***************************************

Part 3: Waking

He drove for a day and a night. He and Dawn were both too wired to sleep so he funneled the nervous energy into making tracks from Sunnydale. God, he would emphatically not miss that town.

Dawn was stiff and still in the passenger seat for the first few hours. He couldn’t blame her; he felt ill at ease himself and it wasn’t a sensation he’d had very often in the last century. Not since the late, unlamented William, at least. Since then he’d felt terror, confusion, gleeful rage, humiliation (in the form of a stupid emasculating hateful blighted chip in his head), a second heaping of humiliation that made the first serving seem like apple cobbler (in the form of un-asked for, unrequited infatuation with the bleeding Vampire Slayer, of all women), intense, all-consuming love (see second heaping of humiliation, previous), mind-numbing grief, cautious elation, passion that brought down walls and bruised even the stolid strength of a crypt, and heartbreak all the more painful for its inevitability.

But awkwardness was a new one.

“Angel,” Dawn said abruptly.

Spike frowned. What, was he going to have to compete with the poof for the rest of his years? Even now, even as he spirited her away from the horror that Buffy would have visited upon her, all Dawn could think of was Angel. He wondered what kind of monk-memories those two had of each other. Oh, she’d probably swooned over him as a child, with his martyrdom and Neanderthal build and noble love for her sister. Fine, then.

“You want me to take you to Angel?” He tried to keep his voice steady. Who was he to begrudge her this, if it would give her comfort?

Dawn stared at him like he was wearing his fangs on the outside. “No,” she said. “We need to call him. Or something. If she’s on the warpath, he’ll be her next stop. L.A.’s within driving distance, even for someone as road-impaired as Buffy. Hell, maybe whatever’s inside her made her a better driver.”

For a moment Spike was speechless. She sounded so…cold? No, because he could hear the agony behind her words, could sense the herculean effort not to break down again, maybe forever this time. She sounded…authoritative. Strong and clinically blunt because nothing less would penetrate either of their grief-addled brains.

Like Buffy during the Glory Days.

He reached over the DeSoto’s wide bench seat and gave her hand a tentative squeeze. “Right then. We’ll pull off at the next exit.”

They ended up calling not only Angel, but Giles as well. That, at Spike’s insistence.

They stood edgily outside a Carl’s Jr. two hundred miles from Sunnydale, and far too close for Spike’s tastes. The always well-meaning Joyce had provided her younger daughter with a calling card in case of emergencies, and Spike figured this qualified. Although he was momentarily distracted by the thought of walking up to the fast-food counter and requesting eleven dollars in quarters so that he could make a pay phone call overseas. Or they could just call Giles collect, and wouldn’t that chap the old man’s hide?

Well, once he heard about Buffy, maybe not so much.

He took a long, desperate drag off his cigarette before Dawn thrust her gaily-colored backpack at him. He rifled through it for Giles’ number in London while Dawn dialed information and asked for Angel Investigations, Hollywood.

His Sire had been disbelieving, accusing, and for the remainder of the conversation, monosyllabic. Spike lost patience almost immediately, feeling he’d done his duty, and handed the phone to Dawn. She assured Angel that she was uninjured and in Spike’s company by choice. The rest of her side of the conversation had been short and cryptic, but Spike suspected that Angel had been pressuring her to ditch his progeny at the first opportunity. Under Spike’s rapidly darkening glower, Dawn said her hasty goodbyes and hung up. Then he’d handed her Giles’ number.

At least the Watcher took the news like more of a man, in Spike’s opinion. Spike knew beyond a doubt that there was some repressed British emoting going on the other end of the line – he’d witnessed enough of it in his abbreviated lifetime to recognize the signs from four thousand miles away – but Giles remained fairly composed. He demanded to know where Spike and Dawn were headed, but Spike was implacable in his refusal to tell him. He promised periodic updates, and eventually Giles acquiesced. He had precious few alternatives, didn’t he? With Dawn’s help, Spike described the events in Sunnydale, and Buffy’s…condition…in as much detail as possible. Giles assured them he would investigate the cause but he didn’t sound optimistic.

“The myriad influences she could have been exposed to, from – from the supernatural to the seemingly banal – are simply too numerous to document. Good God, man, even if we could account for each of the last forty-eight hours before Buffy exhibited this psychosis, we still –"

“Rupert,” Spike interrupted. “Domestic dime, here, mate. Me ‘n’ the Bit, we’ll be in touch.” He replaced the phone in its cradle and then they were back on the blacktop.

***************************************

Xander woke first.

His first thought was the same one he had had for the last two weeks: OhmyGod! I left Anya at the altar! The panic at that realization would surge like the tide and then recede, and he would start another day.

This time, though, there was no relief after the memory of his non-wedding faded. Instead, just a sense of familiar, growing dread, and the promise of something even worse than his most recent screwup. Something bad…

The struggle toward full consciousness was a long, arduous one. Pain waited on the other side of the curtain, of that he was sure, and he briefly considered slipping back into oblivion.

But the screams – Willow’s shrieks of terror, Tara’s wordless pleas for mercy – they echoed in his head even now. And above all that cacaphony was laughter that he didn’t want to recognize, but did.

His eyes felt like someone had caulked them shut, and when he he finally pried them open the harsh white light of the room sent lightning bolts of agony through his body. He manfully supressed a groan, then realized there was no one nearby to notice. He let loose like a girl.

Speaking of girls…he had misplaced a few, hadn’t he?

Xander looked around. Hospital. Yeah, he’d run this play before. Harris gets his pansy ass whipped again, in a vain attempt to help the utterly not-needing-of-his-help Buffy –

And then it all came roaring back, and he felt suddenly, violently ill.

He lay there for a moment, replaying the scene in his head. Buffy had phoned, insisting that they all meet at the Magic Box. Like, now, she’d finished shrilly, and he’d shrugged on his jacket and gone. If Buffy asked him to jump…

On the way, he’d seen Tara waiting on the corner of Waverly and Seventh and pulled over, asking if he could drop her somewhere. Turned out they were headed the same place – Buffy had called her as well. And Willow had been in the shop when they arrived.

Thank God, Xander thought dully, that it had been closed since the wedding that wasn’t. The Scoobies were alone.

Defenseless.

Buffy had breezed in, with her usual air of determination and ass-kicking sexiness. A small part of Xander would always pine after Buffy, despite time and maturity and Significant Others and…

…And what happened next.

He couldn’t think about it. He just couldn’t. He’d always been the weak one, hadn’t he? No one had made any bones about that, least of all him. He closed his eyes and his mind against the images of blood, of wide, arcing swoops of a sharp and shining blade. Of himself going down first, because as a man he was the physically strongest of the three. Tara and Willow were skilled witches, and therefore formidable in their own right, but they would need time to align their powers against Buffy. They would not be able to join forces in time to restrain her, and Buffy knew that.

Because she was their friend.

He’d watched from the floor as Willow dropped to her knees, still pleading with Buffy to tell her what was wrong, what had happened. A split-second later Tara had fallen alongside her erstwhile lover. Crimson stains spread along a jumble of peasant blouses and soft feminine flesh.

The scrape of a match, that awful rattle of laughter that seemed to assault his ears even now. Then blackness.

And now here was at Sunnydale Memorial, if he recognized that particular reviled shade of green that adorned the walls of the room. Xander swallowed nervously, summoned up all the courage lurking inside him and attempted to wiggle his fingers and toes.

Success. His digits, at least, were intact.

Time for a more thorough assessment of the damage. Almost unwillingly, he began to lift the thin, overwashed cotton sheet that covered him –

And it was time for another girly scream. His arms were swathed in bandages, wrist to bicep. Idiot.

“Defensive wounds,” said a voice from the doorway.

His head jerked up at the sound, and he stared in stunned bewilderment. “Anya?”

“On your arms. The doctors said they were defensive wounds. All those years I gave them, and I never knew they had a name.”

“Anya…” Xander couldn’t seem to gather his thoughts. “You look good,” he said finally. She looked great, although perhaps that was just the two weeks of separation talking. She was fresh and clean and fully dressed, and so had Xander beat on three fronts.

She strode across the room and opened the curtains with a ruthless vigor, ignoring Xander’s whimper as the room was flooded with sunlight.

“Willow? Tara?”

“Willow woke up a little while ago. Tara…hasn’t. She’s in the Critical Care Unit. The doctors say it’s too early to tell if she’ll recover. They say there’s always hope.” Her eyes suddenly fixed on his. “Is that true? Is there always hope?”

“An…”

“Because I don’t think they should just lead people on, if there isn’t.” Her voice was thready and a little too strident as she walked around the room, purposefully studying the bland prints and plastic furniture.

“I think they should just be honest, and say that there are some things you just can’t recover from.” Suddenly running out of steam, she sank down in the chair next to his bed. She scratched at the unfortunate orange vinyl upholstery, and didn’t look at Xander.

“How…” Xander shut his eyes briefly. Too many possible endings to that question. He settled on the one at the forefront of his mind. “How did you find us?”

At that she did look up, and there was a flash of the old Anya. “How did I find you? You were in my store.”

Technically not true, but they’d had that conversation before with decidedly mixed results. He did not feel up to tackling the issue again.

“I know, An, but the shop’s been closed since…you know. I’ve been by, looking for you.”

“Of course you have. Why do you think I closed it? But my presence has still been required. We have customers overseas, shipments arriving every day. Retail is a demanding vocation, Xander.”

“So you’ve told me. And I thought I told you that you shouldn’t go to the shop by yourself at night. It’s not safe.” The words were out of his mouth before the irony sunk in.

Anya didn’t seem to notice. “Did you see what they did to the place?” she asked, and there was something too terribly heartbroken in her question. “It’s all burned up.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could have stopped it.” And he did, if only to remove that sorrow from her face.

“I know I shouldn’t be sad, because there’s too much to be sad about already, but Xander…I worked so hard at it.”

“I know, sweetie.”

She swiped at her eyes. “I should go. There are policemen here, they want to speak to you.”

Panic rose in his chest. What the hell was he going to say? “I – I’d really like to talk to Willow first. If she’s up to it.”

Anya regarded him steadily. Apparently a thousand years observing human nature counted for something. Or maybe she just knew his ‘Oh, shit, what do I do now’ face, because she seemed to understand his dilemma.

“Willow’s already told them she doesn’t remember anything. In case you were wondering.”

“Uh, yeah. I was. Thanks. Anya!”

She turned, hand on the doorknob.

“Will – When will I see you again?”

She seemed to give this some thought. “The next time you get stabbed, burned and knocked unconscious, I suppose.”

He mustered a smile. “So, next week, then?”

She gave him a little half-wave and walked out the door. She never asked about Buffy, he thought, before closing his eyes again.

Part 4: Sleeping

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