Champions

Buffy waited impatiently at the luggage carousel. She had always hated the LAX airport, with its idiotic arrangement. Ordered chaos was not on idea that Buffy thought was particularly effective. People milled around aimlessly, picking up bags that weren’t theirs, and tossing them back with little regard as to what might have been in them. She watched carefully for her’s and Willow’s bags, silently urging the witch to hurry back. She had stolen off into a darkened terminal which had been closed for construction so that she could do a quick locator spell. They couldn’t be sure that either Spike or Angel would be at the Wolfram and Hart offices, and both had felt uneasy about going into that building if they didn’t have to.

At long last, she saw their bags approaching. She sighed with relief, thanking god that they had not been lost. For someone who faced unspeakable evils and menacing demons on almost a daily basis, Buffy was amazingly afraid of such mundane things as lost luggage. Impatiently, she watched the bags draw nearer, tapping her foot in an agitated manner.

Willow moved quietly to Buffy’s side. The witch looked extremely tired, and Buffy’s mind boggled as she attempted to pin down just how much jet lag Willow was actually dealing with. However, the young woman’s face lit with her usual smile as she looked at her friend.

“We have success,” she said brightly. “I was a little surprised, to tell ya the truth, considering how Wolfram and Hart tend to make my spells go all ka-flooey.” She reached down and helped Buffy wrestle their bags off the carousel. “But I found them.”

“Good,” Buffy said, a worry line creasing her forehead. “The sooner we get there, the better I’ll feel.”

Willow gave her a knowing smile. “I know you will. Let’s get going.”


* * *

Illyria paced the living room. She hated being trapped inside. The vampires couldn’t go out during the day, but she certainly could. However, as soon as she had arrived back at the apartment in the early hours of the mourning, a watch system had been set up. One look at Spike had told her all she needed to know. Vampiric healing was fast, but not fast enough. Now, as the afternoon crept on, he and Angel slept in their respective rooms while Illyria kept watch.

Angel was not, however, asleep. Silently, he watched Illyria. She did not watch TV. She did not eat. She did nothing but pace and occasionally sit stiffly on the soft couch. Not for the first time, he wondered why she stayed. He did not make his aversion of her as secret. She was a valuable fighter, to be sure. But when he looked at her, all he saw was the lost little girl she had destroyed. Spike treated her, for the most part, as if nothing had happened, and Angel hated him for it. He cheapened Fred’s death with every word he spoke to her. Truly, there was no part of Angel’s life that Spike didn’t have the power to pollute.

A knock echoed through the silent apartment, making Angel jump. He had not heard anyone approaching. Gripping a sword which he kept beside the door, he stepped quietly into the room. Illyria had turned towards the door as though she did not know what to do next, and Angel signaled her quickly to remain silent. Step by painstaking step, he inched toward the door. His nerves frayed as the knocking sounded again. The rational part of his mind told him that anyone who was there to kill them wouldn’t knock, but he didn’t want to take any chances. His muscles shook with anticipation as he drew level with the door. Placing his free hand on the cool wood, he leaned in and peered through the peephole.

Angel gasped and dropped the sword with a loud clank. He nearly ripped the door off its hinges as he struggled to pull it open.

Buffy smiled at him, sweetly. She had become such a beautiful woman, and yet something of the childhood innocence she had once clung to so fiercely remained in that smile. Willow bobbed nervously behind her friend, loathe to intrude on the meeting which she knew was going to be hard for both sides.

“Hello, Angel,” Buffy said quietly.

“Buffy…” he whispered softly. He opened his arms and she came into them, filling his world with the sweet vanilla scent that he had so missed over the years. His mind replayed their last meeting over and over again, but he didn’t dare hope she had at last come back to him. Not yet. “I thought you were in Rome…”

“I was, but I’m here now.” She leaned back to look at him and smiled again.

“You heard then?” he asked, seriously.

Her face darkened, and an unnamable fear flickered in her eyes. “Heard what?”

“You haven’t…” Suddenly, all the danger they had existed in for so long came flooding back, and he cursed himself for letting his guard down. “You better come inside,” he said quietly.

“Where’s Spike?” she asked, her spine stiffening in his grasp, as though she expected a sudden blow. Angel’s heart sand as understanding rushed through him. He held onto her for a moment longer, looking at just one more thing Spike had taken from him.

“It’s okay,” he said, no longer able to meet her eyes. “He’s asleep.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of Spike’s room, and let his other hand fall from her small frame. “He can explain everything just as easily as I can, I guess.” Inside, Angel was smoldering, but he’d be damned if he’d let her see it. Not after how she had chastised him at their last meeting. She had treated him like a child. He would show her that he was a man.

Buffy hardly looked at him, ignoring, or perhaps refusing to recognize his inner turmoil. Her focus had shifted entirely to the door of Spike’s room. Behind her, Willow’s heart twinged at the look on Angel’s face. In her mind, she remembered watching the man she had once loved…watching another woman. Thoughts of Oz would always hurt, and she knew, for Angel, thoughts of Buff were the same. How he was going to survive this little visit, Willow wasn’t sure.

“Thank you,” Buffy said vaguely and moved slowly away from Angel, in the direction of Spike’s room. With slow, deliberate steps, she increased the distance between herself and her former lover both literally and figuratively. Angel’s face was contorted in pain.

A light hand dropped onto his shoulder. “You can tell me what’s been going on,” Willow offered feebly. She tested a smile, and Angel returned it, weakly.


* * *

The door creaked ever so slightly on its hinges as Buffy pushed it open. A small triangle of light flooded into the darkness, but did little to dispel the gloom. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light and she saw him. He lay asleep, on his stomach, strewn across the bed with blankets in heaps all around him. He was fully dressed. He even wore his boots, and Buffy got the impression that he had fallen directly into bed and gone instantly to sleep. What could have happened to exhaust him so?

As quietly as she could, she closed the door behind her. Slipping off her shoes, she padded silently across the room. For a long moment, she stared at his sleeping form. She had long ago grown accustomed to the sight of his stillness. When he slept, he did not breathe…he looked more like a corpse than at any other time. But it was part of who he was, and she knew that she did not want him to change, even in so small a way.

She still wore her sweatpants and t-shirt and, for a moment, she wondered why she hadn’t taken the time to change or even freshen up. But she knew she was looking at the answer. She had been so anxious to see him, but, not that she was here, she hesitated. Closing her eyes, she saw him surrounded by light, with the flames licking his flesh and she cringed. Letting the memory of that sight go was going to difficult, but she knew where to start.

With practiced grace, Buffy slid into bed beside him. The smell that was uniquely Spike washed over her; the smell of cigarettes and leather, and that earthy vampire musk. She breathed deeply, telling herself it was real. His face was turned away from her, but the rowdy curls on the back of his head proved too much of a temptation. With shaking fingers, she touched the soft locks.

He jerked suddenly and violently away from her touch. He sprang up, supporting his weight on one arm while the other drew a long knife from underneath his pillow. The point was aimed at her throat, but she hardly saw it. Her eyes locked on his face and didn’t waver. The shocked expression he wore was something she had expected. But the bruising…the dried blood…

Gingerly, she raised her hand to his face. Light fingers traced the severe angles of his cheeks. They floated over the worst of his injuries before settling, with gentle pressure on the line of his jaw. The point of the blade shook slightly, betraying the trembling hand that held it.

“Spike…” Buffy said softly.

“Spike’s face hardened and the weapon steadied. “It’s a trick,” he said fiercely. He violently threw her hand aside and pushed her down, pinning her to the bed, the knife held high. His voice came out in a harsh rasp. “You think I’m a fool?!”

No fear entered Buffy’s eyes. No slight flinch betrayed her inner confusion. She merely started up at him with large, unblinking eyes, and waited. Long moments passed as they stared at each other, each one weighing the danger of the situation. Slowly, and with seemingly great reluctance, Spike lowered his weapon.

“You’re not her,’ he said quietly. “But I can think of worse ways to die.” He sat back on his knees, spreading his arms wide. “Well? Go on then.”

Buffy rose into a halfway sitting position. She looked as though she were about to cry.

“Oh, spare me your bleeding heart, Luv,” he scoffed nastily. “I know what you’re here for and I’m ready.” His eyebrows rose and he smirked. “I won’t even yell.”

“Spike,” Buffy whispered, doing her best to keep the quaver from her voice. “What happened to you?”

“Oh, so that’s it, is it?” His arms dropped to his sides. “Fine, I’ll play. Nearly died today.” His hands groped towards his chest and, for the first time, Buffy noticed the deep puncture wound which still bled slowly.

“But you didn’t die…” Buffy said, her confusion forcing an annoyed lilt into her voice. “Why are you so ready to now?”

“If you’d come wearing any other face,’ He said slowly, “I might have fought you.” He sank back down onto the bed in a defeated manner. “But you came as her.” He looked at her pleadingly, as if that should explain everything.

At last, Buffy understood. Whatever had attacked him had nearly won, but he had fought back. HE had wanted to live. But seeing her, he had given up. He had convinced himself so totally that she would never come to him that he couldn’t possibly believe it was really her. And that knowledge had broken him. It had taken away his only hope in living. Buffy silently cursed herself for being so selfish. Slowly, she leaned over him, placing a hand near the wound that had nearly killed him.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered. Faintly, she recalled another man, in another time, to whom she had quietly spoke those words. But, as Spike’s eyelids dropped to cover the piercing blue of his gaze, Buffy knew that this would be a beginning, and not an end. As she leaned closer, she felt the muscles of his body tense, waiting for the killing blow.

Spike took an unnecessary breath as he felt her draw near. The smell of her surrounded him, and a rebellious lock of soft, blonde hair trailed lightly across his cheek. If this was his moment to die, then he considered it a mercy from the Powers That Be that his end would come in the arms of the woman he loved. Just for this, his last moment, he could pretend it was really her. He felt his heart fill up with the feeling of having her near him, and saw in his mind the look on her face when she’d told him she loved him. Silently, he begged her to say those words again, so that they might be the last sound he heard.

The feel of her lips on his snapped him to attention. His eyes flew open and he pulled away from her, a confused, questioning look on his face.

“Buffy?” he asked, quietly, actually daring to believe for the first time.

“I’m here,” she replied, curving her body around his. She was careful not to put any pressure on the wounds she could see, but worried mightily about the ones she could not. Mostly, she reveled in the feel of his body next to hers once more. She had always thought they fit well together, physically. Now, she knew they fit emotionally and mentally as well. His very presence made her hear leap and her head spin. Slowly, his hand rose to her cheek, and his cool fingers traced lightly across her skin.

“You’re here…” There was a hitch in his voice and a look of quiet disbelief in his eyes. “You’re really here…” He drew her closer, never letting his eyes leave hers. This time, when their lips met, he kissed her back.