Note: Thanks and blame go to Godiva for the Bloody Awful Limerick.

Chapter 3: Wednesday, Everyone Has Issues

Dear Buffy,

I finally got Cordy to go away. I don’t want to talk to her or anyone. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of pretending I’m okay. I’m sick of feeling this way all the time. Why can’t they just leave me alone?

Why did you have to die? I didn’t ask you to take a dive for me. I would have done it, you know. Maybe I’d have liked being dead better than being like this. It hurts all the time, and it’s not going to get better. Everyone says it will, but they don’t know. They don’t know anything.

You died. You killed yourself. You left me alone, feeling like this. It hurts, Buffy. You died, and you don’t hurt anymore, but I do. I have nightmares, and I’m scared, and you can’t protect me anymore. Why didn’t you let me die? I’m not even real! I can’t live like this! I can’t be brave! Why did you ask me to? I hate you! I hate, hate, HATE YOU!!!!

A tear splashed on the page.

I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I love you, Buffy. I miss you so much I think I’ll die.

***

"We’ve got big problems," Cordelia informed Wesley when he came in at noon.

"Something evil?" asked Rebecca hopefully.

"No, something young and angry." Cordelia turned back to Wesley. "Dawn didn’t get up this morning. She hasn’t eaten breakfast, even. And when I tried to get her up, she used some words I think she learned from Spike."

Gunn joined the group. "I tried to talk to her, too. No dice."

"Furthermore, Angel’s up in the penthouse having a power-brood." Cordelia sighed. "One teenager and one vampire, both in terrible moods. This may be too much for us to handle."

Wesley squared his shoulders. "I’ll attempt to talk to Dawn. Nothing ventured, nothing gained." He bravely walked up the stairs.

"May God have mercy on your soul," murmured Cordelia.

"Why do you say that?" asked Rebecca. "I’m sure Uncle Wesley can handle this. After all, how much trouble can that little girl be? She’ll be down here in no time."

Gunn and Cordelia looked at her. "Care to put money on that?" asked Cordelia. "Twenty bucks says he’s back down here in under five minutes, sans Dawn."

"I’ll take that bet." Rebecca looked and sounded remarkably smug. "You’ll see that . . ."

She trailed off as Wesley came back down the stairs, alone, ears red. "I think you’re right, Cordelia," he said. "She must have learned those words from Spike. I must say, she used them with great flair."

Cordelia held out one hand to Rebecca, who forlornly placed a twenty-dollar bill in it. "So what are we going to do about the Angel situation?" She tucked the twenty into her bra.

"I don’t know," Wesley admitted. "I’m unwilling to leave him up there, brooding the day away, especially as we’ve got guests here and Willow and Tara are coming later on. Perhaps we should try speaking to him."

"I agree," said Gunn. "But we can’t just go barging in, invading his privacy, staging an intervention or something. You know how he’ll react to that."

***

He’d dreamed of her last night.

That in itself wasn’t an unusual thing. Angel dreamed of Buffy a lot, and since her death, he’d dreamed of her literally every time he slept—which hadn’t been much. This last dream, though, was the first nightmare he’d had about her in a long, long time.

In his dream, she’d been trapped, struggling to reach Dawn, and he had been there. Buffy had kept crying for Angel to protect Dawn, to help her. But he’d been unable to. Every time he’d tried to move toward Dawn or Buffy, he’d been held in place, rooted to the spot.

Perhaps it had been meeting with Faith that had sent his dreams spinning in that direction. Seeing the rogue Slayer’s tears, her self-recrimination, had reawakened the irrational, unfocused guilt Angel himself had been feeling about not being there for Buffy. He’d been too far away to help her. If only he’d been there. If only he’d known how truly serious the situation was. If only the Powers had sent him to Sunnydale instead of Pylea. If only . . .

The door to the penthouse was tossed open without warning, and Wesley, Cordelia, and Gunn paraded in and formed a semicircle around the vampire. He looked at them, nonplused. "What are you guys doing here?"

"Barging in," said Gunn.

"Invading your privacy," said Cordelia.

"Staging an intervention," said Wesley.

Angel nodded. "I can see that."

"We were worried," said Gunn.

"You, up here, brooding your life away . . ." started Cordelia.

"Doesn’t generally bode well," finished Wesley.

Angel gave an inward roll of his eyes. "I’m not going to go all . . . Darla on you guys. It’s just that I just lost someone," He sighed, trying to find the right words. "Someone with a very unique place in my soul. You can’t expect me to just get over that."

Gunn stepped forward a little. "I understand. When Alonna died . . . that was brutal, man. You don’t get over it. I know what it feels like."

"I know you do, Gunn." Angel looked at the young man in perfect understanding.

"Look, Angel," said Cordelia, "we know you’re all grieving, and we’re okay with it. We really are."

"The only problem is, we’ve a job to do right now," said Wesley. "We have Sandra and Sarah Anne to look after. Willow and Tara will be coming this afternoon. Furthermore, Dawn’s in even worse shape than you at the moment, at least outwardly, and . . ."

Angel interrupted. "Dawn? What’s wrong?"

"One serious ‘tude," opined Gunn.

"She’s in one nasty little teenage mood this morning," explained Cordelia. "She refused to get out of bed and won’t eat. Except all the heads she’s biting off anytime anyone comes near her."

Angel sighed and moved toward the door. "All right."

"What are you going to do?" asked Wesley.

"It sounds to me like Dawn’s found as good a place as any have a bad mood," Angel told him with just a hint of irritation in his voice. "I think I’ll join her."

The vampire left, letting the door slam behind him. There was nothing that annoyed him so much as people who were narrow-minded about brooding.

Wesley, Gunn, and Cordelia watched him leave.

"Well," said Wesley.

"Uh-huh," said Cordelia.

Gunn nodded. "Yep."

Wesley faced his friends with a smile. "That went splendidly."

"Gotta hand it to you, English. Great idea," said Gunn.

Cordelia shrugged. "Hey, when you’re right, you’re right."

Wesley, looking smug, glanced at his watch. "I believe you two owe me lunch. We should get it in before Willow and Tara get here, one would think."

"Yeah, let’s pick up Fred on the way," said Gunn.

The three left the penthouse, bickering about where to eat.

***

Dawn was laying on her right side, trying to ignore the muscle spasms in her back that were telling her she’d been lying down for far too long, when the door to her room opened. Angel entered a moment later, carrying a tray laden with scrambled eggs, toast, and a glass of orange juice.

"Go away," she ordered preemptively.

He didn’t say anything, but set the tray down on the nightstand nearest her. The smell of the food made Dawn’s stomach growl. Then Angel went around to the other side of the bed and flopped down beside her. She turned over, looking at him curiously.

"What are you doing?"

He looked about as happy as she felt. "Wesley, Cordy, and Gunn chased me out of my favorite brooding spot. Seems to me you’ve got the hang of chasing them off, so I thought I’d stay in here until I’m needed downstairs."

"I want to be alone," Dawn stated. Why wasn’t anyone getting this?

"Too bad." Angel wasn’t looking directly at her, but his face was set. "Tell you what: you eat breakfast, and I won’t try to talk to you. We’ll have a nice, mutual mope."

She glared at him, but it was obvious there would be no moving him for now. "Fine." She reached over, took the breakfast tray, and ate as much as she could stomach.

Then they sat together on the bed in perfect silence for a long time.

***

Willow and Tara turned up just after two o’clock. They each carried small bags and greeted the people in the lobby cheerfully.

"Willow, Tara, this is Sandra Burnham," Wesley said, indicating the auburn-haired woman. "Sandra, Willow and Tara can protect the hotel magically, and they might be able to help us narrow down what type of magic-user your husband is, too."

"Nice to meet you," said Sandra, looking nervous. "What exactly will you do?"

Willow grinned, completely in her element. "A few general warding spells to keep the demons away, a magical alarm to alert you if any strong magic-users enter the hotel, and—this is the fun one—a kind of invisibility shield that’ll repel scrying spells. That oughta give the team some time to figure out how to deal with this guy."

"Where are the entrances?" asked Tara.

Angel, who had come downstairs just as their car pulled up, indicated a passage. "Aside from the front door, we’ve got two service entrances in the back: down that hall and to the left on this side, and one in the kitchen. There’s also an emergency exit on the west side of the building and a sewer entrance in the basement."

Rebecca sidled over to Cordelia, who was keeping Sarah Anne occupied, as Willow and Tara began taking spell paraphernalia out of their bags. "You say these two are witches?"

"Yep." Cordelia was showing Sarah Anne how to braid a string bracelet.

"Ah." Rebecca took another glance at them. "Are they sisters?"

Cordelia tied off the bracelet. "Nope. Lesbian lovers."

Rebecca laughed. "Oh, Cordelia, you are so droll."

"Tara, baby, you want to get the service entrances while I do the front door and the sewer entrance?" Willow asked.

"Sounds good to me, honey," answered Tara. The witches exchanged a quick kiss, and Tara headed to the back while Willow went back to the front door.

Rebecca blinked. "Oh."

Angel followed Tara, carrying the spell ingredients she couldn’t due to her broken hand. For nearly an hour, the witches could be seen moving throughout the Hyperion, sprinkling herbs or spell-sand, murmuring in Latin, and carrying bundles of smoking herbs that filled the lobby with softly pungent odors. Rebecca took it upon herself to examine the paraphernalia they’d left on the table. Wesley kept her from interrupting their work with questions, but it was evident she thought there was a better way to ward the hotel.

Just as the spells were finished, Spike walked into the lobby. "Thought I smelled some mojo going down. Hello, Red."

Willow’s eyebrows jumped. "Spike’s here?"

"We’ve all been trying to convince ourselves it’s a bad dream," said Cordelia.

Spike winked at her in a way that made her distinctly nervous, then went off in the direction of the kitchen. Cordelia’s eyes followed him warily.

Willow looked around. "Hey, where’s Dawn? Normally, a little ‘mojo going down’ brings her out of the woodwork."

Cordelia sighed. "Dawn is in a deep, deep blue funk and wishes to be left alone. Angel, any signs of the storm clearing up?"

Angel shook his head. His bad mood, at least, seemed to have abated for the moment. "I believe she’s reached the ‘anger’ stage of grief. My guess is that she’ll hold onto it for at least a while."

"It takes time," said Tara. "It always takes time." She looked over at Willow as she said this, and for just a moment, the pain was fully revealed in the red-haired witch’s eyes.

Willow shook it off by getting back to business. "Sandra, want to tell us about your husband?" She and Tara took the couch to listen to Sandra’s story.

When it was over, the two witches looked at each other. "It’s not Wicca," declared Tara.

"Some of what he’s done sounds like dark magic, like serious Black Arts stuff," said Willow. "I mean, the human bones you found in his study? Those can be used for necromancy, and that’s bad news. And that amulet you described, the one with the dark red stone—that can do serious damage."

"It’s all forbidden." Tara shook her head. "Magic like that tends to turn on its user sooner or later, but it also makes him very dangerous—and powerful. It doesn’t sound to me like he’s a warlock, though."

Willow shook her head in agreement. "No, not to me, either. He’s using black magic, but . . . something’s not right. You say that he was able to make things just appear?"

Sandra nodded. "Several times, that I know of."

"Witches and warlocks can’t do that," said Tara. "It’s called kenning, and it’s impossible for us."

"Sure would come in handy sometimes." Willow gave Sandra a brief grin. "When he drew down the elements—I mean, brought rain and wind—did he use any kind of incantation? Did he say any words that you remember?"

Sandra thought back, then shook her head. "No. He just did it."

Willow and Tara looked at each other again. Tara’s eyes grew wide. "Does it sound like—like he could be a mage?"

"That’s exactly what I was thinking," said Willow. "They can ken, and they don’t use incantations. If he’s a mage, but he’s still using black arts . . ."

"That’s very dangerous," finished Tara. "And it sounds like he’s enslaved demons, too."

"And a Faery," put in Wesley.

"That’s extremely dangerous," said Tara, modifying her earlier assessment.

Wesley sat down beside Sandra. "What can you tell us about magi?" he asked the witches.

Both looked a little troubled. Willow spoke for them. "Honestly, not much. Magi are pretty insular, and they’re kinda snobby about witchcraft, too."

Tara took in a sudden breath. "Wait. Oz’s new girlfriend—I talked to him after the funeral, and I remember he said his girlfriend is a mage."

"Thia," said Angel. "I’d forgotten. I’ll email him and ask him to ask her if she’d consult with us."

"Good idea." Wesley looked hopeful. "Willow’s right; magi are notoriously secretive. Hopefully, Oz will be able to persuade Thia we’re trustworthy."

"So, did we help?" asked Willow.

"A great deal," said Wesley. "Thank you both."

"Can we do anything else?" asked Tara, standing up.

Angel smiled at her. "I don’t think so. We seem to have things under control here."

"ANGEL!!!!!"

Cordelia’s screech—there was no other word for it—came from the direction of the kitchen. Angel was in there in a flash, with the others close on his heels.

Cordelia was standing glaring at the refrigerator like it had offended her in some particularly heinous way. That glare quickly shifted to Angel when he came in. "Take a look at that," she ordered, pointing at the fridge.

When Angel had first moved into the Hyperion, his friends had all given him housewarming presents. Cordelia’s had been a set of Magnetic Poetry which he’d fussed with from time to time, but had mostly ignored. At the moment, however, aided by a small slip of paper with Wesley’s name on it, the magnets read:

"Wesley is only a goof
and angel is just a big poof
there's no time to waste
I'm right here, miss chase
no sense staying shy and aloof."

"What does that look like to you?" the Seer demanded.

"A really bad limerick," replied Angel.

"I’ll tell you what it looks like to me. It looks to me like your grandson needs to be hurt," Cordelia ground out.

Gunn had to leave the kitchen quickly before cracking up.

Angel sighed. "Cordy, I agree it’s in terrible taste, but I think I’ve got to pick my battles with Spike this week. He could be doing a lot worse than using the Magnetic Poetry to write obnoxious limericks."

Cordelia wasn’t about to be mollified. "Wait until he dedicates one of these things to you."

"Well, I do get a mention in this one."

Wesley decided to intercede. "Cordelia, since Dawn seems to be incommunicado, why don’t you take Fred to get some clothes, like you’ve been talking about doing."

The mention of shopping had the desired effect upon Cordelia. She brightened right up. "Great idea. Anyone seen her lately?"

Gunn ducked back in, having gotten himself back under control. "She likes the ballroom. Try there."

"Take the money out of petty cash," said Wesley. "What will you need? Fifty dollars? One hundred?" Cordelia gave him the look she normally reserved for things that dripped slime. Wesley sighed in resignation. "Whatever you need."

Cordelia practically bounced out of the kitchen. Willow gave Wesley a sympathetic look.

"You sure you’ve got everything under control?"

***

Spike grinned viciously as he heard Cordelia’s outraged shriek. Let them chew that one over, he thought. With any luck, his little poem would make for some threats by one or more of the menfolk, and they’d all have some fun.

His smile faded as he saw a slight figure duck out of the back service stairwell and start making toward one of the recently-warded service entrances. The vampire was there in a heartbeat.

"Where do you think you’re going, Little Bit?" he asked Dawn.

She looked startled at the vampire’s appearance. "Spike. I was just . . . coming down for lunch."

Spike shook his head. "You’ll have to get better at lying than that, girl. Kitchen’s on the other side of the building. ‘Sides, if you’re staying in, why are you wearing a jacket?"

Dawn glanced down at the jeans jacket she was wearing. "All right. I’m sick of being inside. I thought I’d take a walk."

"All by your lonesome?"

"I don’t want to talk to anyone. I wish they’d just leave me alone."

Spike looked at the girl’s hurt, set face. "Can’t say I blame you for that, Niblet. Believe me, I’d like to get away from these wankers, too. In this case, though, much as it pains me to admit it, they’re right. You shouldn’t be going out alone, not even in the daytime."

Dawn’s statement darkened. "You can’t stop me." She turned and started walking toward the door again. Spike grabbed her arm—not hard enough to hurt, but in an unbreakable grip. "Let me go!"

"Not even." Spike looked just as determined as she did. "This is L-bloody-A, girl. There are nasty, evil creatures out there—not to mention all the demons and vampires. If I let you walk through that door, Angel will flay my skin off inch by inch. I’d sooner the chip kicked in. If I’ve got to hurt you to stop you, so be it."

"I thought you were my friend!"

Spike cursed. "Of course I am, Little Bit. I also promised your sis I’d look after you, and part of that is keeping you from doing stupid things like wanderin’ a big city alone."

Dawn glared at him, face red. "I am leaving, Spike. You’re not going to stop me."

It was time, Spike decided, to take off the kid gloves. He hated doing it, but . . . "You’re determined to get yourself hurt then, are you? Don’t you think there’s already been enough death in your family this year?"

The girl gasped like Spike had slapped her. The vampire got one good look at blue eyes filled with tears before she tore her arm away from him and ran away, back up the stairs.

Spike cursed again. He didn’t like doing that to Dawn, but it had been the only way. She’d come around eventually, he hoped—though she might never completely forgive him. The thought was troubling; he genuinely liked Dawn, and he was serious about the promise he’d given Buffy. He didn’t intend to fail her again.

He’d only taken a few steps back toward the lobby when he was accosted by Rebecca Martin-Pryce.

"Just who I was looking for," chirped the British girl.

"Isn’t it my bloody lucky day?" Spike muttered. He continued walking, and Rebecca was forced to do an about-face to keep up with him.

"I was wondering—I mean, you’ve killed two Slayers, right?"

"You’re gonna show me how."

Spike stopped, and Rebecca nearly walked into him. "What about it?"

"Well, I was wondering . . ." Rebecca spread her hands. "I was wondering how you did it. I mean, you must be dying to tell the story!"

Ducking, weaving, fighting and dancing with Buffy in the alley . . .

"Not a story for the kiddies." Spike abruptly started walking again, this time down toward the first-floor suites.

Rebecca hurried along. "I’m not a kid. I was a Slayer-in-Waiting for seven years. I’ve heard all the stories except yours, and I’d really like to know. What mistakes did they make? How did you get the better of them?"

"Every Slayer has a death wish. Even you . . . . Sooner or later, you’re gonna want it. And the second—the second—that happens, you know I’ll be there. I’ll slip in, have myself a real good day."

Spike turned on Rebecca so swiftly that she lost her balance and stumbled into the wall. Spike planted one hand on either side of her and stared her down with his cobalt blue eyes.

"Listen, Slayer-Reject. That’s a tale you’ll never hear because you couldn’t handle it. Buffy Summers could handle it, but you, girlie, are no Buffy Summers. You couldn’t be if you tried. If you had been Chosen, for whatever God-only-knows reason, I’d have bagged me a third Slayer—if you’d even been worth my time." He looked her up and down contemptuously. "And that’s a big if right there."

As swiftly as he’d captured her, he was gone. Rebecca stood up against the wall for a few more seconds, trembling violently. Then she raced for the lobby bathroom. Scarcely had she closed the door before she was vomiting into the sink.

When the final spasm had passed, she looked into the mirror. "Stupid," she told her pale, tear-streaked reflection. "Stupid. You always say the wrong thing." She turned on the faucet, washing out the sink and scooping up some water to rinse her mouth. "Can’t you do anything right?"

***

Sandra was shaken out of her mental haze by a knock on her room door. She took a quick peek at Sarah Anne, napping in the bed, then opened the door to find Wesley there.

"Hi, Wesley." She exited the room, quietly pulling the door closed behind her. "Sarah Anne’s asleep."

"I hope I didn’t disturb her," said the Englishman.

Sandra shook her head. "No. She’s fine. What’s up?"

"I wanted to let you know that Angel’s friend Oz got back to him. He said that Thia’s at a friend’s bridal shower tonight, but she’ll call us tomorrow early on. We’ll need you there in case she has questions only you can answer."

"All right." Sandra sighed, looking away.

"Is something wrong?" Wesley asked gently.

"Everything," Sandra said. "Just a few years ago, it was my bridal shower. I wanted to be with Andrew forever. I loved him. And now . . ." She bit her lip, shaking her head. "Now I’m so scared of him I—I’ve imagined time and time again what it would be like to hear that he’s dead. That he got in an accident or one of his creatures turned on him, and Sarah Anne and I won’t have to worry about him anymore. I’ve even—I’ve even imagined killing him myself." She looked down, ashamed. "What kind of a person does that make me?"

"I’d say very human." Wesley’s blue-gray gaze was compassionate. "He’s caused you a great deal of pain, Sandra. He’s caused you to fear for your daughter’s life. I don’t know of anyone who could go through all you have and not fantasize about it all being over—no matter what it takes."

Sandra couldn’t meet his eyes. "If he does come here, what will . . . what will you do? Will he have to die?"

There was a long pause before Wesley answered. "We will stop him. I won’t lie to you, Sandra—he’s obviously very powerful, and equally powerful means must be brought to bear to counteract his magicks. In the end, he may have to die. We’ll try to avoid that extremity, but it may be unavoidable." He paused. "Can you live with that?"

Sandra took a few breaths before saying anything. "I’ll have to. If it happens, I’ll deal with it. Sarah Anne will still need me."

Wesley nodded. "Yes. She will." He turned and started back down the corridor, then stopped and faced her again. "Sandra—know that there isn’t one person in this hotel who hasn’t found someone they’ve wished dead. Not even Dawn." He paused, eyes distant and bleak. "Certainly not I."

Sandra watched him go, then went back inside her room. She laid down beside her daughter on the bed, silent tears streaming down her face.

***

"Go! Now!" commanded Willow in Spike’s mind.

Breaking out of the shelter he, Giles, and Anya had made for themselves, Spike dashed for the tower. Tara and Willow’s combined magical force cleared the way for him. The vampire scaled the tower with ease, making his way to the top in a matter of minutes.

As he reached the top, he saw Dawn, tied to the end of the platform, and the smallish demon he recognized as Doc facing her. There was pure horror in Dawn’s eyes.

"Spike!" she cried, her voice begging his help.

He and Doc exchanged some ritual posturing, and the fight was on. The demon managed to sink his knife into Spike, but the vampire wrenched himself free, putting his own body between Doc and Dawn. Spike could smell the girl and realized she’d wet herself in terror.

"I don’t smell a soul anywhere on you," snarled Doc. "Why do you even care?"

"Made a promise to a lady," replied Spike. To Buffy. His lady, for good or for ill.

The demon’s tongue shot out. Spike dodged it, only to find himself swept off his feet. Doc grabbed him, pinning his hands.

"Then I’ll give the lady your regrets."

Spike wrenched a hand free, flipping over and grabbing the demon. "And I’ll give Glory yours!"

The vampire rolled them both over, and off the platform they fell, plummeting toward the ground. Doc screamed, and Spike howled. He heard Dawn’s surprised cry as they went over the edge.

They hit the ground with a crunch, Spike landing on top of Doc. The demon’s body was crushed underneath the vampire’s. Spike himself wasn’t in great shape—he felt shattered bones all over his body—but he’d won. He’d kept his promise. Kept Dawn safe. He rolled off Doc’s body, trying to close his mind to the pain in his own.

A few minutes later, he saw a sight that made all his pain fade away: Buffy coming down off the tower, carrying Dawn in her arms. Both sisters were crying. The Slayer lowered herself to the ground near Spike, holding Dawn close, kissing her forehead and stroking her hair.

"It’s all right, baby," Buffy was murmuring over and over. "It’s over. You’re okay. We’re all okay. It’s all over."

Dawn raised her head from Buffy’s arms. "Spike—he fell. Is he . . ?"

"Just fine, Niblet," the vampire managed.

Buffy’s tear-filled eyes met his over Dawn’s head. "Spike. You saved her. I can never . . . I can never thank you enough. Never."

Spike shook his head. "No need, Summers. No need at all . . ."

Spike took another drag on his cigarette, looking at the bare, unfinished walls and plastic-covered windows of the penthouse. It was dark now, evening having fallen while he had been wrapped up in his reverie. He couldn’t stop them: the fantasies in which he somehow saved the day, and Buffy didn’t have to die.

He shook his head. "Bugger it."

Tossing down the last cigarette butt to join the pile already on the floor, he grabbed his coat and left. No way was he staying inside this place a minute longer.

***

Angel was sitting in the office having a journeyman-level brood when Cordelia walked in. She sat down beside him and proceeded to go into a fairly proficient brood of her own. This confused Angel. Cordelia simply was not the brooding type.

"What’s wrong?" he asked, concerned.

"I just went to try to talk to Dawn again," she said, chin in her hands. "Believe it or not, her mood has managed to get worse. She practically went into vamp face and screamed at me to get out."

"It’s not your fault," Angel reassured her. "It’s not personal. She’s just hurting."

"I know." Cordelia lifted her chin out of her hands, looking forlorn. "I just . . . I don’t know what to do. Not for her, not for you. Look at me. I’m brooding. Am I a brooder? I don’t think so!"

"You’re doing a pretty good job of it, for a novice," Angel offered. "Nice technique, good statement . . ."

"Don’t patronize me," she rebuked him with a wry smile. She reached out and took one of his hands. "Please tell me I can do something."

Angel looked into her gentle brown eyes and smiled softly. "You’re doing everything I need you to, Cordy. It does hurt. Worse than practically anything I’ve felt, it hurts. Buffy was my dream. I know . . . I know it shouldn’t matter, but I had this fantasy that when I became human, she and I would be together."

"Of course you did," murmured Cordelia.

"It’s hard to let go of that," he went on. His eyes were focused on Cordelia’s hand, and he played absently with her long fingers as he spoke. "I could always feel her somewhere in my soul. If I concentrated hard enough, I’d sense her. We had a connection. I don’t know what it was—maybe because I took her blood, maybe because we loved each other so much—but it was real." He shook his head. "It’s not there anymore. There’s an empty spot where she was, and it hurts like an open wound."

Cordelia reached over with her other hand and smoothed a few pieces of his short hair. "I wish I could help you, Angel."

"You have, Cordy. You are helping." He gripped her hand. "This helps. I—I can’t imagine what I’d do if you weren’t here. If all of you weren’t here." He drew her head down to his shoulder, and she rested there for a moment. "I’ll go up and talk to Dawn in a bit. She just needs time."

***

Dawn entered the penthouse, Buffy’s shawl wrapped tightly around her tiny form. She’d been wandering the hotel’s upper floors for the last hour, hoping not to be seen, hoping someone would discover her. The penthouse was the only place she hadn’t been.

. . . feels so bad, so tired, chest hurts, listen to that wind hitting the plastic, it’s just like when I was on the tower and scared so cold so alone . . .

She crossed the room in her stocking feet, feeling the rough flooring through her socks. The plastic on one of the big picture windows had torn loose at the bottom corner, and she moved slowly toward it.

. . . all alone, nobody knows, nobody understands, Spike, he shouldn’t have said that, how could he say that, it hurts inside like nobody knows . . .

The anger that had sustained her since she’d discovered it the previous night had faded, replaced only by pain. As she reached the window, another emotion intruded: fear. She caught sight of the city streets far below, and instantly, she was back on the tower.

. . . up so high, so dark, so alone, won’t anybody help me, can’t anybody see me, Buffy, where are you, so scared, so scared, why is this happening to me, Buffy, help me, I need you, what if she doesn’t come, what if she doesn’t love me, what if Glory’s right, no, that’s not true, she’ll come she’ll come . . .

Dawn swallowed and moved closer. Her heart was pounding inside her chest. She remembered seeing Buffy, being so relieved to see her sister even through the pain, and then the sickening realization that the portals were opening, and the only way they would close was with her own death. She remembered the look on Buffy’s face as the Slayer had determined to take her sister’s place.

. . . should have stopped her, should have gone, Buffy, why did you leave me, it’s all wrong now, it’s all wrong, and it’ll never be better, oh God, it hurts, it hurts so bad, my chest, what’s wrong with me, my heart’s going to explode, oh God, I should just jump now . . .

The girl stumbled back from the window, horrified at the thought that had just crossed her mind. Her whole body was cold now, cold and on edge, like she’d been touched by a live wire. Her chest was so tight she felt like she couldn’t breathe, and her skin prickled with a thousand thousand points of hot and cold.

. . . can’t breathe, can’t feel anything, what’s happening to me, I’m dying, oh God, I’m dying, so cold, please somebody help me Angel Angel Angel . . .

She ran out of the penthouse, flinging herself down the stairwell. The one thought on her mind was to find Angel, let him know she was dying. He was strong. He’d know how to help her.

She nearly lost her way more than once, but kept going down until finally, the main stairwell into the lobby was in view. Stumbling, nearly falling, she reached it.

"Angel," she cried, her voice a thin wail. "Angel . . ."

The vampire was there. She felt his hands grasping her shoulders. Alarmed voices reached her from somewhere far away. She thought she identified Cordelia’s voice calling her name, and Wesley’s voice saying the words "panic attack." Angel was saying something, too.

". . . terrified, I smell it. Dawn, what happened to you?"

She couldn’t answer, and suddenly, everything was fading to gray. It almost felt like she was a spectator watching as Angel scooped her body up in his arms and carried her into the lobby. She heard Wesley and Cordelia talking, and Gunn’s voice joined them. It was all very far away.

After a time, she came back to her body. She was shaking violently and felt ill. Angel was seated on the couch, cradling her against him, and Wesley was nearby.

"Dawn? Can you hear me?" asked the ex-Watcher.

"Y-yes," she whispered. Her mouth was perfectly dry.

"Dawn, listen to me. Try to breathe slowly and deeply. In . . ." He waited as she inhaled. "And out." She exhaled.

They repeated the process several times. The feeling was coming back into Dawn’s fingers and toes, and the tightness and pain in her chest eased.

Cordelia was suddenly there, placing an arm around Dawn’s shoulders and holding a chilled bottle to her lips. "It’s just some juice, honey. Try to drink, okay?"

Cold orange juice flooded Dawn’s mouth, and she gulped at it greedily. She drained half the bottle before pushing it away and pressing her face into Angel’s chest. His arms wrapped around her, enfolding her in strength and safety.

That feeling of safety was what finally broke through the barriers Dawn had put in place. No matter what had been happening, she’d always felt safe when Buffy held her. Since Buffy’s death, it didn’t matter that Glory was gone; Dawn hadn’t felt safe, not even for one moment.

Angel was big. He was strong. As he held her, Dawn began to finally feel safe again. A soft keening moan, almost a sigh, escaped her throat.

"Dawn, what’s happening to you?" Angel’s voice was soft, and his cold breath ruffled her hair.

"I’m going crazy," she confessed in a whisper.

"Dawn, you’re not . . ." Cordelia began, but Wesley interrupted her.

"Why do you think you’re going crazy, Dawn?"

The girl struggled for words. "I can’t . . . these things in my head, the memories . . . I can’t make them stop. I keep seeing everything in my head and feeling it, and then I-I can’t breathe, I can’t sleep, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. All these things—all these feelings. I can’t sort it out. I must be crazy."

"What I’m going to ask you to do is difficult," Wesley said slowly, "but Dawn—will you tell us about what happened to you? Start anywhere, and tell us."

"I c-can’t."

"Yes, you can." Angel’s voice was calm and firm. "You can get through this, Dawn."

She realized one of her hands was holding onto his shirt, fist balled up around the fabric. Thoughts flitted through her mind, but one stuck: maybe if she talked about these memories, they’d finally be out of her head.

So she began to talk. As the first words describing the massacre of the Knights of Byzantium came out, the story seemed to take her. She knew it so well she didn’t have to even think, and everything—the slaughter, Glory’s ranting and threats, Ben’s betrayal, being tied at the top of the tower, Spike’s desperate and ultimately unsuccessful defense of her, Doc cutting into her, and Buffy’s final sacrifice—simply flowed out. Not in strictly chronological order, but complete in its detail.

Then she was crying. She buried her face in Angel’s chest, and as he held her close, she sobbed out her grief and pain.

It was a long, long time later that the tears finally slowed. She was exhausted mentally and physically, but something felt better inside. The hard knot of pain had softened within her. She raised her head from Angel’s arms and looked into his face.

Two tear streaks marked it. Hesitantly, she forced her fingers to let go of his shirt and reached up to touch his tears. He, in turn, gently wiped the moisture from her face with his own fingers, then kissed her forehead. She moved in his embrace and wrapped her arms around him, offering what comfort she could.

"Oh, Dawn," he sighed, voice infinitely sad.

A soft sniffle alerted Dawn to the fact that it wasn’t just herself and Angel crying. She looked over at Cordelia, who was wiping her own face with a Kleenex. The Seer pulled out a few more tissues and offered them to Dawn, who accepted them.

Angel brushed a few strands of her hair back from her face. "Dawn, I’m so proud of you. You did great with that."

"With what? F-falling apart?" she asked.

"Yeah." The vampire smiled sadly. "Sometimes you need to. It’s not easy to face inner demons. In fact, it’s a whole lot harder than fighting physical monsters."

"It’s always the internal battles that hurt the most, that leave the worst scars," added Wesley. "Angel’s right, Dawn; what you just did took more courage than a lot of adults have."

Listlessly, Dawn dropped her head back into the crook of Angel’s arm. "I’m so tired," she murmured, then added as an afterthought, "Thirsty, too."

Cordelia gave her the rest of the juice, which Dawn drank down.

Angel looked at Wesley, then back at Dawn. "Dawn, would you let Cordelia look at your stomach? Those wounds—I want to make sure they’re healing okay."

Dawn nodded. "Okay." She yawned.

She knew that she could fall asleep in Angel’s arms, and part of her really wanted to. He’d grown warm from contact with her, and she felt so safe, so cared for, that moving away from him didn’t appeal to her even a little. But she was also feeling seriously averse to going to bed without washing her face and changing into pajamas.

"I think I’d like to go to bed now," she said.

"I can carry you up, if you want," Angel offered.

Dawn shook her head. "That’s okay. Cordy?"

The Seer held out her hands. Dawn took them, and Cordelia pulled her from Angel’s arms into her own. Dawn snuggled close to her.

"I’m really sorry about what I said to you, Cordy," the girl apologized.

Cordelia took her shoulders and looked right into her face. "Sweetie, that is so completely not a problem. Don’t even think about it."

Dawn turned to Wesley. "I’m really sorry about yelling at you, too, Wesley."

The ex-Watcher shook his head. "Like Cordelia said, Dawn, it’s not a problem. I understand perfectly."

Unable to summon enough emotional energy for anything more than a nod and a "Good night," Dawn allowed Cordelia to steer her to the stairwell, then up to their room.

Back in the lobby, Angel leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. "What are we going to do, Wesley?"

His friend was in a similar posture, seated on the coffee table. "I really don’t know. The child needs help dealing with her trauma, and none of us is qualified to be her therapist."

Angel lifted his head, rubbing his hands over his face. "What she went through—I can only think of one word to describe it."

Wesley nodded grimly. "Torture."

"That’s the word."

"I’d have to agree with that assessment." The ex-Watcher looked thoughtful. "I think . . ."

Whatever he was about to say got pre-empted by the lobby doors banging open and Spike sauntering in. The younger vampire took one look at them and said, "What’s with the long face convention? Somebody die?"

"Where have you been, William?" Angel demanded with far less heat than usual.

"Thought I’d swing by Caritas, see if Prancing Nancy the Host could give me some advice." Spike flopped down on the couch beside Angel and pulled out a cigarette, which was just as quickly taken away from him. Spike gave Angel a glare before continuing. "Place was ‘closed for renovations.’ So I hunted around for trouble. Got into a nice donnybrook with a few Sivo demons and their pet Pelath beast. Killed ‘em all. What’s the tragedy ‘round here?"

Angel looked at him. "Take a sniff of my shirt and see if you can figure it out."

Spike looked mildly repulsed, but did so. He instantly froze, face going dead serious. "What’s wrong with Dawn?"

"What isn’t?" Angel shook his head. "She told us everything that happened to her. It was . . . just about as bad as it could get. Far too much for someone her age to have to bear."

"She all right?"

The genuine concern in Spike’s face and voice seemed to catch Angel off-guard. The elder vampire scrutinized the younger for quite some time before replying. "She’s better than she was, but she’s far from all right. I don’t know when she’ll reach that—if ever." Angel gave a frustrated sigh and stood, collecting his coat. "I’m going to do a patrol of the neighborhood, see if I can work off some of this. Spike, you stay. Dawn needs at least one of us here—she needs to feel safe."

For the first time, Spike gave Angel no argument about his order. The younger vampire simply nodded. "All right, then. Where is she?"

"Her room." Angel swept out the front doors.

Spike sat for a few moments longer. Neither Wesley nor Gunn, who was busy pacing in the background, made any attempt to speak to him, and the vampire abruptly stood, shedding his coat and leaving it on the couch, and walked up the stairs.

Gunn hadn’t spoken at all since Dawn’s story. He broke his silence with, "You and Angel are right. That kid needs help, bad."

Wesley spread his hands helplessly. "I’m aware of that, but if she took her story to a psychologist, they really would think she’s crazy. I don’t see . . . I don’t see what we can do for her." He rubbed his hands over his face. "I just hope that getting some of that out of her helped at least a little."

Listening from a nearby hallway was Rebecca. She’d been avoiding the others since her run-in with Spike, but she’d heard Dawn’s story. Now, the former Slayer-in-Waiting leaned against the wall, pressing a hand against her chest.

Buffy Summers—all the Slayers, in fact—had always been textbook stories to Rebecca. She’d studied what was known of all of them down to the final "and another Slayer was Called." But Rebecca saw something new now: Buffy Summers was a young woman with a baby sister she loved more than anything. She was a daughter who had lost her mother. She was a friend. She was Angel’s beloved. And still, she’d had to die. The world had demanded her death in order that others—including that much-loved sister, the one who had grieved in Angel’s arms tonight—might live.

That’s what a Slayer is, Rebecca thought, realizing something she never had before. That’s what a Slayer does: sacrifice herself and all she is. How could I think I could ever do that?

Her jaw tightened in a way that would have been familiar to anyone who knew Wesley. I’ll prove myself, she vowed silently. Somehow, I’ll prove I was worthy of consideration. I’ll find a way . . .

***

Spike slipped into the room Dawn and Cordelia shared with vampiric silence and ease. He could hear two hearts beating in the gentle cadence of sleep, and he didn’t want to disturb the sleepers.

His keen eyes penetrated the dark as easily as if it had been full light. As he entered the bedroom, he picked out the two figures snuggled together in the bed. He moved closer.

Dawn was sleeping in Cordelia’s arms, the older girl embracing the younger from behind, with not an inch separating them. Cordelia’s beauty was softened and gentled by sleep, and Dawn looked even more childlike than usual.

The vampire moved closer still, reaching out toward them but never touching either. His hand felt the warmth rising from their bodies. In his ears, he could hear their breathing, their heartbeats, the blood rushing through their veins, and the hundred little bodily processes that continued even while they slept. Human bodies, it seemed to him, were terrifically busy.

Spike withdrew his hand and leaned down, taking in their scents. He found he could separate the two, even close as they were. Dawn’s scent was somewhere between child and woman, sweet and spicy and bitter all at once. Cordelia’s was pure womanhood, an intoxicating musk. All over both was the salt of tears and sorrow.

And all over both of them was Angel.

It had been Angel to whom Dawn had gone when she needed to be held. It had been Angel who had comforted her, Angel who had absorbed her tears. Spike knew that Dawn hadn’t even gone looking for anyone but Angel, knew it without being told. She certainly hadn’t sought out him, Spike. Why should she? It wasn’t like Spike understood all this human affection.

He moved away from the bed and sat on a chair, facing the sleeping girls. There were times when he truly wanted to understand. Oh, intellectually he knew that humans liked a tender touch, liked being held and fussed over, but it was almost alien to him, a language he recognized but did not speak. He remembered sitting by Buffy as she agonized over her mother’s illness, and he’d been unable to do anything more than offer her an awkward pat on the back. His mind flashed to Dawn in the tunnels near his crypt, painfully recounting how she felt it was her fault all these terrible things were happening. He’d wanted to comfort her then, but hadn’t been clear on how to go about it.

Words were his medium. He could say what he felt, even speak comfort to a human. He wasn’t too bad at it, actually, probably from years of soothing Dru out of her fits. When it came to physical expressions of comfort or affection, however, he was simply out of his depth with humans.

He’d even tried to express his love to Buffy in a way he understood, but somehow, she’d missed the message of the chains and death threats. What, honestly, was a bloke to do?

But Angel understood. He knew how to comfort Dawn, and he’d known how to love Buffy in a way she could accept. He even knew how to love Cordelia. Spike wasn’t at all serious about his flirtation with the Seer—although, come to think of it, a few rolls with her would be diverting—but he was also painfully aware that if he had been serious, she, like Buffy, would never be able to accept him as a lover. She’d even take Angel over him.

It was all because of Angel’s sodding human soul, Spike decided. It gave him a connection to Dawn that Spike could never have, no matter how hard he tried. Spike would forever be apart from her, separated by the fact that he was Other, with little in common except for his once-human body. And it genuinely frustrated him.

In Sunnydale once, he and Dawn had shared an outsider status—he because of being a vampire, she because of being the Key. The Scooby Gang hadn’t truly understood either one, but Spike and Dawn had accepted each other with a matter-of-fact ease that dismayed the others. Spike had liked that, still liked that. He may have wanted Buffy as a lover, but he’d enjoyed Dawn as a friend.

But he wondered if he’d even have that anymore. It had been necessary to hurt her with words earlier, but she might not forgive so easily. Besides, why would she need him? Angel and his Charlies seemed to accept her just fine, probably because they hadn’t been in Sunnydale for the past year, and worse yet, they had a soul connection with her that Spike didn’t. Angel, too, knew what it was to be an outsider. He knew how to comfort her and show her love and affection. Why should Dawn choose Spike over that?

And did Spike really deserve to have her friendship, after failing her and Buffy so completely?

He had no answer to that. Finding he’d automatically pulled out a cigarette while reflecting, he tucked it back away. A smoke, desirable though it was for distracting him, would definitely wake the sleepers. He decided he wasn’t going to follow his former line of thought any further, however. Any more brooding and he’d end up like Angel.

So he sat watching Dawn and Cordelia sleep, and he pondered the mysteries of human affection.