DISCLAIMERS, ETC., IN PART 1

***
He needs to get up, he thinks wearily.  Just do it.  Scoot the chair over to
the phone, dial 911, it's not far, only a few feet.  But when he tries, pain
shoots through his side, pure agony and he has to stop while the black edges
recede from his vision.  It feels like he has several broken ribs. 
 
Deja Vu all over again isn't it?  Tied to a chair and tortured for
information, left to wait for rescue.  But he can't wait this time.  Time is
of the essence.  Though it's probably already too late.  Still he tries again,
stubborn, manages to move the chair 6 whole inches, when it overbalances and
goes crashing down.  Pain greys his vision, throwing him back to his ordeal.

Spike caught him just outside his own door, stepping out of the shadows with a
smile on his face, utterly unchanged from the last time he'd seen him, of
course.  Sneaky vampire trick, he'd gotten confused, thought it was the past
when Spike had been a sort of ally, almost a friend; before he got the chip
out and tried to kill them all.  That moment of bewilderment was all Spike
needed.  

"Make it easy on yourself," Spike said later, pulling the cigarette away from
Giles' skin.  He'd cocked his head, admiring his work, took a long drag. 
Giles watches apprehensively as the ember brightens.  "I'll get it out of you,
sooner or later."

It's hollow satisfaction that he hadn't.  He'd had held out, through the
beating, the cutting, the burns.  Didn't tell him, not even when Spike lost
patience, wrenched his head back and sank his teeth into his throat.  He still
didn't speak, gritted his teeth as he felt himself being shredded and drained
bit by bit into darkness, and hoped it would be over soon...  But Spike had
stopped before he lost consciousness.  He stood there, wiping his blood off
his mouth as he glared down at him in disgust.

"Should've know better than to try and beat it out of a public school boy," he
complained.  "Ought to charge you for the service."

All his obstinacy, his bravery, rendered useless in the end when it occurred
to Spike to search his desk.  He perched on the desk in front of Giles,
grinning.

"Buffy Finn, 1823 Dulane Drive, East Brendon, North Carolina 555-216-8684. 
Let's see, they're 3 hours ahead of here, think she'll mind me calling this
late?"

Giles refused to look at him.

"Here, Giles, what's the matter?  I'm sure she'll be just thrilled to get the
news.  Or maybe you figure she might be a bit annoyed with you?  Cause you
knew, about Angel fucking her mum didn't you?"  Giles said nothing, but Spike
read his confirmation in his expression.  Laughed.

"Knew it!  How long have you known?  Not going to tell me, are you?  Well, got
to go.  I was going to kill you...but I think I'll let Buffy do it for me." 
He ground out the cigarette on the arm of the chair and was gone.

Leaving Giles here, still tied and slowly bleeding. 

“Rupert?”  Now, who is that?  He wondered vaguely.  The voice is familiar, but
he can't quite place it; a neighbor, finally responding to his yells?  Then
the penny drops.

Oh.  No.  And it's on the edge of being funny, some kind of infernal
serendipity that she would come here now.  Why is she here now?  Doesn't
matter.  Silently he wishes her away.

“Rupert!” she calls louder.  “Are you OK?”

Go. Away.  He thinks.  He fully intends to keep silent, but he must have made
some inadvertent sound because she gasps, and there's greater urgency in her
voice.

“Rupert!  You're hurt.  You have to invite me in,” she begs.  Joyce sounds
genuinely worried about him, but he knows better, it's just a trick, he
thinks, another damned illusion.  There is no more Joyce.  Joyce is gone.  He
has to remember that.

“Rupert, please!”  He makes a choked sound, something like a laugh that brings
on a fit of coughing.  What's the bloody point, after all.  What's she likely
to do to him that Spike hasn't.  Maybe she'll drain him, and put him out of
all their misery. 

“Come in then, be welcome,” he says formally.

She's by his side in an eyeblink.  Lifts him and the chair, unties him, and
carries him to the couch.  Cradled in her arms, she smells faintly of wine and
Joyce's favorite perfume, Asprit.  He can't help gasping in pain when she lays
him down, and she winces.  He looks up into her face as her eyes take in the
neat round burn marks on his chest and cheek, the bruises, the bite; again
he's overwhelmed by the disturbing perfection of the illusion.  So beautiful,
even in worn sweats.  She looks down at him, her expression authentically
appalled.

"You need a doctor," she says.  She finds the phone and dials 911, tells them
there’s a badly injured man at this address, lies about her name.  Then comes
back to Giles.  She kneels beside the couch.  He shivers as she touches his
hand uncertainly.  Her hand is like ice and he's suddenly intensely aware of
how much he's bleeding.  Of how he must smell.

"Who did this?" she asks.

“Spike,” he says.  "He knows about you, and Angel.  He’s going to tell Buffy –
probably already has."

“Oh, God.” and he can't quite convince himself that she's only simulating the
devastation he sees in her eyes.  Suddenly it's important to establish that he
hadn't betrayed her.

"He wanted her phone number, and when I wouldn’t give it to him, I didn't tell
him…but it eventually occurred to the tosser to look in my address book.” 
Giles tries to shrug, stiff upper lip and all that and has to bite back a moan
as broken bones grate against each other. 

"Oh Rupert.  I'm so sorry."

He hears the sirens coming closer with an odd sense of regret.

“Yes, well.  You’d better go, quickly,” he said, and held her gaze.  "Lucky
you were passing."

"I came to tell you goodbye," she says answering his unspoken question.  "To
tell you we're leaving... we were going to leave, next week.  To ask you to
make sure Buffy…" her voice trailed off.  They sat silently for a long moment,
until the sirens are very close, the flashing lights bouncing around the
courtyard. 

"Goodbye," he says.  Her fingers clutch his almost painfully for a moment, and
then she pulls free and is gone a few seconds before the first paramedics come
through the door. 

v.

She runs the whole way home, very, very, sober, her mind churning.  

Please let Rupert be OK.  She hated to leave him, probably shouldn’t have
moved him, but she couldn't just leave him there.  Bleeding…it had been so
hard not to give in to the urge to lick the warm red smears off her fingers,
off his face, his throat…

She puts her finger in her mouth, and the taste of him is still there.

Spike, she’ll rip his head off and put it on a stake to meet the dawn. 

Oh God, Buffy.  What if she calls?  Maybe she can convince her that it's just
a bad joke.  Probably not.  Her demon is in full panic mode at the thought of
the Slayer coming here.  She’d much rather die than face her daughter.

As soon as she got back to the mansion, she dialed the number of Angel's
hotel.  The phone rang enough times to make her a little nervous before he
picked up.

"Hello," his voice is like a sturdy shoulder, something she can support
herself with.

"Angel," she said.

"What's wrong?"  She took a deep breath, and explained as tersely as she could
manage.  Angel didn't waste time moaning about bad luck.  Didn't ask how she
happened to be visiting Rupert Giles.

"I'm coming straight back.  Stay inside.  Don't answer the phone, or the
door."
"OK."
"And if Spike calls, or comes around…be careful.  He's dangerous."


***

Angel hangs up the phone and took a minute to try and calm himself. 
Alternating surges of panic, and rage.  Spike, the little bastard.  He's put
up with too much shit over the years from him.  This is the last straw.  If he
ever sees Sweet William again, he'll cut his balls off and feed them to him. 


Doesn't want to think about Buffy.  He has no doubt she's on her way, speeding
across the continent like an avenging Valkyrie.  

He throws his things into a bag.  Then, on his way out, stops and takes a
moment to call Turlock and leave a message on his machine.  Telling him he
won't be needing the merchandise after all and can he arrange a proper burial?
 He'll pay for it.

Then downstairs to hail a cab for another desperate run to the airport.  Like
the last time.  Next time, he swears to himself, she comes with him.

vi.

Buffy twists and turns in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position,
trying to get some sleep.  The plane is half empty, and most of the other
passengers on the red-eye are down for the count.  Normally the dull roar of
the air rushing past the plane, does it for her, but every time she closes her
eyes it just seems to kick her brain into high gear.  Remembering the argument
she had with Riley, when she told him where she was going.  

"Mom's in trouble," she said.  "I have to go."  

"What kind of trouble?" he said. "Can I help?"   He can hardly fail to notice
the weapons she's packed.  

"No," she said. 

His face darkens with anger.  "And you're not going to tell me what kind of
trouble?  I thought we were past this."  

"No," she said.  "I guess not. "I'll call as soon as I get in.  And as soon as
I know, I'll let you know. 

"Buffy, please, you can't just run off like this,"

"It's my mother!"  She hissed.  

Riley backed off, didn't say anything else as she finished packing, kissed the
sleeping boys goodbye, and left.

She slid the windowshade up, looking for any sign of light in the darkness. 
Please God, let it be a hoax.  Spike's idea of a joke.  She'd rather fly
cross-country for no reason, than have it be true.  

Her mom and Angel.

She'd tried calling Giles, but his phone was out of order, and besides, if
that sneering, badly disguised voice were telling the truth, anything he said
to her would be a lie.  Even considered calling Cordelia, in LA, but even if
she knew anything, she'd lie about it.  Cordelia was Angel's friend, not hers.
 

It couldn't be true.  She wouldn't.  He wouldn't...

Fuck her mother.  Turn her...

If he had, she'd drive a stake through his treacherous heart.

Mom, oh God, she'd just talked to her just last night.  She'd sounded fine,
like Mom.  They'd discussed Thanksgiving.  Mom had talked about making a
pumpkin pie from scratch.  Buffy had begged her not too.

It couldn't be true.  Had to be Spike's idea of a bad joke.  Either way, she's
going to find the evil bleached bastard and kill him, once and for all.

vii.

Joyce decided to pack.  She'd already started.  Not much left to do.  She
hopes they have time to go by the house and pick up the boxes there.  They
were mostly pictures, of her family, Mom and Dad, grandparents, aunts and
uncles.  Pictures of her, baby, child, bride, mother, doting grandma. 
Pictures of Buffy.  

She’s zipping up the last suitcase when the back of her neck prickled.  She
isn't alone.  Someone’s in the house.

Dammit, she thinks, she really isn't in the mood.  She followed the scent into
the kitchen, and of course, it's him, the one person she feels least like
dealing with is sitting at the table, sipping a mug of blood, like he was
supposed to be there.  

"Spike, what are you doing here?"  Her voice is remarkably even, she thinks.

"I just thought I'd come by and see how my old mate was getting along.  Didn't
expect to find you here, Joyce."

"Spike, you need to get out."

"Hmmm, you've changed.  Can't say it's a bad change either," he grinned and
licks a smear of blood off the corner of his mouth.  "You're looking quite
lovely."

Joyce gritted her teeth.  It pisses her off that, once upon a time, she'd been
fooled by that beautiful boy face and the raw neediness he dangled like bait. 
She'd felt sorry for him, more fool her.  But that was then, and this was now.
 

He stood up, he moved closer.  Much too close.  

"So, Joyce, how do you like being one of the bloodsucking undead?"

"Get out Spike," she says evenly.

"I bet he gave you a soul, didn't he?  The damned poof.  Never even let you
have a taste of freedom.  Quite the control freak our boy," Spike sneered.

"Get out of here Spike.  I found Giles."  Brief flash of surprise, then he
flashes an unrepentant grin.  Raised eyebrow.

"What were you doing there anyway?  Little hanky-panky going on with the
Watcher?" and he's circling her, little predator ritual, thin grin pasted on
his face.

"Last warning," she said feeling cold and certain. 

"So soul-boy's left you all alone, hmmm?  Must say, Joyce, bein' undead suits
you.  You look smashing," he moves behind her, and puts his hands on her
shoulders, they're iron-hard and no cooler than her own skin.  There's a dull
ache in the back of her skull.  Something about his scent…it takes her a
minute.  She realizes with a shock that he's aroused.  He doesn't really
think… but he does. 

She turns to face him, and he just looks down at her, expectantly.  She puts
her hands on his shoulders, and he's just starting to grin in triumph as she
jumps up, and smashes her forehead into his nose.  He staggers back, and she
steps behind him, gets one arm tight around his throat, grabs a handful of
hair, and twists.  !SNAP!   He drops to the floor, boneless, his head bouncing
off the slate floor with a nasty thunk and lies there, sprawled like a broken
doll.  Joyce kicks his foot experimentally - not a twitch.

His expression is priceless, she thinks as she squats down next to him, peers
into his big blue eyes.  He's terrified.  Good.

"This probably brings back bad memories for you," she tells him, and smiles. 


Spike remembers that smile, it belongs to Angelus and he wonders if he knows
it's gone missing.  It makes the blood in his veins feel like it has turned to
powder.  "I told you to go."  He tries to speak, but can't make a sound, the
connection broken.

She drags him downstairs to Angelus' old torture chamber.  Uses the table,
manacles him, hand and foot.  His hand twitches as she snaps the last
restraint shut.  His spine already healing.  By tomorrow night he could be
fully recovered. 

She stands there, in the place of her rebirth.  Trying to think.  Angelus’
extensive collection of torture implements still hangs on the walls, sharp
edges gleaming softly in the dim light.  It's an appropriate nursery for a
demon.  She has no memory of that first soulless waking.  Her first memory is
of white light, and waking to find herself chained to the wall.  Angel, a few
inches away staring at her with a combination of hope and guilt.  And the
shock of hunger, pouring through her, pure as snowmelt, welcoming her to her
new life.  

She's hungry now.  The smell of Rupert's blood is all over Spike.  In Spike. 
That bothers her.  His eyes widen in fear as she leans in close to his neck
and inhales deeply.  Rupert is hers.  Spike doesn't deserve to have Rupert's
blood in him.  She can do something about that, she thinks. He doesn't move,
can't move, as she presses closer, starts to let her teeth slide through the
pale cool skin...  

Then pulls away in distaste, and turns to the wall to select the proper tools
for the job.  

ENDIT