knowledge of their lineage.  Many mothers were murdered before they could teach their daughters the sacred rites.  Entire lineages were devastated.”

“That’s horrific.” Buffy rubbed her tight chest.

“Imagine how horrific it would have been if they figured out that all potentials carry the same DNA.”

Buffy frowned, not understanding the implication, but Faith immediately understood.

“They would have bred us like mares.  Raised our kids in the Council way right from the get-go.”

Harcourt nodded.  The sick in Buffy’s stomach rose to her throat.

“They murdered all those people just to get control of us?”

Harcourt gave Buffy a cool look.  Buffy had read the files Harcourt had provided detailing Council atrocities.  Was she really surprised?

“What did the Guardians do?” Faith asked.

“What we had to.  We went underground.”

“But you are here and part of the Council,” Buffy pointed out.

“Yes, the best way to hide is in plain sight.  Some of us became the wives of the men who murdered our sisters.  We had their daughters and trained them to be Guardians in secret.  Our grandmothers worked their way into the Council, and now I am the Head.”

“Full circle,” Buffy mumbled.

“What’s that?” Harcourt asked.

“They murdered you, so you murdered them back.”

Harcourt nodded.  “War is never pretty.”

“But you murdered your fathers.  Your brothers.”  The enormity of it rolled over Buffy.  This revolt hadn’t just been about gaining control of the Council.  It had been about taking back the power that had been stripped from women centuries ago.  It had been about facing their own abusers.  The fathers who beat them.  The brothers who raped them.  Buffy was going to be sick.

“We murdered our enslavers.”

“You weren’t enslaved!”  Buffy spat.  “You didn’t have a destiny.  You had a choice to walk away from the Council if you wanted.”

“I am a Guardian.”

Buffy frowned.

“Oh, Fuck.  You’re a potential.” Faith spat.

“Yes, all Guardians are potentials.”

“Wait,” Buffy stopped, holding out her hands.  “That would mean some Slayers who were chosen were children of watchers.”

“Yes.”

“How did they not figure out that the Slayer gene is genetic?”

“We still have the magic to cloak ourselves.  Sometimes the girl’s mother or other relative could cloak them before the Council finds them.  Many a mother, when their daughter became a teenager, sent their child to female relatives to be raised until they passed their majority.”

“And their dads were okay with that?”  Buffy asked, thinking of her own father, who didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass how she was raised as long as he wasn’t the one doing it.

“They focused on their sons, who they trained to be Watchers.”

Buffy frowned.  “What about the Council girls you weren’t able to cloak in time?”

“Well, ego is an easy thing to manipulate.  If you believe it is your divine duty to wield a weapon, then of course it tracks that your daughter would be chosen to be the greatest warrior on earth.”

“Then they sent their daughters off to die,” Faith muttered bitterly.

Harcourt nodded curtly.  “And sometimes they ordered their murder.”

Buffy was going to be sick.  The whole thing was incestuous and awful and horrible, and she didn’t want to hear any more.

Harcourt stopped before a tomb.  “We are here.”

Buffy looked at the tomb and felt dizzy with anxiety.  What more horrible things could possibly lie in wait?

Chapter Text

Disclaimer:  I don’t own or profit from BtVS.

Chapter Six 

“I’ve patrolled here a thousand times, and I’ve never seen this tomb.” Buffy glared at the small pyramid that suddenly sprouted up in Sunnydale Cemetery.

“What do you see?” Harcourt asked.

“A pyramid,” Buffy replied with a frown that said the Guardian was three quarts shy of a full tank.

“With some funky drawings.”  Faith traced the frieze depicting women and monsters in battle.  These weren’t Greek myths for sure.

“Excellent.  Until your mind was freed of the Watcher’s influence, all you would have seen was a stone tomb.”

“And now that we are seeing it?” Buffy asked.

“It means you are ready to wield your birthright.  Although, since there are two of you, I really don’t know what will happen.”

Buffy and Faith shared a disgruntled look.  Harcourt traced her fingers across the front of the pyramid, and with her uttered word of power, a portal shimmered into existence, leading into the tomb.

“Come along, Slayers.”  Harcourt disappeared into the portal, leaving the Slayers to exchange another look.  This one was less disgruntled and more wary, until Faith broke into a mad grin that said ‘fuck it’ and dove through.

Buffy felt a pang.  The idea of being carefree made her ache with want, but she could never be so reckless.  When she gave in to her selfish desires, people died.  Just look at how Spike had decimated the Watcher Council. All because…what?  He thought he owed her?  Because he loved her?  Because he was enamored with her magic quim?  All of it was too ridiculous to consider.  She didn’t know why Spike had done what he had, but she did know it was all her fault.

Sighing, Buffy passed through the portal, cautiously, taking in her surroundings before marching further in.

Gauzy material blocked her way, and behind it, she could see the shadowy figures of her companions.  Moving it aside, she was startled to see an old woman with long white hair and an unseeing gaze.

“Slayers, this is Elder Qsi-Eneq.  She has been Guardian here since the last unwatched Slayer Ni-Ayapis was born to the Chumash tribe.  Ni-Ayapis protected the Hellmouth centuries ago.”

“What got her?  Vamps?  Faith popped her gum.

“Conquistadors.”  Elder Qsi-Eneq replied.

That tracked.  Where monsters failed, men succeeded.  Buffy looked around the room.  The floor was rough-carved stone.  More linen hung in the back of the room, covering a doorway Buffy suspected led to living quarters.  The space was definitely much larger on the inside than it looked on the outside. 

There were a couple of stone benches, an altar-looking thing in the back, covered in more undyed linen and fat beeswax candles.  Dominating the center of the room was a huge stone basin.  It looked like a baptismal font to Buffy, which she thought was weird given how the last Hellmouth Slayer died.  Buffy, for sure, would have thought Elder Qsi-Eneq wouldn’t have a lot to do with Catholicism.

“So Guardians are immortal too?” Faith looked Harcourt over as if she were looking for a devil’s mark.

Harcourt shook her head.  “No.  The elder underwent a ritual to tie her essence to the sacred weapon of the Slayer, so she might stay in the mortal realm long enough to pass the weapon to its next owner.”

“What weapon?” Buffy perked up.  Shiny new weapons always managed to pull her out of any funk she was in.

“After the soldiers murdered our great warrior, they began murdering and looting our tribe. I knew M? needed to be hidden.”  Elder Qsi-Eneq’s voice was dry and papery.  Syllables slipping in and out, as if it took too much breath to utter them.  Saying she was older than dirt would be kind.  

“What’s that?” Faith asked.

“The sacred Scythe of the Slayers, forged from the blood and bone of the Old One Sineya trapped in the time before,” Harcourt said, saving the Elder from having to speak too much.

“Wait.  Sineya trapped the Old One?  She didn’t kill it?” Buffy asked.

“Old Ones are unkillable,” The Elder whispered.

“Then how did you get its blood and bone?”  Buffy smelled a rat.  If Harcourt lied about this, then what else had she lied about?

“Not before Sineya tore off one of the Old One’s arms.”  Harcourt smiled like she knew what Buffy was up to and was amused by it.

“Wicked.”  Faith rocked on her heels.

“The Council doesn’t know about the Scythe?” Buffy narrowed her eyes at Harcourt.

“No, Guardians are the custodians of the Scythe.  When a Slayer falls, we carry it to the next one to rise.  When the Watchers started taking possession of Slayers, we hid it away.”  Harcourt nodded to the Elder.  “She was the grandmother of the last Slayer to have lived without the interference of the Council.”

“There had to have been others like me and B.  Those who weren’t snatched when they were kids.”

“A few, yes, but the Council found their way to them within days of their calling.”

“Yeah, my watcher found me in like two days, and this Scythe sounds too powerful for the tweed brigade to get their mitts on.”  Faith shoved her hands in her pockets as she spoke.  She had examined the room just as closely as Buffy and, like her, had found nothing worth being on guard for.

“Precisely.” Harcourt nodded.

“But it weakened us.  How many Slayers would have lived longer if they had their weapon?”  How would a weapon specifically created to be wielded by a Slayer have changed the outcome of the Cruciamentum?  If Buffy had something like that, she wouldn’t have had to rely on Spike to help her.

“All, I suspect.”

Faith gave Buffy the side eye.  “Like the watchers would have let us have it.  They would have locked it up in their vaults and sent us out to die anyway.”  Faith looked back at Harcourt, her face simultaneously sly and resigned.  “How are we going to decide who gets this fancy new weapon, or is this going to be an awkward custody situation where we have to do handoffs in the Walmart parking lot?”

Buffy frowned at Faith.

“We will decide what to do when the time comes, but first we must retrieve the weapon,” Harcourt said.  She didn’t look at all excited about the idea of divvying up custody.

“Sure, point us in the right direction.”

The old woman moved, and Buffy tracked her by habit only to see her drop her loose-fitting robe and step up to the granite baptismal font.

“Whoa,” Buffy spun around to escape the sight of so much naked flesh.  She looked worse than one of those loose-skin demons, she sometimes caught a glance of before they scurried away.

As she pivoted, she came face to face with Harcourt, who was also disrobing.

“What the heck?” Buffy yelped.

“We must be nude for the ritual,”  Harcourt told them.

“What ritual?”  Faith asked, her eyes a little wide, though nowhere near Buffy’s spooked mare impression.

“The one to retrieve the Scythe, of course.”

“Um, no, Buffy and magic are unmixy.” Buffy’s gaze darted around the room, looking for a safe place, finally landing on Faith, who was still clothed.  “Especially naked magic.”

“Buffy is unmixy with pretty much everything,” Faith scoffed, then, with a shrug, she began shedding her clothes.

“Come, Ms. Summers, nudity is nothing to be ashamed of, and we need yours and Ms. Lehane’s slayerness to call the Scythe through the Earth.”

Harcourt’s naked shoulder brushed against Buffy as she walked to the font to stand opposite the elder.

“Uh, I think there’s lots of evidence that being naked is bad.”  The last two times she got naked with another person in the room led to all kinds of death.  So much death.  She also couldn’t believe the number of male vampires who blamed their victims for their sexy attire for why they attacked them.  She slayed those vamps extra hard.

“Shed your leash along with your clothes.  We need you.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Buffy whined.

“Hop to, girl.” The old woman snapped.

Faith laughed.  “Good luck getting her to pull the stake out of her ass.”

Buffy glared at Faith.  If the other slayer knew what she had gotten up to with Spike a few weeks ago, she wouldn’t be so quick with her inference. 

Spike had said the same thing.  Then proceeded to do something about it.  He had been right on one count.  She had been so relaxed for days after their night together that if there had been a stake up her ass, it had been thoroughly shagged out.

Buffy reluctantly pulled off her top while eyeing the nearly nude Faith.  No way was she going to be outdone by her nemesis.

Nude, Buffy stepped up to the font, squeezing in between Harcourt and the Elder.  Faith took her place opposite.  Instead of water, the well held hard-packed dirt.  The old woman raised her arms above her head, chanting in a language the Slayers didn’t understand.

Both girls averted their eyes, promising themselves to wear bras more often.

At the height of her chant, the old woman thrust her hands into the dirt.  Buffy winced, expecting the earth to be hard, but the elder’s hands slipped into what now looked to be wet clay.

“Reach into Mother Earth and beseech her to return your sacred weapon.  Whomever the weapon goes to will be the rightful owner.”  Harcourt told them, her own arms elbow deep in the muck.

“Come to, mama.”  Faith grinned widely while plunging her arms elbow deep into the well.

Buffy, whose hands were crossed in front of her chest, didn’t move.

“Come on, B.  Don’t tell me I’m going to get this magical, badass weapon all to myself.  I don’t share,” Faith snickered.

Irritation pumped through Buffy, and she thrust her hands into the clay, trying very hard to ignore her exposed breasts.

The clay was slippery, like silk through her fingers.  It was oddly soothing.  Her eyes drifted closed.  A weight sank from her chest, down into her belly and groin.  A pressure released, and for one startled moment, she thought she was peeing herself.   The weight fled down her thighs, causing them to tremble under the weight, before flowing to her knees, shins, and finally the soles of her feet, where it bled like rancid, sticky poison into the earth.

She sank further into the sensation of weightlessness, welcoming the tranquility.  Like floating in the womb, it was warm and safe.  Loved.

“I feel something.”

Buffy’s eyes shot open, warm feelings gone.

Faith’s grin was huge as she pulled her arms back, muscles straining as she struggled to pull her find to the surface.  Something hard and brittle shattered in Buffy’s chest, impaling everything that had been made warm in the Earth’s embrace.

She hadn’t been chosen.  She wasn’t the one.

Here was tangible proof that she wasn’t meant to be the Slayer.  She was extra.  Vestigial.  Surplus now that Faith had risen to become the Slayer.  Maybe she only had her powers because there was no way to transfer them to the rightful new owner while she still breathed.  When she died, would her power go to Faith?  Was Faith weaker because Buffy still lived?  If Faith died, would it be her fault as well?

“Fucking wicked.”  A dark spike, shiny and clean, rose from the muck.

Buffy flexed, readying herself to withdraw when her fingers brushed against something unyielding.  Instinct had her grabbing for the object.  Her hands closed around the haft of a weapon, and electricity shot through her.  She groaned at the orgasmic pleasure of it.

“I have something too,” Buffy panted, pulling the weapon to the surface.

“Unprecedented,” Harcourt muttered.  “There is only one M?.”  The scarlet head of an ax breached the surface.  Both Slayers pulled their weapons free, holding them before them in awe.

Faith’s weapon was as dark as the deepest night, hints of moonlight on its sharp, curved blade and many spikes.  No matter how the weapon was wielded, there was a spike to pierce a vampire’s heart.

Buffy’s was the color of newly spilled blood.  Honed lethally sharp, it was perfectly balanced to slice off limbs and behead any behemoth its wielder may face.

“Slayers, bring the weapons forth,”  Qsi-Eneq commanded, motioning them to the altar covered with undyed linen cloth.  Reluctantly, the Slayers laid their weapons down for the Elder to examine.

“That isn’t M?.”  Harcourt leaned close to examine the weapons.

“No,” Elder Qsi-Eneq muttered.  She didn’t touch the weapons, merely hovering her hands above them, eyes closed in deep concentration.

Muttering a few words to herself, the Elder dropped her hands and faced them.

“M? has split into two, like the Slayer line.  Just as powerful.  Just as deadly.  Made two, for two Slayers.  Two warriors made to protect the larger flock.”

Reverently, she lifted the black scythe from the cloth-covered altar.

“Faith Lehane, the Earth and the All Powers have bestowed upon you, Dust-Eater.  Wield it well as you walk the night.”

The elder handed Faith her weapon, who held it just as reverently, smoothing her hand down the shaft to grip the hilt tightly.  She gave a few experimental swings, and it swished silently through the air.

“It sings,” Faith gasped.

Buffy frowned.  “I didn’t hear anything.”

“A song only for its Slayer to hear," the Elder proclaimed.

Faith pulled the weapon closer to her body, her delighted smile making her look years younger.  “Just for me.”

The elder turned to the second scythe.

“Buffy Summers, the Earth and the All Powers have bestowed upon you, Blood-Drinker.  Wield it well as you split the fires of hell.”

Blood-Drinker was thrust into her hands.  She flinched a little at the name.  A name synonymous with the monsters she hunted, but once she held the weapon, all doubt melted away.

She was meant to wield this weapon.  A weapon that wasn’t solely crafted to slay vampires, but a weapon to be wielded against all the demons of hell.  All the monsters that stalked the Hellmouth.

Buffy instinctively knew Blood-Drinker could slay any monster that crossed her path, even those that could only be slain with silver or fire or any other peculiarity.  The blood and earth magic imbued in the weapon made it the ultimate Slayer weapon.

Buffy swung the blade, and it sang its siren song just for her.  In its hum, she heard the rightness of her path and the power of herself.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer:  I don’t own or profit from BtVS.

Chapter Seven

Buffy hummed to herself, shimmying to unheard music as she made her way down the fancy hotel corridor.  Maybe after the meeting with Ms. Harcourt, she and Faith could hit the Bronze. Get their groove on before heading out on patrol.

Last night, they found Balthazar’s hideout.  Cutting down his minions had been easy with their new weapons.  Faith was so in love with Dust-Eater, Buffy was a little worried she might spout heartfelt marriage vows at any moment.

Giles had been worried about their ability to take on Balthazar, but a little electricity in his bathwater, and poof.  It made Buffy feel better about patrolling without her new team.

Team.  It was such a weird concept for Buffy.  Yeah, she had the Scoobies, and they occasionally patrolled with her, but Buffy felt better when they stayed safely in the library.  Lt. Collins and her team, however, were seasoned combat operatives who were trained to fight the supernatural.  They were supposed to be her backup, but Buffy wasn’t one hundred percent comfortable with the dynamic.

She knocked on the door, wondering if Faith had beaten her to the meeting Harcourt had called.

“I do not discuss Slayer business without her present.”  Buffy heard as she slipped into the suite.  In a rare moment of emotion, Lydia rolled her eyes in exasperation before closing the door and heading towards the in-suite kitchen.

Buffy felt the tingle of a vampire on the back of her neck as she followed the voices towards the solarium that Harcourt had claimed as her workspace.  She pressed herself against the wall next to the open archway. 

“Buffy is my business,” Angel growled.

“I’ve seen no evidence of that.” Harcourt was nothing less than poised.  Buffy wished she could learn to be so calm in high-conflict situations.  Show her a demon and she didn’t break a sweat, but as soon as someone started yelling at her, her lungs stopped working.

Especially if that someone was a man.

They hadn't really spoken since that rainy night weeks ago, when she had asked for a little intimacy and he, in turn, had shamed her for asking for her needs to be met. Shamed her, then told her he was leaving after graduation because their relationship was a freak show.

His words had sent her running straight into Spike's arms, where she had spent one of the best nights of her life. Even her one night with Angel, where she had lost her innocence to the man she loved, hadn't been as intimate as her night spent in the arms of her enemy.

“I don’t care what you think you’ve seen.”  Angel’s tone reminded Buffy of Angelus.  Snide and denigrating, he spoke to Harcourt like she was nothing more than mud on his shoe. “Buffy is important to me.”

“Really? That’s a shame, because I’ve seen quite a bit.”

“What does that mean?”  Great question.  Buffy wanted to know as well.

“It means you’ve stalked the Slayer since she was fifteen.”

“That’s a lie.”

It wasn't precisely a lie. Angel hadn't been stalking her, but he had been watching out for her.  Watching all the moments that had defined her journey in becoming the Slayer.

He had seen Merrick approach her on the steps of Hemery High.  It had been that moment he had fallen in love with her heart.  Magical, wonderful love at first sight.  The thought of how romantic it was made her pulse flutter.  They truly were meant to be, which made his curse doubly unfair.

Especially now, given her potential immortality. She hadn't told anyone what Harcourt had told her and Faith. Not Willow or Xander. Not her mother or Giles.

She hadn't even spoken of it to Faith.

It was partly because she couldn't grasp the scope of it. She had spent the last three years steeped in the knowledge that she would die young.

Her mother bombarded her with college applications, but Buffy knew it was all a fantasy. Despite the testing she took the year prior, there was no possibility of a fulfilling career in law enforcement or a degree in social work.

Then Harcourt up and filled her head with the idea that life was possible. Not just life, but immortality. Buffy stewed a long time in the ramifications of that. Immortality. What did that look like?

It wasn't a white wedding, and fat babies that was for sure. In its own twisted way, it was still a death sentence. The death of her humanity, because the longer she lived, the more people around her would die.

It was that realization that made her thoughts turn back to Angel, her immortal, inhuman lover.

Who else would be able to stand by her side, just as unchanging as she, as the decades slipped by?

Spike leered at her from the dark corner of her mind. Spike, who whispered poetry against her naked skin. Spike, who told her not to let anyone put her in a box of their own making.

Soulless Spike, who told her that if he was cursed like Angel, he would tear apart the world looking for a way to anchor his soul so he could be with her.

“I have reports of you being sighted near the San Bernardino County Behavioral Health Center several times.  You entered the facility at least twice.”

That had been the name of the facility she had been institutionalized at after she burned down the gym.  She had a foggy memory of a tall man standing over her while she had been drugged and strapped down on the bed.  She thought it had been a dream.

Had Angel been there and done nothing to help her?  She had been suffering.  The trauma she experienced while at the Center would never heal.  They had held her down.  Drugged her against her will.  Strapped her overnight in a bed, then callously sprayed her down when she messed herself. 

“What reports?”

“Council reports.”  Harcourt’s tone was so filled with disdain, Buffy could practically hear the unspoken ‘duh’.

“So the Council knew she was there and you did nothing?”

Harcourt chuckled.   The sound was not amused.  “I see you have mastered deflection.  No wonder you are such a master manipulator.”

“Don’t try to change the subject.  The Council knew where Buffy was and left her to rot.”

“I strongly opposed leaving her there, but Travers wanted to observe if she would overcome the adversity.  He was especially interested when you arrived on the scene, given your history of driving young girls insane.”

The Council had left her there to see how she would deal, like some sort of sick experiment?  Had Giles known?  Had he been privy to the Council reports?  Did he know Angel had been there and hadn’t warned her?

And Angel. He had been there. Stood over her. He had seen her torture? Seen her strapped down and helpless, and did nothing?

She couldn't be sure, because as usual, he didn't answer the question.

“I have a soul.”  Buffy heard the soft rustling of his clothes as he shifted uncomfortably, the way he did whenever his past actions were brought up.  “I don’t do that anymore.”

Harcourt snorted.  “I hardly see how your soul has informed your actions to date.  You are still a psychopath who preys on children.”

“That is not true!  Buffy is my destiny.” Angel shouted, and Buffy jumped.  She peeked around the corner.  Angel and Harcourt were squaring off by the table littered with weapons.  Harcourt was holding a file, and if Buffy had to guess, it was the reports of Angel sightings over the years.

“It is unequivocally true.”  Harcourt slapped the file on the table and palmed a nearby stake.  Buffy tensed, ready to intervene.

“You stalked Ms. Summers since she was fifteen years of age, claiming to be sent by some agent of the powers to assist her, but stood by and did nothing while she faced off with the centuries-old Lothos.  A creature with a reputation for collecting newly called Slayers.  You did nothing to free her from her drug-induced haze in the Behavioral Health Center. Spied on her mother to find out that she had accepted full responsibility for Ms. Summers’ care and had taken a job in Sunnydale, then proceeded to decamp from Los Angeles to fortify your position at the Hellmouth to wait for her. During that time, I’d like to note, you did nothing to weaken the position of the Master or challenge your former paramour and sire.  Instead, you let the object, and yes, you treat the Slayer as an object for your sole possession, of your so-called destiny, walk into the Hellmouth completely unprepared for those challenges.  Later, when your childer entered the scene, you did nothing to curb their malicious behavior.”

“You’re twisting things.  It would be wrong of me to fight Buffy’s battles for her.  She’s the Slayer.  She had to face Lothos and the Master herself.  Doing so made her a great Slayer.”

Buffy drew herself up taller.  Angel was right.  As the Slayer, it was her duty to fight Lothos and the Master.  If he had tried to step in between her and her duty, she would have been furious.

“I do not disagree that the adversity made her stronger.  Her experiences have made her an unparalleled warrior.  Though I strongly disagree with your assertion that Ms. Summers needed to do it on her own.  No one ever suffers from support.”

“I supported her the best I could.” Buffy's heart stuttered. It felt like all the blood was rushing from her head. That was a lie. A real lie. Not an almost lie. He left her to face the Master alone, even after she had begged him for help–had left her to die in a puddle, instead of breathing life back into her.

Did he lie a lot? Buffy realized she didn't really know, because she didn't really know Angel. He didn't like talking about himself. Always deflecting. Always sidestepping, until it became too exhausting to keep asking.

Harcourt snorted.  “Then you are lacking.”

Buffy was conflicted.  The sheer amount of support she received in the last few weeks had changed her perspective on her Slayer duties.  Her Watchers, Merrick and Giles, had told her that she alone would face the forces of darkness.  Alone while she patrolled.  Alone when she died.  She had rebelled at that idea.  Had collected the Scoobies to help her fight.  Now, with Harcourt in charge of the Council, she had even more support.  Harcourt and her team had done more for her in the last weeks than Angel had done in years.

Angel’s expression turned nasty.  Nasty in a way that made Buffy’s stomach swoop, taking her back to last year.

“I don’t care what you think.  I did everything I could for Buffy.”

“Well, that’s not true.  Even if you could do nothing about Lothos or the Master, you certainly could have done something about William the Bloody and Drusilla.  They are your childer.  If you commanded them to leave the Hellmouth, they would have been bound to do so.”

“You don’t know Spike that well if you think he would have left just because I told him to.”

“You are their sire, are you not?”

“That doesn’t mean I had the power to make them leave.”

Harcourt raised a disbelieving brow.  “Then why not remove them permanently?”

Angel scoffed.  “Even I can’t take on two master vampires at once.”

"Reports indicate that Drusilla was quite ill.  Dusting her would have been easy and would have created an opportunity to dust Spike while he was lost to grief.”

Buffy ducked away to lean against the cool plaster.  She couldn’t watch the play of emotions over Angel’s face as they discussed Drusilla.  The guilt.  The faint hint of longing.  Nor did she want to hear more of Harcourt’s pragmatism.  Dusting Dru while she was ill may have been a sound battle plan, but it went against Buffy’s sense of fair play.  And the thought of Spike’s grief.  Well, she didn’t want to contemplate that too closely.  If she acknowledged his ability to grieve, then she’d have to acknowledge his ability to love.  Even after their night together, she couldn’t quite force herself to go that far.

“I could never do such a thing.”  Angel’s voice sounded hollow, and Buffy could hear echoes of remorse.  She knew he felt immense guilt for what he did to Drusilla, and that same guilt prevented him from ending her existence.

“Well, I suppose having Ms. Summers under constant threat, her nervous system stretched to the breaking point, did make her vulnerable to your machinations.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Buffy whipped back around to peek through the doorway.  Angel looked like he was a hair from losing his shit.  Harcourt still stood confidently in front of him, her stake prominently displayed.  If Buffy didn’t know better, she’d think the Council Head was deliberately taunting Angel into snapping so she could dust him.  Maybe she was.

“You groomed her for a year before raping her.”

Buffy slapped a hand over her mouth to keep her gasp from alerting them to her presence, pressing herself into the wall.  The way Harcourt described Angel’s actions made her sick to her stomach.  It wasn’t true.  It couldn’t be.  She was completely misrepresenting the facts.  Wasn't she?

“I did not rape her." It sounded like he was chewing the words before he spat them out.  “We made love.  We made love because we love each other.  We are meant to be.”  They were meant to be.  They did love each other.  Buffy had never felt this way about another person.  It had to be love.

Now that she was immortal, they could be together. Forever.

"Tear the world apart…," Spike whispered in her mind.

“You, a vampire who is hundreds of years old, were meant to be with a child?”  Harcourt's derision dripped through the room.

“You don’t understand.  I tried…but Buffy...  You don't know how she can be. She wouldn't stop. And she's so beautiful. I tried to say no, but I couldn't stop myself from being drawn to her light. Don't you think I knew it was wrong, but what else could I do?”

Buffy was going to throw up.  She could feel hot bile rising in her chest into her throat.  She had been the one to pursue him.  She had chased after him like a dog in heat.  She had overwhelmed him until he gave in, unleashing pure evil on Sunnydale.

“Literally anything other than have sex with a child.”  Harcourt’s dry tone jolted Buffy out of her spiral.  She swiped her hand over her eyes, wiping away the mortified tears.  She peeked around the corner again.  Angel’s shoulders were slumped, looking so wretched it made her heart hurt.  She had done that to him.  Taken a proud man and broken him.

“I love her so much,” Angel whispered.  “I couldn’t resist her.”

“You couldn’t resist raping a sixteen-year-old child?”

Before her eyes, Angel transformed.  He drew himself up until he was towering over Ms. Harcourt, who was no wilting, dainty flower herself.  The misery on his face twisted into something malicious, something that could only come straight from the demon inside him.

“It wasn’t rape,” he snarled.  “And you have your facts wrong, Buffy was seventeen.”

“Barely,”  Harcourt sneered.  “By mere days.  Why the rush?  Were you worried she was aging out of your preferred age range?”

“Enough!” Angel slammed his fist on the table, making the assortment of weapons rattle.  “I won’t let you twist what Buffy and I have with your sick perversions.”

“My perversions?” Harcourt lifted a brow.  “I’m not the one raping children.”

“Buffy was not a child!”

“Facts state otherwise.”

“She was not a child.  She’s the Slayer."

"Being the Slayer did not make her an adult."

That! That right there. How many times had she tried to express that to Merrick and Giles? All she wanted to do was be a kid. Yes, she understood she had a terrible responsibility that would eventually lead to her death, but why did that mean she couldn't have a life in the meantime?

"But she was old enough to die," Angel sneered.

“Much to my regret. If I could change the age these young girls are called, I would, but I can't. I acknowledge that as a child, Ms. Summers was asked to do impossibly difficult things, and at that time, I was powerless to help her. That has changed with my new position.

I recognize that even though Ms. Summers is an adult now, she is still young, and as the Slayer, she needs support, which the Council will provide in every possible way it can.  What I will not do is emotionally manipulate her to fulfill my own ego by saying I love her.”

Was she an adult now? Did she do all the adulty things? What were adulty things? Saving the world was pretty adult. More than adult, really. She died at sixteen to save the world, but she still felt like a child when she crawled out of that puddle.

“I do love her!” Angel proclaimed fervently. The words didn't twang her heartstrings like they usually did. It rang hollow.

Honestly, it wasn't until she had survived Angelus, rammed a sword through Angel's heart, then ran off to live on her own that she had truly felt the weight of what it meant to be an adult.

Being an adult meant making the hard decisions and then living with the consequences.

Dying by the Master's hand hadn't been her choice. It had been forced on her by prophecy. But choosing the world over the man she loved had been her choice. The hard, shitty, adult choice.

“You,” Harcourt said coldly, “are not capable of love.”

“I have a soul!  Of course, I can love!”

“A soul is not a mechanism for love, as evidenced by the multitudes of humans with souls who don’t love, and the multitudes of demons without a soul who do love.”

“Demons can’t love," Angel despaired.

“That sounds like some gaslighting tripe a demon such as yourself would say to avoid accountability for your actions and to manipulate a young girl.”

“You know what?" Angel sneered. "I don’t like you very much.”

Harcourt’s smile was thin.  “I’m truly distressed.”

“You should be, because I know Buffy doesn’t like you either.”

Harcourt's thin smile stretched wider.  “Going to use her affection for you against me?”

“I think Buffy is going to realize how dangerous you really are.”

“And you’ll be the one to help her with that realization.”

Angel shrugged, his smile wolfish.  Buffy didn’t recognize him as the man she loved.

"Do you know what I think?" Harcourt asked.

“I hardly care.”

“I think the Slayer is far more clever, resourceful, and emotionally intelligent than you give her credit for.”  Harcourt turned her head and stared right at her.  Angel whipped his head to stare at Buffy, his mouth gaping open.

“As I said,” Harcourt said while looking straight at Buffy.  “I do not discuss Slayer business unless she is present.”

Harcourt had known she was there the entire time, while Angel, the supposed champion of the powers, hadn’t even clocked her.

Buffy stepped into the room.  “Why are you here, Angel?”

Angel didn’t reply.  He snarled at Harcourt, eyes flashing yellow.  “You manipulated this entire conversation to make me look bad.”

“I did not invite you here.  You came of your own volition to tell me that the Slayer didn’t need a support team.”

“What?  Why would you do that?”  Buffy asked.

“That’s a lie.  I didn’t say you didn’t need a support team. I think the one you have isn’t right for you.  Besides, you have all the support you need from me and Giles.”

“And the Scoobs,”  Buffy added.  Angel shrugged dismissively.  “What’s wrong with my support team?”

“I believe," Harcourt drawled.  “Lt. Collins caught him lurking outside your home well after you had retired for the evening, and she sent him on his way.”

“She had no right!”  Angel bristled.  “I was just checking on Buffy.”

“Trying to spy in her bedroom window was what I read in the report.”

“Oh.”  Buffy shifted uncomfortably, like she had been caught doing something wrong.  “That’s just something Angel does.”  She had thought it romantic last year before he lost his soul.  Afterwards, it had been terrifying to discover he was watching her sleep and drawing her portrait.  She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it now.  She did know she didn’t feel good about it.

“It’s a blatant invasion of your privacy.  You are not an object for him to stare longingly at, especially when you are asleep in the privacy of your own bedroom.  He does not possess you, Ms. Summers.”

“You are twisting things again.”  Angel threw his hands in the air in frustration.  Honestly, Buffy had never seen him so animated.

“I have asked you not to come around, Angel.  You make my mom uncomfortable.”

“Your mother wouldn’t even know I was there.”

“Neither would Ms. Summers, as you came while she was asleep, and it sounds as if you had no intention of waking her.”

Angel glared at Harcourt before turning back to Buffy.  “I’m not going to sit around and listen to this.  Buffy, let’s go.”

He grabbed her arm to pull her away.  Buffy dug her heels in. It was a good thing she wasn't just a girl, or he would have dragged her right out of the room.

“I have an appointment with Ms. Harcourt.” Buffy jerked her arm away.

“You can’t be serious?  She’s trying to poison you against me.  Against Giles.  She doesn’t have your best interests at heart.  She wants to control you like Travers.   She’s just going about it differently.”

“How is she controlling me?”

“You signed an employment contract with her after she said you can never quit.”

How did he know that? He hadn't been present at the meeting. Xander and Willow surely wouldn't have told him. Her mother refused to be in the same room as him. It seemed unlikely that Faith would have said anything. That left Giles.

“Well, I can never quit being a Slayer.”

“That’s not the point.  She practically owns you now.”

“I don’t see it that way.  The employment contract gives me protection and support I didn’t have before.  She’s been very straightforward.”

“She’s a murderer, Buffy.”

“So are you.”

Angel drew back.  “That’s not fair.  I didn’t have a soul.”

Buffy glanced at Harcourt.  Lydia had appeared with a tea tray and was arranging it on the low table in front of the couch.  Harcourt had moved to stand near her chair, giving the illusion of privacy, which was impossible given how loud Angel was being.  Buffy noticed that Harcourt hadn’t relinquished her stake.  Instead, she stuffed it in her waistband.

“You should go, Angel.  I have business to discuss with Ms. Harcourt.  I’ll talk to you later.”

Angel pressed his lips together and stalked out of the room without a second look.  Lydia followed him out.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Chapter Eight

“We are still waiting for Ms. Lehane to join us.”

Harcourt offered her a seat on the couch.  Buffy sank onto it with a tired sigh, rubbing her arm where Angel had grabbed her.  She had been so light-hearted on her way to meet Ms. Harcourt.  She finally felt like she had found her place in the world.  She was becoming comfortable in her own skin, in her own sense of self.  Now she felt heavy. Burdened.  She realized Angel did that.  Her every interaction with him was exhausting.

She set Blood-Drinker close to her side, unwilling for her weapon to be out of reach.  Harcourt had found sheaths for the new weapons that swung over the shoulder and had an easy release mechanism, but they were still awkward to carry and impossible to sit with.  Margie, her mage, a quirky but grounded woman who was part of Buffy’s support team, was trying to concoct a spell to allow for easier travel with the Scythes.

“Did you want to talk about what just happened?”

Buffy rubbed her hand down her face.  “Gawd, no.”

“I’m sorry you had to experience that unpleasantness, Ms. Summers.”

“I experience unpleasantness every night.”

“Yes, more so in the last few weeks.  Having your powers stripped from you and your mother endangered must have been very traumatic.”

“I deal. That’s what I do.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

“It doesn’t have to be with me.  As I said before, we do have several therapists available.”

“Hell to the no.”

Harcourt cleared her throat.  “Yes, I can see you have some understandably strong emotions in connection with therapy.”

“You think?”

Harcourt smiled.  “Tea?”

Buffy fought the urge to roll her eyes.  What was with the British offering tea as the universal band-aid?

“Sure.”  After Harcourt helped her secure Blood-Drinker, she was fairly certain she wouldn’t poison her with tea.  Everything Harcourt had done so far made Buffy question her entire world.  Everything she knew about demons and vampires.  What the Council had taught her about Slayer history.  She especially questioned how she felt about Harcourt’s bloody ascent to power.  If Spike hadn’t done what he had.  If Harcourt hadn’t struck the deal she had with Spike, Buffy wouldn’t be here, drinking tea and feeling more empowered than she had in her entire life.

It was entirely possible that she’d be lying in a grave Travers had dug for her.

After Harcourt had served and they had their tea, she asked, “Is it that your watcher stripped you of your powers or that your mother was endangered that upsets you the most?”

Buffy appreciated Harcourt's efforts to steer the conversation away from Angel, but she didn't particularly want to talk about this subject either.  Even though the distance of time had softened the blow of betrayal, it still stung.

“It’s all pretty upsetting.”

“Agreed.”

They sipped their tea in silence.

“They made me into just a girl.”  Buffy stared into the tea, watching the milk swirl.

“Having your powers removed without explanation would have been shocking.”

“I thought maybe I had been unchosen, you know?  Like maybe the Powers decided I wasn’t good enough anymore.  That maybe Faith was the true Slayer, and I was a mistake.”  Buffy couldn’t stop herself from touching Blood-Drinker.  The weapon hummed against her fingertips.  Having the weapon appear when she called had gone far in soothing her self-doubt of not being worthy of Slayerhood.  She had been chosen all over again.

“Did you know before the rise of modern religion, there was no mention of Heaven’s Chosen One or The Powers that Be in Council doctrine?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means before religions became such a dominant and controlling factor in society, there was no mention of some greater power choosing the Slayer.”

“Are you saying that a Slayer isn’t chosen by a higher power?  Why would the Council say otherwise?”

“Control.  In a time when religion was such an important facet of society, telling your charge she is chosen by heaven or god or some other higher power to be its weapon and that they, the Council, were chosen to wield them gave them quite a bit of power.”

Buffy absorbed that.  She never really questioned the Council’s role in her life.  When Merrick and Giles had shown up, saying they were her Watchers, and it was their duty to guide her, she had taken them at their word.  She had been much more concerned with the unfairness of being chosen at all.  In fact, she had welcomed her Watchers’ assistance.  

Even now, the thought of fighting alone was terrifying.  She could easily see how a medieval girl overwhelmed by her new power and brought up to obey religious doctrine would obey a man showing up, saying he had divine authority to wield her as a weapon.

"So getting chosen is some sort of weird crapshoot?  I got the right DNA to win the lottery?”

“I don’t think Slayer selection is random, I’m just saying that Slayers existed for hundreds of years without the mention of a higher power.”

“Before there were gods?”

Harcourt placed her teacup silently in its saucer, shrugging her narrow shoulders.  “The worship of gods has always existed in one form or another.  But remember, the Slayer wasn’t created by gods.  The Slayer was created by man.”

“But the Shadowmen used magic.  Doesn’t that mean evoking a god of some sort?”

“No, not always.  Not even mostly.”

“You don’t think we are chosen by a higher power, but you don’t think it’s random, what do you think it is?”

“In the time of Sineya, ancestral spirits were honored.  Offerings were made to keep harmony and balance between the living and the dead.  The Guardians made such offerings to Sineya so she would protect their villages.  Today, Guardians continue to make offerings to Sineya as our guardian ancestral spirit.”

“Wait.”  Buffy put up her hands to ward off what Harcourt was saying.  “You think Sineya is choosing the next Slayer?”

“I don’t know.  No one really knows how it works, and if they tell you differently, they are lying.”

“What about prophecies and Slayer dreams?”

“What about them?”

“Who’s sending them?”

“Who knows who is sending visions to prophets.  It could be the Powers that Be.  They do have a vested interest in seeing the world continue to spin.”

“And Slayer dreams?”

Harcourt sipped her tea, deep in thought.  “There is no spoken record of Sineya having prophetic dreams.  However, there is a song fragment of Moremi, the Slayer, who journeyed to Sineya to help her trap the Old One, having a dream that Sineya called to her to come.  After Sineya died, Slayers frequently reported having very vivid dreams that helped them complete their Slayer duties.  As the years passed and the Council became more active in Slayer’s lives, those dreams became fragmented to the point they were nearly unhelpful.”

“You think Sineya is the one who sends Slayer dreams?”

Harcourt nodded.  “It is my personal belief, whether it be right or wrong, that Sineya is the Guardian of the Slayer line, and continues to find any way she can to assist her daughters.”

“Do you think she is the one who chooses us?”

“I don’t discount it.  But to get back to your original point, I don’t think you being chosen was ever a mistake.  Ms. Summers, you have done a lot of good in this world.”

Buffy’s shoulders slumped.  “It’s hard to remember that when your power suddenly disappears and you don’t know why.”

“Yes, it is a horrible betrayal by your Watcher.”

“The Council told him to do it,”  Buffy said sullenly.

Harcourt didn’t reply.  Buffy looked away from her teacup to stare at the cream rug at her feet.  “He still did it.  I hate him a little bit for that.”  She looked sharply at Harcourt.  “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“What is said between us is always confidential, Ms. Summers.”

“I always thought that being a Slayer ruined my life.  All I wanted was to be normal.  But when my power was stripped, I was so afraid.  It felt like something fundamental had been stolen from me.  I hated it.  I hated being just a girl.”

You’re more than just a girl, Buffy Summers.  You’re amazing.

Why couldn’t she stop thinking about Spike?  How he relished her strength.  Praised her skills.  Worshiped her body.  Thoughts of him were never far away.

“Being a Slayer is fundamental to who you are, and you have every right to be angry for what was done to you.  It was wrong and evasive.  It should have never happened.”

It took everything Buffy had to choke back her tears.  She hated to cry in front of anyone.  It always made her feel helpless when she showed her emotions.  Hysterical and manipulative.  It was better to hide her feelings if she wanted to be taken seriously.

Especially after being Called.  Crying was weak and womanly.  She couldn’t afford to be those things.  Not when she was supposed to be this great warrior that everyone looked up to.

People liked cute things.  Her friends and family liked her perky and sassy.  But feelings like sadness and anger are messy and uncomfortable.  No one liked being subjected to a bawling baby. 

Harcourt let her gather herself, and Buffy felt a spurt of jealousy.  Harcourt was a woman who had mastered her emotions.  It was evident in every interaction so far, from how she had handled Giles during their first encounter to how she had calmly but authoritatively schooled Angel.

It made Buffy wonder how many times in her life Harcourt had to remain calm while others berated her.  How much criticism had she endured for her progressive ideas from her peers?  Especially in the boys club that was the Council.  

Maybe the reason Harcourt had mastered her reactions and emotions was because she had been forced to after a lifetime of enduring aggression from men, not just professionally, but personally and socially.

“May I ask you a question, Ms. Summers?”

“You can call me Buffy.”

Harcourt smiled but didn’t reply.  It took her a moment to realize that calling her Ms. Summers or Slayer was a sign of respect.  After all, Buffy would never dream of calling Ms. Harcourt, Abigail.  “Go ahead and ask away.”

“Why do you keep saying that you hate being a girl?”

Buffy startled.  “I didn’t say I hate being a girl.  I just hate that they took my power and made me less.”

“That they turned you into just a girl.”

“Yeah.  Here I am all slayered up, then the next day I’m back to being just a girl.”

“You say it with such derision.”

Buffy thought for a moment.  “Because they made me weak.”

“So to be female is to be inherently weak?”

“Well...”  Buffy trailed off.  Did she think that?  To be soft, to be womanly.  Those weren’t the traits of a warrior.

“To be just a girl is to be less than?”

“No, but a girl is weak.”  She knew this to be true.  She wasn’t because she was a Slayer, but women were the weaker sex.

“I’m a woman.  Am I weak?  Your mother?”

“Well, compared to a Slayer.”  Yet, all Slayers were women…

“We aren’t talking about physical strength, Ms. Summers.  After all, you defeated Kralick without any Slayer enhancements.”

Buffy glanced away, remembering that night.  She had defeated Kralick without her strength.  It had been a hard fight, but she had outsmarted him and won.

What exactly was strength?  Was it something more than physical?  She thought of her mother picking up the pieces of her shattered life to move to Sunnydale as a single mother.  Was that strength?

“I guess.”

“When you say, ‘just a girl,’ you’re buying into the idea that you and all women are inferior.”

“That’s not true.  We aren’t inferior.”  Women, sure as hell weren’t inferior.  They just had different a place in society.  Different expectations to live by.

“You say that, but do you believe it?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Really?  How often do you judge women around you against a totally different set of standards than their male counterparts?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ms. Lehane, for instance.  I’ve seen you deride her sexuality quite often.  Were she a man, would you hold her to the same set of sexual standards?  If she were male, would you call her names or treat her with such disdain?”

Buffy blushed.  “It’s not like that.  Since Faith has come to town, she’s been trying to steal everything that’s mine, including my boyfriend.”

“So you feel that you compete with her sexually?”

“No!  I’m not a total skank like she is.”

Buffy snapped her mouth closed.  Harcourt was silent for a long minute, and Buffy felt her insides burn.  She had been so mad at Angel when he had implied that the reason she was asking for intimacy was that she was hanging around Faith. He had called her a slattern, and Buffy had been insulted on her behalf.  But part of her had sided with Angel.  She herself was guilty of slut-shaming her sister Slayer. 

Buffy had been raised to believe anyone who slept around like Faith was inherently nasty.  Good girls didn’t spread their favors around town like candy, and hanging out with girls who did would make you a target.  Dirty by association.  

As if just being in the presence of someone like Faith would make Buffy less worthy somehow.  Because Faith's sexual choices made her less worthy of respect.  Lowered her value somehow.  As if value could be assigned to a human being.

And didn't Buffy subconsciously buy into that belief?  Buffy burned with her own shame at the night she spent with Spike.  She was just as loose as Faith.  The only difference was that no one knew it.  It was a secret, because if anyone found out, they’d think less of her.

Xander would never let her hear the end of it.  Willow would give her that big-eyed, disappointed, 'I thought you were a good girl like me' look.  Giles would lose all respect for her, especially after what she had done with Angel.

Women who slept around lost all respect from their peers.

Not men, though.  The burn intensified.  A little seed wondered if she were a boy, who slept with a female vampire, who then lost their soul, would they have been judged at the same standard as her?  Would a man be made to feel it was their fault for having sex, or would blame fall on the vampire’s shoulders for being a seductress who swayed the righteous warrior from their heroic path?

If Faith were a guy, would they be called loose for exploring their sexuality, or would they be praised for having ‘game’?

“When you use language that diminishes women, you are diminishing your friends, your mother, grandmother, all that came before you.  When you say they are just girls, you are diminishing who they are and their contributions to this world, no matter how large or small.

No one is ‘just’ anything, especially women who are complex and varied, but when you say ‘just’ you are reducing them to less than.  To be a girl is less.  To be less than a man.  Less human.  Less respected.

Are you less, Ms. Summers?”

Buffy ducked her chin, frowning.  Did she feel less?  Did she feel like she had to fight harder to be heard? Respected?  Treated with equality?

“I’m the Slayer.”  Being the Slayer gave her power.  It gave her strength.  She could force respect.  But was that equality or another symptom of the problem?  Forced respect wasn't respect at all.

“Ms. Lehane is a Slayer.  Is she less than because she chooses to have sex?”

Buffy screwed up her mouth, refusing to reply.

“So if you’re not the Slayer, then you are less than?  Your mother, your friends, me?  We are less?”

“No, I just mean as a Slayer…”  Buffy felt overwhelmed.  Harcourt was making her uncomfortable.  Buffy didn’t like to be challenged.  It made her feel stupid and small even when that wasn’t the intention.

“Yes, as a Slayer, you are extraordinary.  You have been chosen to be a savior, but who do you think you would have been if not the Slayer?”

“I don’t know.  A mom?”

“And that would make you less than?  I don’t think your children would have thought that.”

“But I wouldn’t be saving anyone either,” Buffy pointed out stubbornly.

“Really?"  Harcourt raised a sleek brow.  "I believe I have a report around here of your mother attacking William the Bloody with a fire ax to save her daughter."

Buffy blushed at the reminder, and Harcourt took a sip of her tea before continuing. 

"Everyone’s contribution in life is different, but it doesn’t make them less.  Are Ms. Rosenburg and Ms. Chase less because they don’t have your super strength?”

“No, they’re brave.”  They couldn't force respect.  They had to earn it.  But earn it from whom?  Why did it have to be earned?  Why did being a woman mean you had to prove yourself over and over again just to be heard?

“So someone afraid, someone who can’t save themselves, like the victims you save, are less?”

“No!”

“Then stop saying that being a girl makes you weak.  That being a woman makes you less.”

“Gawd, it’s just a saying!”  Buffy flailed her arms, completely frustrated.  Harcourt twisted words just as Angel accused her of doing.

Harcourt gave her a hard look.  “Language, Ms. Summers, has more power than you think.”

There was a knock on the suite door.

Ms. Harcourt refilled her tea with poise.  “It seems that Ms. Lehane has joined us.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer:  I don’t own or profit from BtVs.

Chapter Nine 

“Yo, B.  Your hunny is creeping in the hall.”

Buffy sighed.  The night was early, and she was already exhausted.

“Would you like for Lt. Collins and her team to send him on his way, Ms. Summers?”

“No.  He’ll just find me later.  Might as well deal with it now, but he can wait until after our meeting.”

“Very well.”

“My mom had a boyfriend, who used to creep around all the time.  Never let her out of his sight.”  It sounded nice.  A protective boyfriend hovering about, making sure they were available if you needed them.

“What happened to him?” Buffy asked.

Faith looked at Buffy, her face hard.  “He became my stepdad.”

Something about the way Faith said it made Buffy feel deeply uncomfortable.

Desperate to change the subject, she turned to Harcourt.  “Why did Lt. Collins report to you that Angel was outside my room, instead of me?”

“She prepared a report for both of us.”  Harcourt held up a second file meant for Buffy.  “However, if this makes you uncomfortable, you can request that Lt. Collins report only to you.”

Buffy was unused to being so blatantly in charge.  Usually, she had to fight for the privilege of being listened to.  Giles always downplayed her instincts, ensuring everyone knew he was the authority, not her.  “Maybe when it’s about me directly?”

Harcourt raised a slim brow at her uncertain tone.  “Understood.  I will make it known to Lt. Collins.  However, I encourage you to make your wishes known directly to her.  You are, for all intents and purposes, her commanding officer.”

“Yeah, B.  Speak up.  Use that bitchy little voice of yours.”

Harcourt turned her cool gaze to Faith, and the other Slayer snapped her mouth shut.  Buffy sensed the other Slayer would be getting her own lecture on how to treat her peers in the future.

The idea of commanding anyone made Buffy doubly uncomfortable.  “Not really.  She works for the Council.”

“Ms. Summers, you are the Slayer.  The Council works for you.  We are here to support you and Ms. Lehane.  Lt. Collins has sworn to keep a covenant with the Slayer and only the Slayer.  If she receives an order from the Council she deems counterintuitive to her mission, she is oathbound to deny the request and come directly to you with any concerns.”  Harcourt turned to Faith.  “This goes the same for you, Ms. Lehane.  Lt. Banks and her team are sworn to you.”

Faith grinned in acceptance.  She had taken to having her own team.  Delighted in it, in fact.

“Okay, then.”  Buffy still refused to look directly at Harcourt.  “I’ll talk to her.”

“I guarantee, Lt. Collins will be very receptive to any instruction you give her,” Harcourt said gently.  Buffy nodded.

“Tea, Ms. Lehane?”  Harcourt motioned for Faith to take a seat.

“Got coffee?”  After setting her weapon next to Blood-Drinker, Faith threw herself onto the couch, taking up way too much space.

“Indeed.”  Harcourt nodded to Lydia, who had entered with Faith.  “How are things progressing with your team, Ms. Lehane?”

“Jackie is wicked cool.  She was showing me how to build a detonator earlier.”

“That seems like a terrible idea,” Buffy muttered.  Faith just grinned at her, all teeth and zero repentance.

“Are you ready for your relocation next week?”

“Yeah.  It’s not like I’ve got anything to pack.  Never been to Cleveland, though.  Hope the nightlife’s not too dead.”

Buffy rolled her eyes.  Lydia returned with coffee for Faith.

“Will there be anything else, mum?”

“No, thank you, Lydia.  Can you make sure the doors are secure?  What we have to discuss is private.”

“Of course.”  Lydia paused at the weapons table to pocket a few stakes and a dagger.  Buffy raised a brow.

“So, why are we here, Mama?”  Faith snatched up a red apple from the artfully arranged fruit bowl in the center of the table, taking a huge bite.

Harcourt sighed, but didn’t correct her.  It reminded Buffy so much of Giles’ frustration whenever Xander called him G-man that she had to smother her giggle.

“Before the Council introduced the perversion of the Tento di Cruciamentum, there was a different coming-of-age ritual performed by the Slayer.”

Buffy resisted the urge to pull her feet up and curl into a ball.  “A different Slayer murder ritual?”

“The Spirit Walk is a much older and very different ritual.”

“How so?” Faith asked.  She finished her apple, surprising Buffy when she placed the core on her saucer rather than throwing it on the table or floor.  It seemed dogs could be taught new tricks.

Buffy frowned at the wayward thought.  How many negative thoughts did she have about other women?  How many snide thoughts did she have about Cordelia on the daily?  Even Willow and her weird fuzzy sweaters?

Well, that wasn’t strictly fair.  Fashion was non-gendered.  She had thoughts about Xander’s wardrobe, too.

But when Angel had grabbed her arm, her first reaction hadn't been to fault him that he had laid hands on her.  She had been relieved that she wasn't just a girl, and as the Slayer, she could hold her own.

It had never even occurred to her that Angel didn't have the right to grab her, and that meant in some twisted way that if she wasn't strong enough to fight him off, then she deserved whatever happened to her, which in that case would have meant being physically dragged away against her will.

She was so floored by her epiphany that she almost missed what Harcourt said next.

“As I told you before, as a Slayer ages, she begins to harden into her immortality.  At eighteen, she petitions the Spirit Realm for an audience with the ancestors.  Once there, she will be faced with a choice.”

“What kind of choice?”  Buffy asked.

“No one knows.”

“What? I thought you Guardian broads knew all this prehistory shit.”

“Please refrain from calling us broads.  It’s disrespectful.”  Harcourt shot Faith a hard look, and for the first time, Buffy saw her sister Slayer look uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” Faith muttered.

Harcourt nodded before continuing.  “We don't know, because it’s a sacred rite between Slayer and her ancestral sisters.  We only know you will be faced with a choice.”

“And you don’t know what kind of choice?”  Buffy leaned forward.  Harcourt met her gaze.

“We only know that the outcome of the choice will impact your strength as a Slayer.”

“How so?”  Faith leaned forward as well.  Her elbows propped on her knees.

“Most Slayers leave the Spirit Realm unchanged.  Those Slayers went on with their lives with no discernible change to their level of strength or personality.”

“But others came out stronger?” Faith asked.

“Yes.  Substantially stronger, but sometimes, only sometimes, less empathetic.”

“What does that mean?” Buffy asked.

“They had a mission, focused entirely on duty and the eradication of evil. They did not disparage.  All demons were to be destroyed, regardless of sex, age, or moral alignment.”  The Slayers exchanged a look.

“Wait, are you trying to say they killed kids?”  Faith asked.

“What do you mean moral alignment?” Buffy asked at the same time.

“While there are demons that spring into existence fully formed, most come about naturally.”

It had never even occurred to Buffy that demons had kids.  It's not like she had ever seen any running around, but she supposed they didn’t just spring out of the earth full grown.

Buffy couldn’t imagine killing kids, demon or not.  It would make her no better than the evil she hunted.  It was hard for her to imagine her fellow Slayer doing such a heinous thing.  What happened on this Spirit Walk thingy that turned them into monsters?

“As for your other question, not all demons are predisposed to evil acts, where there is sentience there is choice.”

Buffy scoffed.  Demons were evil.  Period.  She had yet to see evidence to the contrary.

Buffy was struck by a wayward thought.  Were demon kids evil?  Did they start out evil or where they taught evil?

Could they be taught to not be evil?

The Annointed One had been a kid.  He had also been a turned vampire, so the child in him was already dead and replaced by a demon.  Even so, she still hadn’t been able to kill him.  She still saw him as the little boy that he had been.

 “They knew no compassion or mercy, and went on to challenge powerful demons,” Harcourt continued.  “Their greater strength allowed them to win many battles, but the Slayers seemed bent on destroying themselves.  Hardened and cold, they grew distant from family and friends until they had no ties to the world.”

Buffy exchanged a glance with Faith.  Neither of them liked that idea.  They both understood what it meant to not want to go on.  Slayer life was hard.  The idea of fighting life-or-death battles nightly for centuries was especially upsetting.

"You said that was only sometimes.  Is there a different outcome?" Buffy asked.

Harcourt nodded.  "Rarely, a Slayer would exit the Spirit Realm exponentially more powerful."

"More powerful than the merciless Slayer?" Faith asked.

"Markedly so."

"But they weren't all Slayer on a mission and death wishy?" Buffy asked.

"No. These Slayers were described as having a Calling."

Faith rolled her eyes.  "Hate to break it to you, mama, but we've already been called."

Harcourt took a deep breath. "Yes, you were called to be a Slayer, but no real direction is given, and without guidance you are left to flounder."

"Which is why the Council exists," Buffy concluded, remembering how often Giles would impress upon her the importance of his role in her duty.

"Which allowed the Council to get up to whatever they wanted."  Faith pointed out, turning her dark, cold eyes onto Harcourt.  "Take a scared girl and offer the help she needs until she's grateful and then pimp her out.  Saw it all the time back in my old hood."

"Yes, that is an apt description."  Harcourt grimaced.

"What kind of calling?"  Buffy asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.

"To bring balance to the world."

Buffy put down her teacup with a clatter, and Faith flopped back on the couch.  Yet another impossible mission placed on their shoulders.  Bring balance to the world.  What did that even mean?  Why not ask them to solve global warming while they're at it?

“Can we choose not to do the ritual?” Buffy asked.

“Of course.  No one is going to force you to do anything you don’t want to.  However, there is a timetable.”

“What kind of timetable?”  Buffy asked.

“The ritual has to be completed by the third full moon of the Slayer's eighteenth birthday.”

The third full moon since her birthday was only a few weeks away.  Had so much changed so quickly?

“And if you do it after?”

Harcourt shrugged.  “While a Slayer can enter the Spirit Realm at any time to commune with her sisters, this particular outcome is never offered after the window has passed.”

“But if we do it within the time frame, we can come out of it being stronger.” Faith pointed out.

“But less human.”  Buffy continued.

“Not always.  However, there are other…” Harcourt hesitated.  “consequences.”

“Like what?”

“The Slayers' strength is so profound that it can be felt around the world.”

The Slayers thought on that for a bit.  “Like a dinner bell,” Buffy concluded.  If Slayer power swamped the world, all the demons would come running to get a taste.

“Or a warning bell.  Fuck off or I’ll fuck you up.” Faith added.

“It does seem to have both effects.  It has been recorded that very old vampires did make themselves known to the Slayer.”

Buffy frowned.

“Made themselves known?” Asked Faith.  “That doesn’t sound like showed up and tried to take a bite.”

Harcourt chuckled.  “Well, no, although they did challenge the Slayers.”

“But didn’t try to kill them?”

“Some did.  Others attempted to subdue the Slayer.”

“Subdue, like enslave her?” Faith puffed with rage.  Buffy felt the same anger run through her veins.

“I bet those vampires got slayed extra hard.”  Buffy’s fists clenched.

Harcourt nodded.  “Some posit the reason some Slayers come out of the ritual superpowered is precisely for that reason.  It is a way to diminish the demon population that has become overgrown.  Right the balance."

“It’s a free-for-all,”  Faith nodded.  “Last man standing.”

“Last woman,” Buffy corrected.

“Yes, something like that,” Harcourt agreed.  “While it appears others attempted to court the Slayer by proving their strength to her.”

Buffy’s mouth dropped.  “Court?”

“Proving their strength?” Faith snickered.  “How? By doing some gym bro flexing?"

Harcourt shrugged.  “Much lore was lost with the decimation of the Guardians, but we know of at least two notable occasions, the Slayer accepted a vampire consort.  There could be more, of course.”

“What the actual fuck?” Faith gaped.

“That goes against everything the Council taught us.”  Outrage boiled through Buffy’s veins.

“Good thing you already have practice defying the Council when it comes to vamps, huh, B?”  Faith elbowed Buffy in the side.  Buffy elbowed her back hard.

“Shut up, Faith.”  Buffy rounded on Harcourt.  “So these Slayers did what?  Kept them as pets?  Let them run around killing, or did they keep them chained up to use them?”  Her stomach rolled.

“No, they were a couple.  In both cases, they were very affectionate and long-lived.”

“That’s impossible!”  Buffy shot to her feet.  “Soulless vampires can’t love.”  Buffy flashed back to Harcourt’s accusation of Angel earlier that evening.  That multitudes of soulless demons could love.

“That is Council rhetoric meant to keep Slayers from becoming too curious about vampires.  They wanted you to hunt and kill them without question.  This isn’t the only record of Slayers taking vampire lovers.”

“You mean Slayers who didn’t undergo the ritual had vamp toys?”  Faith quirked a dark brow.

“I suppose that’s a colorful way to put it.  However, I reiterate that all accounts show the couples to be affectionate and loving.”

“No, you’re lying.  You’re no better than Travers.  Trying to manipulate us into doing something perverse!”  Buffy couldn’t stop shaking.  She didn’t understand why this conversation upset her so badly.  She kept flashing to Angelus’ mocking face.  All the young blonde women he had defiled, leaving their corpses for her to find.  The soulless couldn’t love.  Couldn’t be affectionate.

Spike whispering poetry against her naked skin.  His fingertips skimming across her cheeks and down her throat.  How he smelled of blood and rain.

"Did Spike put you up to this?  I know you worked with him to get control of the Council.  Are you trying to pawn me off on him as payment for a job well done?"

Faith's dark brows rose to her hairline.  Harcourt actually blinked as if shocked.

“I assure you, I am not attempting to manipulate you.  Nor did I strike a deal with William the Bloody to 'give' you to him.  I would like to remind you that you are your own person and no one controls you except you.”

Buffy snorted in disbelief, her small hands fisted at her sides. Harcourt remained sitting calmly in her chair, while Buffy raged over her.

“I can provide you with several accounts of Slayers and their vampires.  Although I must warn you, the outcome isn’t pretty.”

“Council killed them, didn’t they?” Faith ignored Buffy’s outrage as she spoke, examining her nails nonchalantly instead.  That more than anything signaled how strongly Faith felt about the matter.

“Yes,” Harcourt affirmed.

“Well, B.  Now we know why Travers wanted to off you.  Vampire nookie was a big no-no.”

“Fuck you, Faith,” Buffy spat.  She grabbed up Blood-Drinker, swinging her weapon over her shoulder as she stormed out of the suite.  She couldn't hear any more nonsense.  It was all lies.  All of it.

“Buffy,” Angel called.

All anyone ever did was lie.  Including Angel.

“Fuck off, Angel."  She was so mad.  Mad at him and his slippery soul.  Faithful, soulless lovers her ass.  "I don’t have time for your shit right now.”

She slammed the door to the stairwell in his face.

“Hey, B.  Wait up.”

“I don’t want to talk right now, Faith.”

“Why are you so pissed?”

Buffy whirled on Faith, who raised her hands to ward off Buffy's fury.  “Aren’t you tired of everyone yanking our chain?”

“I’m not sure I follow.  How is this yanking our chain?”

“Harcourt is twisting things.  She’s always twisting things.  Talking bullshit."  Twisting Angel's words.  His motives.  Pointing out things Buffy didn't want to contemplate.  "Getting us to think the way she wants.  How is she different from the Council?”

Faith frowned, scratching her neck.  “Harcourt seems like a straightshooter to me.”

“How would you know?” Buffy spat over her shoulder as she stomped away.  Faith hurried to catch up.

“I’ve dealt with a lot of twisty snakes in my time.”

“I don’t think so.  I think she’s trying to confuse us.  Using all her big fancy words.  All this talk about immortal Slayers and Guardians.  About Angel being–.”  A rapist.  Even with his soul.  She couldn’t say it.  Couldn’t think it.  Not without bile rushing up her throat.  “Now she wants us to believe that vampires without souls can be trusted?  Come on, Faith.  Even you must know that’s some bull.”

Faith walked beside Buffy for a time, fingering her weapon at her hip.  “It's a lot to take in.  Like, a mega amount of info.”

“Right!  She’s trying to overwhelm us.  Twist things up.”

Buffy could feel Faith staring at her as they walked through the graveyard.  Buffy wasn’t sure where they were going.  She angled toward downtown.  Action could always be found down there.

“Is that how she makes you feel?  All twisted up?”

“Don’t you?”

“No.  I mean, I still feel messed up by being the Slayer.  Like, I don’t deserve it.”  Her fingers ran over the bladed edge of Dust-Eater.  “But things are clearer now.  Like it really was meant to be.”

Buffy’s shoulders slumped.  Faith was right.  Since Harcourt came to town and explained the true history of the Slayer and helped her to gain Blood-Drinker, she had felt herself align more fully with her path as the Slayer.  She felt more at peace with being in her skin than ever before.

“I don’t think this is really about Harcourt.  I think this is about Angel.”  Faith glanced at her slyly.  "And maybe this Spike guy."

Buffy stiffened, lips pressing tightly together until they hurt.

Faith didn’t prod her as they continued to walk, passing by the Double Meat Palace with its stink of grease and rotted meat.

“You don’t get it.  It’s my fault,” Buffy confessed.

“What’s your fault?”

“All of it.  Angel killing all those people after he lost his soul.  Spike killing half the freaking Watcher Council.”

“The world ending,” Faith added.

“Exactly!  It’s all on me.”

“Wow.  That’s some next-level power-trippin'.”

“Excuse me?”  Buffy rounded on Faith, who shrugged her off and kept walking.

“I hate to break it to you, B, but you aren’t all that.”

“We’re Slayers, Faith.”  Buffy threw up her hands, encompassing everything around them.  “We’re responsible for the world.”

“I mean, yeah." Faith twisted around so she was walking backwards.  She ran her hands down her body.  "We’re smoking hot, and wicked strong, but we’re not gods.”

Buffy’s hands fell to her sides with a loud slap.  “You don’t get it.”  Buffy walked to catch up.

“Why?" Faith turned to face forward when Buffy drew even with her. "Because I’m nothing more than some skank ho?”

Buffy burned.  “I never said that.”

Faith snorted.  “You don’t think I get what it feels like to be responsible for some bad shit?  You don’t think I didn’t feel responsible every time Jimmy beat down my mom?  That I didn’t feel it when he went after other girls in my hood to be in his stable because I said no?  All because I wouldn’t sell myself to pay off my father’s debt.”

Buffy went white at the picture Faith painted.  Puzzle pieces rapidly fell into place, revealing some sickening truths about Faith’s behavior.  Shame burned even brighter.

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Neither are the actions of Angel and Spike, but that doesn’t stop the feels, does it?”

“No.”  Buffy rubbed a hand over her chest.  Her heart felt compressed.  Like, there was so much weight on it that it struggled to beat.

“Look.  I’ve been to a lot of court-mandated therapy, and it’s mostly all bullshit, but this one doc said something that stuck.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not responsible for things outside of my control.  Not how people act.  Not what they do.  Not the end of the world.  I’m just not that powerful.  Not a god or a Power that shoves their hand up people’s asses and makes them dance.  People do what they want, and it’s got nothing to do with me.”

Buffy snort-laughed.  Dance monkey dance!

“That shit is all on them,” Faith continued.

“Well, except for the world-ending stuff.  That might be on us,” Buffy said.

“I refuse to believe that.  I didn’t do the ritual or say whatever fucked-up prayer to some demonic asshole to summon them.  All I can do is my best to stop it, and if I die trying, then so be it.  No one can say I didn’t give it a hundred and fifty fucking percent.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Faith bumped her shoulder.  “I know it takes a while to sink in, but every time some asshole tries to get you to take the rap for their fuckery, just remind yourself that you don’t have that kind of power.”

The memory of Angel blaming her for seducing him struck her so hard in the chest she nearly stumbled.  She had been a child.  Sure as a Slayer, she was mature for her age, but how would she react if Willow had come to her and said one of her dad’s friends was into her?  That he told her it was okay for them to date because Willow was so smart and mature for her age?  How would she react if that same middle-aged man blamed Willow for tempting him?  Getting her to take the rap for his fuckery?

“You got to own your bitchery, B.”

“I’m not a bitch!” Buffy hissed.

“Why is that so bad?  Why is being a ho so bad?  Why do we have to be ashamed of who we are?”

“I never called you a ho.”  Buffy felt herself burn.

Faith gave her the serious side eye, and suddenly Buffy just couldn’t lie anymore.  Not to herself.  Not to Faith.

“You’re right.”  Buffy’s shoulders slumped.  “I’m sorry, I thought bad things about you.”

“It’s okay.  I am sort of a ho.”  Faith shoved her hands into her pockets, and Buffy could sense more of a story there, but she didn’t push.  “Being a bitch is revolutionary.  I mean, if you’re being a bitch it means you’re making someone uncomfortable.  Taking up more space than they want you to.  Making yourself big when they’d rather you be small.”

Buffy found herself agreeing.  How many times had she been called a bitch to quiet her down?  It worked too.  Being a bitch meant she was being too much, too extra, and she needed to rein herself in, but was that really true?  Why did standing up for herself, keeping her boundaries, and not letting people fuck with her mean she was a bitch?  Why did she need to make herself smaller to make other people feel big?  She was a warrior who fought to the death nightly.  How dare society tell her to soften herself to make herself more palatable to be around.

Buffy squared her shoulders.  “Ho is a mean word to keep women down.  Keep them feeling small and ashamed, so they don’t fight back when society tells them they’re bad.  That they deserved to be treated like dirt.  You have every right to do what you want with your body.”

Faith shimmied her hips, and Buffy barked out a laugh.  “So let’s reclaim them.  You’ll be my bitch, and I’ll be your ho.”

“Hey, Ho.”  Buffy greeted, the word feeling sticky in her mouth.  Maybe if she said it enough, it would unstick.  Unravel its nastiness and reform it into something not to be ashamed of.

“Yo, Bitch.” Faith greeted back.

The girls laughed, bumping shoulders as they traveled down the alley towards downtown.

“So, B.  Why don’t you tell me why you think it’s your fault that Spike went Terminator on the Council?”

Buffy looked around to make sure they were alone.  “You can’t tell anyone.”

“It’s just us sisters here.”

Buffy leaned in close to whisper, “I slept with Spike.”

Faith jerked away and gave Buffy a good once-over.  When she was done, she smiled.  “Does he give good dick?”

Buffy almost choked on her tongue before she spewed with laughter.  “The best.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer:  I don’t own or profit from BtVS.

Chapter Ten

Buffy and Faith made their way to the back alleys behind City Hall.  Downtown during the day was a bustle of activity, men and women in nice suits traveling between buildings, grabbing lunch at trendy eateries, and drinks at the local pubs after work.  During the summer, when the days were longer, those nightly activities spilled into the street, but in the winter, when the shadows crept in earlier, the business people of downtown tended to head home early to their pets and microwavable dinners.

Downtown at night was an entirely different beast, especially in the last few months.  Vampires had started roving in bands.  Traveling between downtown and the docks.  Demon activity had seen an uptick as well.  Buffy hadn’t been able to figure out what they were up to just yet, but it did make for a rich hunting ground.

“On you left, B.”

Buffy deflected a broken bottle wielded by a vampire with Blood-Drinker.  She spun, Blood-Drinker singing its battle song only for her, as it sliced the vampire’s head cleanly from its shoulders.  She spun in time to see Faith bring the sharp point of Dust-Eater’s shaft towards a man’s chest.  Blood-Drinker screamed a warning, and Buffy reacted on instinct.  She flattened the head of her weapon against the man’s chest, acting as steel-plated armor.  Dust-Eater’s spike bounced off Blood-Drinker with a shower of sparks.

“Human!” Buffy screamed as Faith staggered back from the blow.  The man, whom Buffy protected, was thrown to the ground by the sheer force of Faith’s strength.  He groaned, clutching his ribs.

Faith regained her balance, her mouth sagging with horror as she stared down at the man.  If Buffy hadn’t blocked her blow, she would have killed him.

She held her weapon in front of her, eyes welling.  Dust-Eater had warned her.  Its song had turned discordant, almost a human scream of agony as Faith had brought it down for the killing blow, and she had ignored it.  She had ignored her and her weapon’s instincts because she had been lost in a battle frenzy.

“Buffy.”  Faith staggered, and Buffy caught her up by the elbow.

“You’re okay.  He’s okay.  It’s okay.”

Faith raised her head to stare at her, and Buffy had to swallow down her instinctive gasp.  Devastation reflected deep in Faith’s gaze, and Buffy could feel the strength of it strike her behind the breastbone like a blow.  A Slayer’s worst fear was to kill an innocent.  A human unlucky enough to get between them and the monsters that hunted the night.

“It’s okay,” Buffy whispered again, she tightened her grip on Faith’s elbow reassuringly.

Faith nodded and looked back at the man, who was awkwardly pulling himself to his feet.

“You okay?”  Faith asked, voice shaky but gathering strength.

“Yes.”  The man’s voice trembled as he bent over to gather up the files he had dropped.  Buffy scurried to help him, pausing when she saw one labeled Lurconis.

“What is this?” she asked as she flipped open the file.  The first item was an ancient scrap of supple leather.  It was yellowed and irregular in shape, the texture smooth to the touch, but it didn’t lie flat.  It curled and cracked at the edges like poorly tanned calf skin.  Symbols and writing Buffy couldn’t read were inked in red.  Touching it made Buffy’s skin crawl.  

The rest of the papers were normal printer paper, detailing a deal with the demon Lurconis to feed him infant sacrifices every thirty years.  The last page detailed his demise a few weeks prior.

The man had finished gathering the rest of the files and stood before them, still slightly out of breath from the blow he had taken.

“I’m Deputy Mayor Allan Finch.  I’ve been looking for you.”

Faith raised a brow.  Buffy continued to hold out the file accusingly.

“We don’t have much time.”  Finch glanced around at the shadows.  “Is there somewhere we can go to talk?”

Buffy and Faith shared a glance.

“Giles' apartment is closest.” Buffy conceded.

Faith grabbed Finch by the arm and dragged him along.

“You’re claiming that the Mayor of Sunnydale is going to ascend into an Old One?” Giles repeated for the second time while reading through the files Finch had provided.

“We don’t have time for this!”  Finch paced in front of the table where Giles had spread the files detailing various demon deals the Wilkins had made over the apparently hundred years of being Mayor of Sunnydale.  He kept casting agitated glances towards the door, which made Buffy and Faith antsy.

“We will make time.  Accusing the mayor of wanting to ascend and become…what did you call it?”

“The Old One Olvikan.”

“That is quite the accusation, Mr. Finch.”

“It’s not an accusation, Mr. Giles.  It’s what he is trying to do, and if we don’t get to City Hall by midnight, he’ll succeed.”

That had been the second time Finch had mentioned something happening at midnight.  Buffy glanced at the clock.  They had an hour and a half before midnight.

“I won’t let you lead my Slayer into a trap with your hard sell tactics.  I see nothing here regarding why we should rush off tonight.”

“Maybe we should call Harcourt?” Faith asked.

Giles cast her a dirty look.  “We don’t need to involve that woman in this.”

Buffy and Faith shifted.

“Look!” Finch waved his hands frantically.  “If we don’t stop the dedication, Wilkins will become invulnerable for the hundred days before the Ascension.  Nothing will be able to kill him until he takes his final form.”

“Nothing is unkillable,” Giles replied dryly.

“This isn’t natural biology.  This is magic.  An unholy benediction gifted to him by the dark lords of hell.”

Faith snorted.  Sure, they were standing right on top of a hellmouth, but she didn’t go for all that heaven hell malarkey.  Dark lords of hell, her ass.  It was just super powerful bad dudes doing bad shit.

Buffy shifted closer to the phone.  She was still mad at Harcourt.  The woman had her all twisted up.  Calling Angel her rapist.  Telling her that past Slayers had chosen vampire consorts.  Soulless vampires at that.  And supposedly, those soulless vampires had been faithful and loving to their Slayers?  What utter bullshit.  Did Harcourt expect Buffy to believe that?  That those soulless vampires stopped hunting?  Stopped killing?  Or had her sister Slayers allowed some manipulative asshole dickmatize them into letting them kill innocent people just so they could keep their lovers?

Buffy wished she hadn’t run off without her team.  She was still hesitant around them, but Lt. Collins was a steadying presence.  Like Harcourt, she was rarely ruffled.  Even when trying to train Xander, who wasn’t as excited about the hard work it took to be special forces as he had been initially.

Buffy could tell Lt. Collins’ disdain for Xander was growing, and Buffy couldn’t blame her.  His whining was getting on her nerves, too.  What did he think?  That training would be some sort of movie montage, and he would magically be badass?

Buffy glanced at the clock again.  An hour and fifteen minutes to go.  Her instincts were screaming at her to run.  To go and stop this ritual, whatever it was.

“Maybe we should just swing by City Hall and check it out,” Faith said.

Buffy nodded in agreement.

“You can’t just run off blindly.  More research needs to be done.”  Giles picked up another file.  There was a whole stack of them, some thicker than Buffy’s wrist.  It would take hours to read through.

Finch turned to the Slayers.  “Mayor Wilkins is a powerful sorcerer.  After the incursion of Belthazar’s acolytes into City Hall, he cast a Sanctuary spell on the building.”

Giles’ head snapped up.  “Who all does the spell encompass?”

“It's all inclusive.  Humans, demons, vampires.”

Giles dropped the file and removed his glasses to rub his eyes.  “That’s a very powerful spell.”

“What’s a sanctuary spell?” Buffy asked.

“A spell to prevent violence on certain premises.  If you try to do something as simple as shove another person, you’ll be redirected from the target.  If you try something more violent, you’ll be ejected from the building entirely.”

Faith and Buffy exchanged a glance.  “So if we try to kill something?” Faith asked.

“You’ll be thrown out the nearest window.” Finch offered.

“And the Mayor is in City Hall right now, doing this dedication thingy?” Buffy asked.

“Yes, you’ll have to lure him out somehow,” Finch told them.

“Or maybe the mages can do something about it,” Faith told Buffy.  Margie and Dougal had immediately cast protection wards on Buffy’s home and school as soon as they had gotten to town.  Buffy hadn’t even realized something like that was possible.  It sure would have come in handy when Darla had gotten into her house and attacked her mother.  Buffy had mentioned as much to Giles, who had hemmed and hawed, giving no real reason why he hadn’t done something similar earlier.

Buffy liked Margie. The older woman was blind as a bat with three sets of glasses dangling on beaded chains around her neck, but she knew her defensive magic. The wards she cast were darn near uncrackable.  Willow was in complete awe of her.

Buffy didn’t know what to think of Faith’s mage, Dougal.  A slight, solemn man whose shoulders bowed under an unseen weight.  Faith had confided in Buffy that she doubted how he’d stand up in a fight.  That was until Faith saw him cast miniature fireballs with such strategic expertise that not even the ground beneath his devastated targets was singed.

“That’s a good idea.  I’m going to call Harcourt and have her and the teams meet us at the park across from City Hall.”  Buffy moved towards the phone.

“Buffy, I hardly think it necessary.  We can handle this ourselves.”

“You can dispel it?” Faith asked.

Giles shifted his weight.  “Well, no.  But­–.”

“I’m calling.”  Buffy cut him off, picking up the phone.  Only Faith noticed the dark look Giles cast towards Buffy’s back.

By the time everyone assembled at the green space across from City Hall, it was half an hour until midnight.  Faith and Buffy, their teams, Harcourt, Giles, and Finch all gathered by the picnic benches.

Willow and Xander were present because they had been training with the teams when Harcourt called.

Buffy had explained the situation to Harcourt on the phone.  She, in turn, explained it to everyone else while they were in transit.

“What is the plan, Slayers?” Harcourt asked.

“Beat down some Mayor butt!” Xander bounced on his toes.  Lt. Collins shushed him, and he cast her a disgruntled look.  Everyone else ignored him.

Buffy turned to the battle mages, Margie and Dougal.  “Can you break the sanctuary spell on City Hall?”

“We need to get closer to make an examination.”  Margie tilted her head to Dougal, and they disappeared into the dark.  After a beat, Willow followed them.

“What will we do if they can’t break it?” Faith asked.  “It’s not like we can drag him out.  I’m pretty sure that’s violence.”

“I’m not sure.”

“We're running out of time.  The Mayor would have already started the ritual.”  Finch warned them.  Buffy fingered her blade.  Would Blood-Drinker be able to kill the unkillable?

“We don’t even know if what this man is saying is true.”  Giles pointed at Finch.  “You’ve allowed us no time for proper research.”

Buffy felt her stomach lurch.  What if this was some ploy?  She had heard no whisper of the Mayor being evil until now.  What if they were being maneuvered to kill an innocent man?  A glance at Faith’s taunt features told Buffy she was thinking the same thing.

“Violence can’t be committed while on the premises, but that doesn’t prevent violence from originating outside the building,”  Harcourt said.

“What does that mean?”  Buffy scrunched her brow.

Faith spun on her heel to examine the building.  The lobby was lit, but no one could be seen through the glass doors.  The next two floors were dark, but the third and fourth floors were lit up.

“We could fire bomb it from the outside.”  Faith shoved her hands into her back pockets as she spoke, rocking on her heels. Jackie, Faith's demolition expert, lit up with a proud expression that said, 'That's my girl!'

“But there could be people inside!” Buffy’s voice pitched high.

“Buffy is right.  I can’t condone such a reckless act.”  Buffy didn’t like how Giles glared at Faith, then at Harcourt.  “I am unsurprised you would advocate for such an atrocity.”

Harcourt raised a cool brow.

“We can always search the building and remove anyone inside,” offered Lt. Banks.  She had moved closer to Faith after Giles’ outburst, her expression impassive.  Buffy noticed that Lt. Collins’ expression was blank as well.  They were awaiting their orders from the respective Slayers.  Giles and his opinions were of no concern to them.

“Can you do that without violence?  I don’t think you can even grab them.”  Buffy looked at Lt. Collins, who smiled benignly.

“We can be very persuasive when we need to be.”  Lt. Banks grinned along with Lt. Collins.  Their smiles grew less benign, all flashing teeth in the darkness, reminding her of vampires.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Giles grumbled.

“We’ve wasted enough time.”  Harcourt glanced at her sleek gold watch.  “Slayers?”

Faith and Buffy exchanged a look.

“The teams go in and remove as many people as they can.  The mages try to bring down the spell.  Faith and I go in and confront the Mayor.  See if he’s up to something hinky.  All we really need to do is disrupt this ritual, right?” Buffy asked.

Finch’s expression was pinched, but he nodded.  “I don’t know if you can stop it.  It might be too late.”

“Well, we don’t know squat until we get in there,” Faith said, and Buffy nodded.  As one, the Slayers turned and trotted towards the building.

As they approached, the mages turned to them, shaking their heads.

“The spell is powerful and reinforced by Hellmouth energies.  It would take us longer than we have to break it,” Margie told them.

Behind them, Willow bounced on her toes.  “It’s all crackly.  I can feel it all over my body.”

Margie gifted her protegee with a small smile.

Faith tugged on the glass door, cracking a cocky grin when it opened.  “Think they’re expecting us?”

Buffy shrugged and followed her in.  The teams spread out behind them in search formation to clear the first floor.  A glance at the building directory showed the Mayor’s office on the fourth floor.

As the Slayers walked down the hall to the Mayor’s office, they were hit with a miasma of dread.

“Think the ritual’s started,” Faith remarked, removing Dust-Eater from its sheath.

“Mayor’s definitely evil,” Buffy added with relief.  The last few hours had been a study in the conflict between her Slayer instincts and listening to her Watcher’s rationalizations.  Time had been wasted.  Now the ritual for indestructibility had already started.  Hopefully, they could stop it.

Behind the closed double doors, it sounded like a raging tornado.  A voice screamed ancient words into the storm.

“This doesn’t sound good.”  Faith tried the doors, but they were locked.

Together, the Slayers took a step back and kicked the door.  They rebounded off with a drunken stumble.  The doors hadn’t even rattled.

“Magic.”  The Slayers said in stereo.

Buffy unsheathed Blood-Drinker, and together the Slayers attacked the doors.  The weapons should have cut the doors down, but they only succeeded in chipping the polished wood.

“This is going to take a hot minute,” muttered Faith, who swung at the door again.  Buffy took a step back and examined the portal.  The doorway was wide, but the hallway was wider.  There was about a foot and a half of wall on either side of the door.

“Hey.”  Buffy got Faith’s attention, pointing to the wall.

Faith shrugged.  “Worth a shot.”

They swung at the wall, and the plaster broke away easily.

Faith grinned widely.  “No one ever reinforces the walls.”

Buffy grinned back as they hacked their way through.

When Buffy reached in and pulled a wooden stud out of the wall, she flashed back to her first fight with Spike.  For one absurd moment, she wondered what he was doing just then.  Had he reconciled with Dru?  Were they painting the town red?  How many people were dead because she let him go not once, but twice?  Buffy shook off her dark thoughts, especially the mental image of Spike and Dru intertwined, and focused on ripping a hole in the wall large enough to crawl through.

Buffy poked her head through the wall into the other room.  It was a large office space, the furniture shoved against the walls.  In the center of the room was a large, encircled pentagram painted on the wooden floor.  In the center of the floor, a man stood, screaming into a vortex of wind swirling inside the pentagram.

Buffy squeezed through, standing to the side to let Faith in.

“What’s with evil and their wacky rituals?” Faith asked.

The man’s voice suddenly pitched high, the wind kicked up, signaling a crescendo in the ritual.  The Slayers instinctively stepped forward to stop it before it could go further.  As they reached the edge of the circle, the ground shook, nearly knocking them from their feet.

They righted themselves, watching in horror as the floor inside the pentagram broke away, falling into a dark, screaming abyss.  The man hung suspended above the yawning hole, arms stretched wide as if he were crucified on a cross.

“Fuck it!” Faith muttered right before she leapt over the abyss towards the man, Dust-Eater aimed for a blow to his chest.  Buffy grabbed at her and missed.  Even if Faith managed to strike her blow, she would end up falling into the endlessness spread below them.

As Faith brought her spiked blade down, a light flared, nearly blowing Buffy off her feet.  Above her head, Faith sailed backward through the fourth-story window with an angry scream.

Buffy ran to the window.  Faith was sprawled on the ground, unmoving.  Harcourt and Giles rushed to her.  There was a terrible scream behind Buffy, and she whipped around. 

The man’s entire body arched painfully, as if he were being pulled by an anchor at his chest.  His scream grew agonized, and Buffy watched as his skin pulled and stretched, finally tearing from his flesh, leaving behind skinless muscle and yellow tendons.  Buffy fought the urge to gag.

She made the mistake of looking the man in the face.  His teeth were large and obscenely white in his skinless face.  His eyes bulged in their sockets, white marbles painted blue in the center.  

He groaned again, and the muscle and tendons began to peel away from his bones. His eyes exploded.  His guts slid out between his legs, falling into the abyss.  Only a red skeleton was left with some sinew threading his bones together.  

His jawbone unhinged from his skull, and his phalanges and metatarsals fell into the abyss.  His fibula and tibia disconnected from his patella, humerus from his scapula.  His pelvis fell away, his ribs disconnected, his vertebrae, clattering like disks, fell one by one.

His skull cracked apart at the cranial sutures, falling away in three pieces, leaving behind the fleshy husk of a brain, tendrils of his nervous system flaying about like a demented flying jellyfish.

It pulsed with a dark aura.  Once.  Twice.  A third time, so mote it be.

Thunder cracked.  The walls shivered.  The hell beneath belched a sulfuric stench that made her eyes water.  His skull flew up from the abyss where it had fallen, silver-plated and acid-etched, and rebuilt itself around the brain.  His skeleton, etched with silver runes, rearticulated itself.

His guts, black with gore, rushed into the open cavity of his chest, weaving black lace veins around his skeleton.  White marble eyes gooshed back into their sockets with a wet popping sound.  His lower jaw reattached, his teeth chattering, like a wind-up chomping teeth toy.  

Muscles formed over his skeleton, burned with black blood sigils. A protective layer beneath the pale skin that grew back to hide the abomination that lay beneath.

The Mayor smiled back at her horror, teeth still chattering in his jovial face.  Beneath him, the floor reformed piece by piece.  

Buffy rushed forward, leaping to the next piece of flooring to rise until she was in front of the man, who was now standing on solid ground.  She brought Blood-Drinker down on his head, only to be blasted backwards and out the window.  As she fell through the night, she couldn’t take her eyes off the receding window on the fourth floor, terrified the walking abomination from hell would dive down after her with its chattering teeth.

Buffy must have lost consciousness for a minute.  When she woke, everyone was gathered around her, including Faith, who was no worse for wear.  With Faith’s help, she clambered to her feet, feeling a little woozy. 

The front door to City Hall opened, and Mayor Wilkins strolled out, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his neatly pressed chinos, a big, welcoming smile on his face.

His teeth weren’t chattering.

“I must say, Mr. Finch, I’m very disappointed in you.”

Finch cowered behind Lt. Banks.

“I had such high hopes for you, but it seems we must sever your employment.”

When the Mayor moved, so did the Slayers.  Wilkins reached Finch first, tossing Lt. Banks aside and snapping the Deputy Mayor’s neck with ease.

Finch fell, and Faith struck, Dust-Eater’s sharpened hilt stabbing the Mayor straight through the heart.  She pulled back as Buffy swung Blood-Drinker, her blade severing the Mayor’s head from his shoulders.

The Slayers stepped back, expecting the Mayor to collapse.

He chortled with glee.

The hole in his heart closed.  His head reattached without even a wobble.

The Mayor clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.  “I can see you two young ladies are going to be trouble.  What are we going to do about that?”

Buffy and Faith stepped back, their scythes held uselessly in front of them.  Their ancient weapons, imbued with earth and blood magic, had failed to kill the unkillable.  What now?  How do you kill something reassembled with parts straight from hell?

As one, the Slayers motioned to their teams to retreat.

More research was needed.

At least Giles would be happy.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer:  I don’t own or profit from BtVS.  Some dialogue from S7E15 Get It Done.

 Chapter Eleven

Faith's relocation to the Cleveland Hellmouth and Harcourt's scheduled departure back to London were postponed as the team researched the Ascension. It was agreed that it was an all-hands-on-deck situation.

Harcourt produced some ancient records from the Council vaults for review of an evil sorcerer ascending some twelve hundred years ago, written in Old Church Slavonic.

Harcourt took the Slayers aside to tell them of Sineya and Moremi’s battle with the Old One, Maloker.  She confirmed that the primordial Slayers had damaged the ancient creature, but ultimately they had to imprison it in the Deeper Well.

She also revealed that Maloker was the demon the shadowmen used to create vampires, and subsequently, Slayers.

Buffy wasn't sure how to process that information. They weren't just made from some run-of-the-mill shadow demon. They had the essence of a true demon, an Old One, running through them. Not just running through them. It was in their very DNA.

When Giles finally announced his translation to the group, Buffy and Faith appeared thoughtful.

“Well, that was like a thousand years ago.  Things change.  Maybe we can just kill the Mayor with a rocket launcher like we did the blue guy.” Xander proclaimed before biting messily into a jelly donut.  Lt. Collins glared at him.

Buffy and Faith had already considered blowing up the Mayor after his one hundred days of invulnerability lapsed, but Buffy kept coming back to one factor.  Sineya had taken on Maloker with her sister Slayer by her side, and still hadn’t been able to kill him.  

It was unclear if Sineya was at her full, unadulterated power, or if the Shadowmen's act of draining her to make another Slayer had weakened her, but the question remained. How could Buffy hope to damage an Old One with only her limited well of power, even with Faith and Blood-Drinker?

“I’ve done the calculations, and I believe Mayor Wilkins will transform on May 29th, during the solar eclipse.”  Giles continued to peruse his notes, failing to notice Willow’s gasp.

“Guys, that’s graduation day.”  Willow got out her day planner to confirm. The last Saturday in May was circled twice in pen.

Giles dropped his book on the table and retrieved his own planner from his office.  He exited while flipping to the day in question.

“The Mayor is slated to give the commencement speech.”  He muttered, putting down his planner and frantically leafing through his research.  “It says here that directly after transforming into his final form, he will need to feed on copious amounts of human flesh to solidify the change.”

“Great.  We’re the all-you-can-eat buffet.”  Xander said, licking powdered sugar off his fingers.

“At least we’ll know where to find him.”  Oz shrugged.  Lt. Collins gave him a thoughtful look before saying, “Which means we can plan, call in reinforcements, and set traps.”

“We have to warn people.  We can’t just have the students and faculty in danger,” Buffy said.

Giles removed his glasses to rub his eyes.  “But if they’re not there, the Mayor will suspect something is amiss.”

“I agree with Mr. Giles.  We don’t want to tip our hand.”

Giles shot Harcourt a shocked look at her agreement.  Harcourt ignored him.

Lt. Collins and Lt. Banks exchanged glances.  “We could inform them of the danger.  Offer to include them.  Train them,” Lt. Banks said.

“That is utterly ridiculous.  We can’t go around announcing the coming apocalypse to the student body.  It would cause a panic.” Giles shoved his glasses back on his face as if he were the final word on the subject.

“I don’t know, G.”  Faith shoved her hands in the back pocket of her jeans, somehow taking up more space than she should be allowed.  “I noticed a lot of people here live by Hellmouth rules.  Stay inside when you can.  Stay together when you can’t.”

Buffy thought about the victims she saved and how the next day, when she saw them in the halls, they'd give her a small smile of recognition before scurrying off. She had also noticed how some students would mill around the Bronze until she left, only going to their cars after she cleared the alley. It was an unspoken acknowledgment that they knew what she did. 

“I think a lot of people will be willing to fight if we tell them what’s going on.”

“Buffy, as I’ve said before.  We operate in secrecy.  You can’t do your duty in the open," Giles said carefully.

“It seems she’s been operating fairly openly since she arrived,” Harcourt said, pointedly looking at all the students gathered in the library.

Giles opened his mouth to reply, but Buffy cut him off.  “I say we go with Lt. Banks' plan.  We inform people about what’s going on.  Train them on the down low if they want it.  Gather our forces.  Make our plans to slay.”

“Now, listen here–.”

“Is Ms. Lehane in agreement?” Harcourt looked to Faith.

“Sounds like a solid plan.”  Faith grinned, turning to Buffy.  “You want to patrol?”

Buffy dragged her eyes away from Willow’s day planner.  If she wanted to increase her power, she would have to do it in the next couple of days, before the full moon waned.  If she didn’t, the opportunity would be lost to her forever.

“Sure.” They swiped up their weapons and headed out.

“When’s your birthday?” Buffy asked Faith.

Faith took a beat to answer.  “I’ll be eighteen in October.”

A vampire jack-in-the-boxed up from behind a tombstone, and Buffy beheaded him without a second glance.

“You’re going to do the ritual, aren’t you?”  Faith didn’t expect an answer.  She already knew. 

“Will you come?” Buffy asked hesitantly.

Harcourt told them of the sacred space in the desert they would need to go to perform the Spirit Walk.

Faith nodded, sweeping her blade through the tall grass that had grown at the back of the cemetery where they were walking.  “You scared?”

Buffy bent down to snatch up a buttercup and twirled it in her fingers. 

“Terrified.”

Faith plucked the flower from her sister’s fingers and tucked it behind Buffy’s ear.

“You’ll be okay.”

“Sure.  But will I be me?”

Faith didn’t reply as they walked on in the dark.

It was approximately a four-hour drive to the Mojave Desert.  Harcourt maneuvered the Range Rover off the blacktop onto a dirt road.  Eventually, that road turned into tracks, until there wasn’t even that.  In the fading light, Buffy could see the tufted Joshua Trees and yellow-flowering brittlebush.

“How do you know where we’re going, Mama?”

“I can hear it.”

When Harcourt didn’t say more, Faith and Buffy exchanged a glance.

It was full dark when Harcourt parked beside a cluster of boulders as tall as a building.  From the trunk, they gathered their packs, Buffy and Faith trotting after Harcourt before she disappeared into the night.

The moon was full, and they didn’t need any other light to navigate the desert.  Harcourt set a brutal pace, pulled relentlessly along by something the Slayers couldn’t hear.

“Think she’s going to serial kill us in the middle of nowhere?” Faith asked, not quite jokingly, as she kept her eyes on Harcourt’s straight back.

Buffy hissed for her to be quiet.  She would be mortified if Harcourt heard them, but she had to wonder herself where the hell they were going.

“Start gathering wood,” Harcourt called, and both Slayers nearly jumped out of their skins before moving to obey, gathering fallen yucca branches.

Arms full, the girls trudged along.

“Hear that?” Faith asked.

Buffy didn’t hear anything, but she felt something vibrate in her chest.  A low, incessant hum.

They maneuvered around another massive cluster of boulders to see a swath of desert stretched out before them, small shadows dotted in a continuous swirl.  On closer inspection, they were small rocks, gathered into a vortex shape, swirling into smaller circles in the middle.  The dirt was smudged into paths, as if the rocks had been rolled into place.

“Did someone build this?” Buffy asked.

Harcourt reached the innermost circle and dropped her heavy pack on the ground.  The Slayers dropped their piles of sticks and packs near it.

“Rolling rocks,” Harcourt told them.

Faith gently toed a rock with suspicion.  “Like it rolled itself?”

Buffy had to give Harcourt her due.  She didn’t roll her eyes, and she was fairly sure she wouldn’t have cleaned her glasses like Giles would have if she had them.  But Buffy had to admit, she was kinda wondering the same thing.  It wasn’t like there wasn’t precedent for weird crap happening all the time.

“The wind rolls them.”  Harcourt removed a collapsible shovel from her pack.

“Sure.”  Faith shoved her fingers in her front pockets, still frowning at the rock as if it were suspect.  Buffy frowned at her own rock.  It was sort of suspect, considering the rocks were in a perfect spiral.  Had anyone actually seen the wind roll them?

“Ms. Lehane, please dig out a fire pit.”  Harcourt handed Faith the shovel.

“What?  Why me?” 

“Ms. Summers and I must prepare.”

“Lame.” Faith reluctantly took the shovel.

“This isn’t one of those naked rituals, is it?”  Buffy had had enough of that back in the temple.  No way was she going bare-assed out in the open.

“No.”  Harcourt indicated that Buffy should sit on the ground with her as she rummaged through her pack.  She withdrew a small clay pot with a waxed stopper.

“I must anoint you.”

Buffy drew back automatically as Harcourt unstopped the pot.

“It’s juniper berry to cleanse negative energy.”  Harcourt held out the pot to Buffy.  She could smell the strong scent of woodsy pine.  When Buffy nodded, Harcourt dribbled some on her forefinger.  Slowly, she reached out and anointed Buffy with the oil between her brows.

Behind Harcourt, Faith had found the fire starter puck and lit it with a disturbingly maniacal laugh.

“Fire pretty,” muttered Buffy, watching the flames ignite.  Harcourt shook her head and pulled more things out of her bag.  First, a colorfully woven blanket was spread out, followed by unleavened bread, unpasteurized milk, and raw honey.

“Offerings to the ancestors,” Harcourt told them.

“You’d think after being dead for a couple of millennia, they’d totally dig something new.  Like chocolate.” Faith said.

“Don’t you need a gourd or something?” Buffy asked.

“A gourd?”

“I don’t know. To shake it all about?”

Harcourt did roll her eyes at that, motioning for Buffy to sit on the blanket facing the fire.

Faith, realizing she wasn’t needed, found a decent-sized rock to perch on.

“Stare into the flame.  Let all worry of the present seep away into the earth.  Empty your mind.  Focus on the heart of the flame.”

Harcourt knew the moment Buffy entered the spirit world.

She also knew Faith followed when the other Slayer pitched over and slumped to the ground.

“Well, bugger.  I didn’t expect that.”

Buffy jerked upright when she felt someone pressing into her shoulder.

“What?”  Faith jerked away from her, blinking.  The blaze had burnt down to orange embers.  The food they had set out was gone.

“Rude.  Not even a thank you.”

Faith ignored Buffy, looking around.  “Did Harcourt leave us?”

“She wouldn’t.  Would she?”  Buffy tried to remember the way back to the Range Rover.  Images of trudging through the desert until they expired from dehydration haunted her.

Two figures formed from the shadows.  A tawny lioness and russet wolf.

“I don’t think we are in Kansas anymore,” Faith muttered.

The wolf trotted over to Faith with a happy waggle of its tail, flopping onto the ground with a thump.  The large wolf rolled onto its back, looking very much like it wanted tummy rubs.

Faith happily obliged.  “Who’s a good girl?  You are.  Yes, you are.”  She rubbed the big wolf’s belly, and the canine shimmied gleefully at the attention.

Buffy looked at the sleek lioness.  The regal huntress definitely didn't want tummy rubs. She padded to the edge of the shadows, turning her large head back, staring at Buffy expectantly.

Buffy could take a hint.  She got to her feet, dusting off her jeans.  “Coming?” she asked Faith.

“Don’t think Cocoa and I are invited.”  Faith scratched her spirit animal under the chin.

“Cocoa?  Really?”  Buffy cocked a disapproving brow, but Faith only grinned back unrepentantly.  The big wolf’s tongue lolled out, just as unrepentant.

Buffy turned to follow her spirit guide when Faith called her name.

When she turned back, Faith motioned to the ground by Buffy’s feet.  When she looked down, she saw Blood-Drinker.  She picked up her weapon, twirling it expertly.

“See ya, Bitch.”  Faith called.

“Later, Ho,”  Buffy said as she followed the large cat into the dark.

They walked for ages in the desert, the full moon never moving across the sky.  Buffy never got tired, and time never seemed to end.  The lioness pressed itself into Buffy’s side as they walked, and Buffy continuously ran her hand along the lioness's sleek back as they walked towards a mountain hunched on the horizon. It jutted straight up from the desert, reminding Buffy of a lone vulture perched on a tree branch.

After centuries of walking, Buffy came to the mouth of the cave at the craggy base of the mountain.  The lioness sat gracefully, tail curled around her big paws.

“Not coming?” Buffy asked.  The lioness chuffed, turning its head to look out at the desert they had passed through.

From inside the cave, Buffy could hear chanting.  There was something sinister about it, and not for the first time, she cursed her duty. She didn’t want to be brave.  She wanted to run away and save herself, but she can't because she’s the Slayer, and she doesn’t have the privilege of saving herself.

The cave was claustrophobically small, but Buffy could feel the space of it in the shadows beyond her sight.  Three masked men stood by a fire, dressed in robes, holding wooden staffs decorated with beads and feathers. 

Cowards, she thought to herself.  Hiding their faces away, so they couldn’t be called to account.

They shook their staffs at her, speaking a language she didn’t know but understood anyway.

“We know who you are,” one man said.

“We know why you are here,” said another.

“We’ve been waiting,” said the last man.

“Neat,” Buffy muttered, looking around.  She could feel power in the room.  Not just emanating from the men, but from something else.  Something old, evil, and malevolent was all around her.  Pulsing, angry.  Wanting to claw its way inside her.

Another power held it back with a spear to the throat.  Weak, repressed, just barely doing its duty to protect. 

The men closed in on Buffy, circling her.  Something shivered through her.  Primordial dread.  An instinct to fear something that had happened to her long ago.

“We’ve been here since the beginning.” A man shook his feathered staff at her.

“We are almost at the end,” another man said as he circled her in the opposite direction.

“Not if I can help it,” said Buffy.  “Tell me about the Old Ones.”  The malevolence shook, its claws extending.  A hiss and a growl, and it receded.  Buffy turned her head toward the sound.

“We cannot give you knowledge.  Only power.”

Buffy wasn’t listening.  She was focused on the dark corner where there was a clinking of metal.  A man swung his staff towards her head, but Buffy deflected it easily with Blood-Drinker.  Slowly, she turned her head to eye the asshole who tried to strike her from behind.

“Make your choice.  Receive our power or leave.”  The man jerked his staff away.

“And how do I receive this power?”

Strands of shadows raced towards her, daring to slither across her feet.  It was cold and slimy.  Sneering, she stomped it down, and it dissipated like vampire dust.

“Accept our power or leave with nothing!”

The shadows in the corner had lessened.  Near the cave wall, a woman knelt on a hard bed of stone, her wrists lashed to the ground with chains of shadow.  More shadows slithered towards Buffy, and she lashed out with Blood-Drinker.  The mountain around her screamed.

“It must become one with you!” the Shadowman demanded.  “Drink it in and it will make you ready for the fight!”

Shadows drove forward like sharpened spears.  Buffy parried them away.

“By making me less human?” she screamed.

“This is how it was then.  How it must be now,” said one shaman.

“This is all there is,” intoned another.

"She alone will fight the darkness," the third man said.

She must make a choice.  Accept more evil into her body, the essence of the demon, and become stronger, or walk away and hope that she was enough to defeat the Old One ascending.  Was there another way?  A third choice?

From her chains, the woman watched her silently.  Her face marked with white chalk.  Her eyes dead from a millennium of imprisonment.

Sineya, the first slayer.  Chained to the earth by small, frightened men.  Forced to take evil into her body so she could birth a new warrior race to protect the cowardly men from the monsters they created with their hubris.

Buffy looked back at the men who encircled her, puffed up by their own importance.  The antecedents of the Council of Watchers who murdered Slayers for centuries just to keep control of the power they had stolen.

“You’re just men.  Pathetic.  Small.  Too weak to protect yourselves, so you took a woman who had far more power than you, and violated her.  Poured poison down her throat, enslaved her, forced her to kill for you.  You are nothing.”  She swung Blood-Drinker, its battle song singing through her veins.  Her blade struck one shaman, and he dissipated into shadow.  The others receded into the mountain.

“I don’t choose you.  I’ll never choose you.”

Buffy whirled.  Her blade flashing, and Sineya’s chains fell to the ground.  The mountain shook and roared, rocks falling from the ceiling.

“No!” the men screamed.  “What have you done?”

Sineya grabbed Buffy by the hand and pulled her towards the exit.  They sprinted from the cave, racing over the hard-packed dirt.  There was a terrible grinding of stone, and a sonic scream that threatened to make her ears bleed.

Buffy chanced a glance over her shoulder.  The mountain rose, batlike face with dripping fangs and a wingspan that cast the whole desert into shadow.  Malakor, the old one from whence all vampires had been spawned.  From whence the shadowmen had stolen magic to form Slayers.

From the belly of the beast, she saw the dark shamans race out, riding six-legged shadow beasts.

Sineya and Buffy stretched their legs and ran from their enslavers.  Beside them, generations of their sisters ran unfettered with them, some of them painted in white chalk, others in red clay, bare feet pounding on the sun-dried earth like the beat of war drums.  

These were the first Slayers, who had been free of the Shadowmen’s chains. They were wind. They were fire. They were unchecked ferocity.

Buffy stumbled.  The ground turned uneven, her heels sinking into soft clay instead of sun-hardened earth.  Before her was a sea of dark, waving tentacles.  The ground became boggy, and Buffy had to leap over muddy pools to tufts of reedy grass.

Something grabbed her ankle, and Buffy stumbled forward, her knees landing at the edge of quicksand.  Gaining her balance, Buffy turned, slashing Blood-Drinker at the threat.  

At the last moment, she turned the blade away, so it thunked into wet ground.  A sister Slayer was chained to the earth, barely keeping her head above the sucking, watery sand.  Buffy looked out at the horizon, realizing the waving tentacles were the arms of Slayers fighting to free themselves from the earth they had been chained to.

Buffy rose to her feet, slicing her blade through the thick shadow chain imprisoning the Slayer.  She took her sister’s hand, pulling her from the muck.

A screech rose from behind them.  The Shadowmen were gaining.  Buffy looked out into the bog where her fellow sisters were drowning.  She couldn’t save them all.  She leapt to the next solid ground, swinging Blood-Drinker as she went, freeing who she could.

Sineya was ahead, her own weapon, a magnificent scythe, the color of red blood and yellow bone, flashed as she freed her daughters.

At the edge of the bog, the first Slayer looked back at Buffy before raising her eyes to the sky.  A shadow passed over Buffy, and a chill raced down her spine.

They were coming.

Buffy leapt.  She swung.  Blood-Drinker sang.

Freed Slayers raced to free others.  More of her sisters escaped.  Power pulsed through Buffy’s veins.

A howl rose to her left.  The mournful cry of a death dirge.

Buffy hesitated.  Sineya was waiting for her at the edge of the bog, but Buffy couldn’t ignore the howl.  It called her to come.  To save her twin.

Buffy veered to the left.  The shadows crept closer.  Grew colder. 

At the edge of the bog, Faith struggled to pull herself to dry land.  Her wolf had her by the scruff, trying its best to pull her free, but the chains at her wrists held her down.

Blood-Drinker sang.  The chain snapped, and Faith heaved herself to dry ground with a choked gasp.

“Hurry.”  Buffy grabbed her sister by the arm, pulling her to her feet.  They didn’t have time to waste on things like breathing.

Together they raced into a dark forest.  Where before the path had been clear, it became twisted.  A maze of dead ends and false starts.

Behind them, they could hear their sisters trying to find their way through, only to hear them scream when the shadowmen overtook them.

Buffy breached a clearing where a large oak tree stood at the center.  From its branches, goodwives hung, their hands bound before them, their daughters strung up beside them, their uncovered hair streaming over their shoulders.

Buffy hesitated at the edge of the clearing.  Faith was missing, having taken her own path.  The only way forward was through.  Buffy ran beneath the branches of the hanging tree, trying not to shudder as stocking toes brushed against her cheeks.  The bodies waved in the branches, moaning like wind chimes as she passed beneath them.

Back in the woods, Buffy was more lost than ever.  There was no clear path forward, and every choice she made was blocked by brambles with thorns the size of swords.

Desperate, she dove beneath a thicket, wincing as the thorns sliced her back until she bled most all her blood onto the thirsty ground.  When she thought she could go no further, when there was no more blood left for her to bleed, a hand encircled her wrist, pulling her through to the other side.

They were in a cave.  Figures shuffled in the shadows, but she was not afraid.  Her sisters protected her from the hunters.  Sineya sat on one side of a fire, staring at Buffy through the flames.  Her sister, her mother, the first of their line, shifted forward, a small clay bowl in her hand.

Sineya dipped two fingers into the white chalk paste in the bowl.  She drew a line between Buffy's brows, where Harcourt had anointed her with oil.

Buffy swayed, feeling something crack open inside her.  A well, waiting to be filled.  Sineya coated the palms of her hands with white paste and held them towards Buffy.  She waited with the stillness of a predator.  It was Buffy’s choice to accept what Sineya offered.

Buffy leaned in, pressing her face into the cradle of Sineya’s hands, feeling her ancestral matriarch mark her with her touch.

Sineya’s lips parted, and from her throat tumbled a hundred thousand screams of Buffy’s sisters.  Buffy parted her lips and drank them down.  Their power.  Their pain.  Everything they were and could have been.  She held them safe inside her now.  They would never be hurt again.  Chained down and made to serve, from the palace of her body they reined free, and in return they blessed Buffy with all their strength.

Buffy fell backwards for the span of a thousand lifetimes.  The world tilted, cave walls scaling up into the massive night sky.  Millions of stars, far more than Buffy had ever seen in her light-polluted sky, lit up the ceiling of the world.  Buffy lay, staring into their diamond brilliance as the moon flowed from zenith to horizon.

She blinked as the radiance of the sun broke over the desert mountains.  Fresh, clean air filled her lungs as she gasped.  From behind her, she heard Faith say, “Holy fucking fuckballs!”

Buffy groaned and rolled over, knowing she was back in the present.

“I feel so light.”  Faith rolled to her knees, her hands raised before her.  Her wrists blistered from the chill of the shadow chains healed before their eyes, leaving twisted black scars.

Buffy lay in the dirt, staring at the pretty colors in the sky.  She did not feel light.  She felt dense.  Like the weight of her could sink through the layers of the earth straight to the burning core.  Her bones were heavy, her muscles reinforced. New housing built to hold power unlike anything seen in thousands of years.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer:  I don’t own or profit from BtVS

“Spike, it's your turn,” Tempestt calls.

“Sod off, I’m busy,” Spike replies from off-screen.

“Doing what?”

“Being evil!”

Tempestt sighs and stomps off-screen.

“Hands off, you bloody annoying woman!”

Tempestt drags Spike on-screen by his hair.  He jerks free, smoothing his hair back.

“Only the Slayer gets to pull my hair.”

Tempestt rolls her eyes, and points to the scene.  “Go on.”

Spike looks at the scene, then stubbornly crosses his arms.

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I’m not doing it.  There’s no Buffy.”

“You need character growth.  Now go.”

Spike notches his chin.  “I don’t need character growth.  I’m perfect.”

“Oh, for fucks sake.  If you go now, when you do have a scene with Buffy I’ll make sure you’re wearing that slutty chain she likes so much.”

Spike’s interest peaks but he doesn’t budge.

Tempestt sighs.  “And I’ll let her hit you.  Hard.”

Spike perks right up.

“Oh my God.  Are your nipples hard?”

Spike curls his tongue while sliding his hand down his chest.  Tempestt throws up her hands in disgust and Spike saunters off to do his scene.

“Such a drama-vamp.”

Chapter Twelve

Spike was eating his way through the masters of Europe when he felt Buffy’s power swell, reverberating across the world in a magnificent, unadulterated jolt of pure supremacy.  A challenge to all comers.  It would call vampires to her like moths to a flame.  Come if you dare.  Kneel or die.  Spike felt his own newly found powers flex in response.  A yearning to test and be tested.  To be found worthy.

When he walked out of Harcourt’s posh home weeks ago, he had felt disconcerted.  In his pocket, he had the names and addresses of men who needed to be eliminated to make the Slayer’s life less hellish, but all he could think about was what Harcourt had told him about Slayers and their potential for even more greatness.

Pride had bloomed in his chest.  He knew without question that Buffy was the greatest Slayer the world had ever seen. Her getting a mystical power-up was just a bonus.  She would be magnificent in all her glory.  A true goddess of the hunt.  Radiant and breath-taking, a true reflection of goodness.

But there had been a small kernel of worry.  There were vampires in the world older than the Master.  Creatures who had seen the birth and death of kingdoms, the rise and fall of entire nations.  With age, a vampire grew in power, living long enough to evolve as a species, developing unheard of abilities.

Like him, they would feel Buffy’s power.  Hear it ring across the world like a dinner bell.

Spike had spent most of the night with the watcher woman.  On Harcourt’s doorstep, he lifted his face to the sky, feeling the feeble rays of the dawning sun on his face as the cloud cover shielded him.

Unnatural cloud cover.  A vampire other than him was stalking that day, and they had the power to cover the sun to do so.

Maybe that’s why when he turned to walk down the street, he didn’t take the paper from his pocket to select his next target.  Hunting another vampire who had lived in London since it was known as Londinium wasn’t a conscious choice.  Spike was only curious to see a vampire with the power to shift the clouds in the sky.

All the supernatural world knew of Mithras, the vampire who modeled himself after a god.  He made himself at home in London in ancient Roman times and never left.  Bugger was dug in like a tick on a hound.  He didn’t hide in sewers or the slums.  Had himself a fine manor house not far from Harcourt’s digs.

Mithras didn’t hide.  He reinvented himself every couple of decades or so.  A shadow puppeteer who pulled the strings of the most powerful.  To hell with the royal family, the bloodsucker had his fangs in parliament.

Spike tracked the vampire’s miasma to his well-guarded home.  Gaining entrance would be impossible without an invitation.  The old vampire had wards that had kept him alive for centuries.

Luckily, Spike had his own proceeding reputation, the youngest vampire to become master through combat with their sworn enemy, the Slayer.  Spike was nearly a vampiric aristocrat himself, and old vampires liked to socialize with their own kind.  Liked to show themselves off as royalty.

Mithras was no different and welcomed Spike into his parlor.

Spike had gone to talk, shoot the breeze, nothing more.  Maybe get a feel for the bloke.  As any good host should, Mithras had offered Spike a refreshment, a honey-haired girl with big brown eyes.  Mithras pushed her to the ground with a possessive hand at the back of the girl’s neck.

Seeing her kneel at the monster’s feet, looking defeated and broken, waiting to die and be released from her enslavement, made something break apart inside of Spike.  A wild animal set loose on the civilized parlor with its antique tea set and Georgian-style chairs.

Mithras hadn’t been expecting it.  The ancient vampire hadn’t seen combat since swords had been carried on his hip.  He had been expecting a spot of fine dining and shared conversation. What he got was hell unleashed in his parlor.  It didn’t mean he was a pushover.  As an old master, he was faster, stronger, and trickier.  Spike only had the ferocity of youth on his side.

The battle exploded from the richly curated parlor into the marble-lined foyer.  Paintings lost in World War II were ripped from the walls.  Nearly translucent Ming vases with their cobalt underglaze and peony motifs were shattered.  They burst through the double doors into the formal dining room.  The heavy mahogany table that sat twenty burst under their weight.

Mithras had him by the neck.  Spike’s body was crushed by the repeated blows.  Bones nearly dust, organs ruptured.  Blood oozed from his ears, nose, and mouth.  Somewhere, he lost a fang.

Mithras had a table leg, a shaft of wood nearly as round as Spike’s calf.  It would make one hell of a hole in his chest, obliterating his heart out of existence. 

Buffy’s laughter echoed in Spike’s head.  Not her mocking laugh he had heard so many times, but the soft, husky chuckle he had evoked from her when he ran his fingertips down her silky skin.  Blood was salty and metallic in his mouth, but underneath, he could taste notes of vanilla and the honey he had licked up between her thighs.

Unknown strength welled up.  The strength he found in the last moments of fighting Nikki.  She had him pinned much the same way, but he had dug deep and, in the last second, turned the tables.  Spike deflected Mithras' killing blow, using the last of his strength to flip the larger vampire off of him.

Grappling the master from behind, Spike sank his last fang into Mithras' carotid.  His only thought was to take a bite and heal his wounds so he could keep fighting. 

Rich blood, unlike anything he had ever tasted, flowed down his throat.  Mithras roared, bucking like a wild beast, trying to throw him off.  He ran Spike into walls, against marble busts of ancient rulers of kingdoms lost, against a glass curio cabinet full of religious artifacts.

Spike’s skin burned where he touched the divine, but he didn’t loosen his grip.  He held on as if his life depended on it.  As if Buffy’s freedom depended on it.  All the while sucking down the magical elixir in the master’s veins.

Exchanging blood with another vampire was the ultimate intimate act, only to be done with family or those explicitly trusted.

Feeding from another vampire, draining them like they were nothing more than human cattle, a victim to be used and discarded was the ultimate taboo.

Spike rode Mithras to the ground as the master’s strength failed him.  Lay upon him in a lover’s way as he withered beneath Spike.

Mithras lost his heft, his mass.  His body hollowing out in Spike’s arms.

Still, Spike drank.  Fighting against the rising instinct to detach from the older vampire before he committed the ultimate treasonous act and killed his brethren through feeding. His body could only intake so much. His stomach uncomfortably bloated, his veins singing like never before.  

He hadn’t even drunk down the Chinese Slayer so thoroughly.  The more Spike drank, the more it felt like his skin would split open like a butterfly's chrysalis, unleashing something new onto the world.

The power of it sang in his veins.

Mithras collapsed beneath him.  Dust then bone.  Spike rolled away, panting.  His wounds were healed, his entire body thrumming.  Eyes wide, he watched colors dance.

When the high faded, Spike clambered to his feet.  No servants had come running.  No faithful minions challenged him.  The manor was hauntingly empty.  Everyone had fled as soon as their chains had broken with their master’s death.

In the parlor, Spike found the broken body of the girl, a casualty from the battle.  Spike didn’t even remember her dying, nor did he care.  She had been his impetus but not core cause, something Spike didn’t want to examine further.

At nightfall, he stumbled from the manor house, pockets stuffed full of stolen treasures that would fetch millions of pounds.  He pulled Harcourt’s list from his pocket and began to hunt.

 ~****~

Watchers dead and his business with the Council concluded, Spike fled to France.  He had no destination in mind.  Only a passing fancy to hunt down Dru and torture her into loving him again.  He didn’t think of the Slayer or his part in changing her life.  His actions weren’t in service to her, he told himself.  With strong support from the Council, Slayers would grow into magnificent opponents, true warriors to challenge.  Though he could imagine no greater Slayer than Buffy Summers.

He reread the slim volume he had obtained from Harcourt every night. Drank in the tragic tale of the Slayer and her vampire lover.

In Paris, Spike could feel a miasma beneath his feet.  An ancient scavenger who had lived in the catacombs since the first Black Death.  Every vampire who passed the time in Paris could feel its malevolence pulsing beneath them, but they scarcely worried.  The monster never left its necropolis.

When Buffy’s power rang across the world, would the monster feel motivated to venture topside?  Seek out the delicious hum of a powerful Slayer?

Spike wanted to know.  He braved the darkest corners of the catacombs just to ask.  That’s all he intended.  Nothing more than to ask.  The vampire, blind from centuries of hunting in the dark, scaled the bone walls like a spider.  It had no speech.  No reason.  Only hunger.

Though the scavenger was younger than Mithras, it was harder to kill.  It had no civilization running through its black blood.  No hint of humanity.  It was teeth sharpened on bones and claws yellowed with age.  Hunger and death were all it knew.

When Spike drained it dry, he tasted the underworld.  The heaviness of the grave dirt about his head.  The empty spaces beneath.  Darkness and rot in hollows too deep for anything to grow other than the decay spreading across the dead.

Spike left Paris with strength running through his veins. He could feel the lazy stretch of it in his muscles.  He could feel the supernatural world in a way he hadn’t had access to before.  A young master, he had been able to feel when another vampire was near, much like he had tracked Kralik in that Council house of horrors.

The Slayer had cajoled him into helping.  Had bargained her body for the life of her mother.  But she hardly needed his help.  Poisoned, her strength stripped by the one she trusted the most, she still had persevered.  She had put down Kralik like the mad dog he had been.

Now, after consuming the rich blood of ancients, he could sense his brethren from afar, lighting up like fireflies across the globe.

Dru was in Brazil.  A red flash of obsessive passion, bloodlust, and insanity.  Passing through the Spanish countryside, Spike briefly thought of traveling to Portugal and boarding a cruise ship out of Lisbon.  Rich food, mindless entertainment, and drunken women looking for forbidden lovers, because sex on vacation didn’t count.  A decadent way to while away the time as he traveled to his princess.

Africa sang to him.  A master in Cairo.  Old enough to have seen the construction of the Sphinx.  Spike wondered why vampires tended to stay in their home regions, rarely venturing out.  If he grew old enough, would he eventually settle in London?  Take Mithras’ place as master?

He arrived near sunrise and secured a suite at St. Regis, one of the poshest hotels in Cairo.  As the sun rose, Spike couldn’t settle.  He had always been an unusually active vampire during the day, but it seemed he didn’t need as much sleep as he used to.  

Didn’t need as much blood either.  He hadn’t eaten since Spain.  A dusky-skinned boy easily lured into the shadows.  Spike hadn’t killed him.  Not because he cared, but because he had been satisfied after a few sips.  Blood filled him like it had never before.  The incessant hunger that had gnawed at him since he crawled from his own grave had lessened until it was barely an echo.

Spike clocked these changes and thought it was aftershocks of consuming ancient blood.  Like Slayer blood, it satiated in a way that mortal blood could not.  It wasn’t until Spike was glaring from the shadows of his room at the desert sunshine that trapped him, and clouds rolled across the bright, blue sky, that he thought there might be more to it.

Old Cairo was a labyrinth of narrow streets and dead-end alleys, dense with artisan shops, souks with covered passages, and sudden courtyards.  Spike had always been able to intuit underground passages and traverse labyrinths with ease, but it had been limited to the range of his senses.  Now Spike could sense it all.  The twists and turns of the streets were as familiar to him as if he had lived there a thousand years and walked them when the first cobblestones were laid.  

The unknown hollows beneath the city were also known to him, along with the denizens who lived within them.  Nothing was hidden from Spike’s senses as he hunted the near-rotted master, who was a legend among the natives who lived in the old city.  The monster who hunted them when the moon was at its darkest.

Spike fought him.  Consumed him to dust.  Learned to trace shadows from him.  

Retiring to his room, Spike lay back on the plush bed with its Egyptian cotton sheets.  He didn’t see the green silk canopy above his head.  Instead, he turned his gaze inward, prodding the new senses that had been formed inside him.  These abilities weren’t newborn–something that needed to be grown into as he aged.  They were as ancient as the masters he had stolen them from.

From Mithras, he had stolen the ability to control the weather.  From the scavenger, the ability to navigate the unseen.  From the rotted mummy of Cairo, the ability to slide into one shadow and step out of another.

With every battle, he grew stronger, faster.  Hunger didn’t torment him.  Sleep was elusive.

But his passion for life was slipping away.  He no longer killed for the joy of it.  He gained no thrill from the hunt—no shiver of delight from terrified screams.

 Worse, the harsh pounding of drums and the riff of guitar strings no longer stirred the blood in his veins.  Even his passion for Dru had waned.  Humanity exchanged for power.  Everything that made life worth living was lost in favor of enhanced immortality.  It hardly seemed a fair trade.

He could sense Dru in the middle of the Atlantic.  Perhaps, she was seeking him out for once.  A novel idea that failed to stir him. 

He idly thought of traveling to Rome, but the Immortal’s power was seduction, hardly something Spike needed or wanted.  Spike poked at the old rivalry he once felt for the other vampire, but it barely roused.  It no longer had any importance.

Spike could sense Dracula somewhere in the Carpathians, but that hardly inspired action.  Dracula was fairly young. His magics were only parlor tricks.  Spike supposed he could gain some magical acuity if he drank the old sod down, but magic had consequences that Spike was disinclined to chance.

Nothing inspired him.  Not even the beacon of corrupted light from Prague, the archbishop turned vampire in the time of Charles IV, was the reason Dru had been nearly murdered by a mob.  The bat-faced bastard had wanted Dru spread out beneath him. To feed or to fuck was unclear.  Dru had twittered in her fey way that was neither agreement nor rejection.  Spike had chosen to see it as a rejection; the religious zealot had not.

Spike should feel some sense of vengeance.  The bastard had brought down hell on their heads, rendering Dru mortally injured and driving them to the Hellmouth for the cure.

The place that had seen some spectacular kicking of Spike’s ass.  Yet, he felt nothing.  Nothing until he thought of the Slayer.  Her radiance as she danced.  The glory of her roundhouse kick to his face.  Her determination to win against all the odds, to save the world, friends, and family, but never herself. 

She had bartered herself to save her mother, putting herself dead last as always.

If she accepted the powerup that Harcourt had hinted at, she undoubtedly would be glorious, but would she be happy?  Would she allow herself to be further removed from her loved ones?  And what of the challenges?  Spike knew she’d kick masters like the Immortal and Dracula back to whatever holes they crawled out of, but what of the old ones?  The masters who had lived since time immemorial?  Would they travel to her?  Challenge her?  Die by her hand or would she kneel by theirs?

Spike could feel them pulsing.  One in Greece.  Another in the Russian steppes.  Another on an island in Malaysia.  Old powers that pulsed with pure malevolence.  Could the Slayer take them with no one at her back?

Spike knew instinctively he couldn’t.  Even with all his stolen powers, he had nothing on the ancient ones.  How powerful would Buffy be if she chose to ascend?

Harcourt said results could vary.  Some Slayers were unchanged, and many gained a limited amount of power.  Only a handful left the Spirit Realm with untold power.  He had no doubt Buffy would be that Slayer, but would it be enough?  Did it even matter to him?  It would be her battles to fight.  He would never dream of trying to usurp her power.  But, God, would he love to see it.  Witness her in all her glory.  Mayhap stand at her side.  Bask in her light.  Her goodness.

It was good he was lying down, because the surge of Slayer power he felt in that moment would have knocked him off his feet.  Electricity danced along his skin, and for a split second, he thought he felt his heart beat in resonance with the hum of power.  She had done it.  Of course, she had.  She had gone into the spirit realm as a Slayer and walked out a goddess.  She was the greatest Slayer to ever live.

He could feel her power.  A golden pulse in Southern California, burning so brightly it called to him like a moth to the flame.  It was all he could do not to fly to her side so he could bask in the glow of her.

Spike snapped upright, glaring down at his erection, only to realize it had been weeks since he had gotten excited.  While killing off the Watchers, he had masturbated plenty during his downtime, usually to reminisces of his night spent with Buffy, but since Paris, he hadn’t felt a drop of sexual drive.

The old blood in his veins was too thick and lethargic to flow the way it should.  Powerful, yes, but it was eating all the joy from his unlife, turning him into unfeeling stone.

Spike lay back on the bed, wrapping his hand around his hardened dick.  In his mind, Dru was a bright spot of red, steadily moving closer to him.  Maybe he would go to Prague.  Say his hellos to the Bishop.  Eat the wanker good and proper, and make the city safe for his ladylove again while he waits for her.

There were a few others he could visit on the way.  Old ticks, puffed up on their own importance, who would take the Slayer’s surge of power as a challenge.  Spike would challenge them first, lay waste to them. The Slayer needn’t expend her energy on some lesser sods.  There were greater challenges, more deadly ones she would need to focus on.  Spike would just clear the field for her a bit.

Spike came with the memory of Buffy's moans ringing in his ears and the scent of her cum in his snout.