TITLE: He's Back

AUTHOR: Lisa Drexel

EMAIL: lisayd@swbell.net

SUMMARY: What would've happened if Angelus had really lost his soul during the episode, Enemies during Season 3? M/F, M/M, F/F

RATING: NC-17

DISCLAIMER: I don't own nothing--except for the plot--and you know what
they say about there hasn't been an original thought in over 2000
years...so, even that's in question, but I did try my best. :) The rest of
it--characters and universes are owned by Fox Television, WB network,
Mutant Enemy and Joss Whedon...I'm just borrowing them for my own sick

pleasures...

FEEDBACK: Of course!

Chapter Three

For the ten-minute drive back to her house, Buffy stared unseeingly out the window. The warm winds blew at her hair, as she once again replayed in her mind, the last time she had seen Angel.

Even though they both knew it was just an act, they still said things that hurt one another. How else could you make the fight realistic? Buffy knew how Angel would react if he saw her ‘dancing’ or as Spike put it, ‘making love with her clothes on,’ with Xander.

He’d go ballistic--even if he had mentally prepared for it.

Which he did--on both counts.

As many times as he denied it, Angel was jealous of Xander.

Xander saw Buffy in the sunlight, came over to the Summer’s house for breakfast on weekends, talked to her when Angel was forced to stay inside--away from the sun’s killing rays.

Xander saw and lived with a side of Buffy that Angel could never touch.

And Xander was human. And warm. His heart beat. His blood was his own. All the things that Angel had lost nearly 250 years before and had lusted for now that he was a souled vampire.

Yes, Buffy knew. And she did it anyway—for the plan. A plan that failed miserably and took the one person in the world that she felt connected to away.

Forever.

She never thought she could feel as bad as she had the year before when she sent Angel to Hell.

How fucking wrong she was.

She inwardly sighed, fighting a yawn. She was exhausted—emotionally as well as physically, and yet the last place she wanted to go was home.

"Pet, we’re here," Spike said as he gently shook her shoulder, jolting her out of her thoughts.

She turned and faced her sometime ally—most of the time enemy—and noticed he was watching her strangely. She gave him a small smile. "Don’t worry, Spike. I’m not losing it. I was just thinking about how much I don’t want to go inside. Somehow, it makes it all too real, you know?"

He turned around and reached over to the back of the car and pulled out an unopened bottle of tequila. Quickly breaking the seal, he tipped it to his mouth and took several large drinks.

"Yeah, I know." He slid the bottle between his legs and lit a cigarette.

"Spike?"

"Um?"

"Where are you staying?"

The vampire shrugged noncommittally as he took a drag off his cigarette. "The factory, I suppose."

That will not do, she thought to herself. As much as she hated it, she needed him. And as the evening wore on, she realized it wasn’t only to fight Angelus, but because Spike was the only one who understood her pain—because in this instance—it was his as well.

She shook her head and ran her fingers nervously through her hair. "No, Spike. He’ll find you. I’ll lay money the mayor’s got someone watching the place right now. " She leaned down and grabbed her slaying bag from the floor. "I can’t believe I’m gonna suggest this—but if you promise to keep your fangs away from me and mine, you can stay with us."

His scarred eyebrow lifted in surprise. "Are you sure, Slayer?"

She sighed again. "Do you promise?"

"What about your mum?"

Buffy giggled despite herself. "I have no idea how you did it, but you charmed her thoroughly," she told him, shaking her head in amazement. "You know, she forbid any of us to do the uninvite spell because she wanted to make sure that you knew you were always welcome in her home." Buffy laughed out loud. "Giles nearly had a heart attack and Angel—he was seething. Even though she knows—knew," she caught herself, "that Angel had his soul, she still didn’t like him or trust him. So, tell me, how the hell did you do it?" She asked, watching him finish off the tequila.

"Honest and polite. And never threatened her, luv. That’s the truth. I like your mum. She treats me with respect and cares, even though she knows I’m a soulless demon. I’ll tell ya, luv, if more humans were like that, there would be less eligible happy meals with legs, if you get my drift," he finished with a wink in her direction.

She groaned out loud as she opened the car door. "You know, you are the most exasperating person on the face of this planet?" She stepped out into the street and slammed the door shut. "Half the time, I don’t know if I want to laugh or stake you when I’m with you. So, do you promise? "

He pulled out a duffel bag and the tossed the empty bottle into the backseat. "Yeah, luv, I promise—as long as you keep those stakes away from my heart. I sorta fancy my undead organs—"

"I promise," she said as she walked past him and headed towards the front door.

~~~

As Spike lay in the makeshift bed the Slayer had fixed for him on the floor of her room, he tried to remember a time when killing a slayer was more appealing than wanting to shag one.

But he knew the answer.

Pre-Sunnyhell.

He silently chuckled, thinking of what that hick vampire, Gorch, had said to him earlier this summer when he met up with him in Texas. "That Slayer—she ain’t like any one I ever met before. Do you know she had me help her fight some egg-spewing demon with her and then tried to stake me?"

The overweight vampire was aghast that a Slayer would even consider fighting side by side him—it just was not normal.

But then Buffy had always said, she never got to read that handbook that everyone was talking about and her actions seemed to back that up. She improvised—following an instinct that seemed to only get better with age. And it worked far better than anyone ever thought possible. Spike was sure that those old tweed stuff shirts in England were throwing fits at the unorthodox methods of their slayer.

But still, she was alive when so many women in her shoes had died so much younger than herself.

Although Spike remembered everything he had known about the two slayers he had killed, it wasn't until after Acathla, that he had realized he never really had known them at all--not like he knew Buffy. Oh sure, he knew the first one loved her mother and that the one in New York fought almost like a vampire, but he sure as hell didn't meet either one's mother or watcher, and didn't care to either. But somehow, in the past two years, he had found himself enmeshed in Buffy's life. From the bi-weekly phone calls he and Joyce shared to Buffy and his common enemy--his unsouled sire--he found his life intertwined with hers despite the fact that he was supposedly her mortal enemy and vice-versa.

The ones before were just the enemy and something to conquer, and he treated them as such.

With his Slayer—and that’s what she was in his mind—his Slayer—he knew her friends not only by name but by face. He had talked to her mother for hours over the phone in the past couple of months and had been at one time, been on intimate terms with the love of her life.

So, was he getting soft?

He didn’t think so. The thought of an other slayer dying in his hands sent welcomed chills down his spine. Blood and mayhem still called him once the sun set and yet, he couldn’t forget the sinking feeling in his gut when Whistler told him that night that he was there for balance.

Balance for what?

Good? Evil?

And at whose expense? His? Poof’s? Dru’s?

The way Spike’s gut tightened, he had feeling he knew who was the small demon’s next project and that idea did not sit well with William the Bloody.

The vampire inwardly groaned as he tried to turn his exhausted brain off. He extended his senses and realized even through all his inner musings, he had yet to hear anything from the young woman that was causing all of his self-introspection.

Her silence was damning.

"Slayer?"

"Spike—don’t." He heard her take a ragged breath. "I can’t—not now."

Never one to follow orders or requests; he turned over to his side, facing the bed, and lifted himself enough to take a peek at her.

He bit back a moan.

There, lying in nearly the same position she had been when he had first shown up, was the Slayer, but this time, her eyes were wide open and filled with unshed tears.

She turned her head and their eyes met.

In 200 years, he had seen many humans cry, but until then, Spike never considered tears to be physically beautiful. Before, they had soothed his demon—their anguish filling him with glee.

But hers, they were different. Her hazel orbs—watery and filled—watched him carefully as he sat up.

Not even wanting to think about why he was doing this or if he would end up with a stake in his heart for his troubles, he pulled himself up and on sat on her bed. She silently watched him, tears now slipping serendipitously from her eyes as he scooted over and slipped in behind her, wrapping his cool arms around her fevered body.

Her silent pain called to him. So similar to his, that he had no choice but to gather her small body in his arms and hold her as the tears of a love forever lost flowed freely from her heart through her eyes.

As her body began to shake, he caressed her arms and head and felt each sob as if it were his own. Because maybe, if she cried enough for herself, she could shed a few for himself.

~~~

With a nearly finished cup of coffee in her hand, Joyce Summers opened her front door to leave for work.

She stopped.

Lying on the steps was a long, thin white box reminiscent of a flower box, with a small, white card taped to the top.

She bent down and picked it up, absently noting its weight and whom it was addressed to as she walked back into the house through to the kitchen.

She left it on the counter, knowing that Buffy would see it when she got up, but Joyce knew she had to be the one to call Spike. Not only did Buffy hate the vampire, she doubted if Buffy had any way of contacting him. No, Joyce would call his voice mail and let him know when she got to the gallery.

Not trusting her daughter’s need to ‘protect’ her, Joyce she had long ago left all evidence of her contact with him at the gallery—safe from her daughter’s prying eyes.

Before leaving, she gave the box one more glance while silently debating whether or not to wake her now, or give her a couple more hours of much needed sleep.

No, she would call Buffy from the gallery as well. Her daughter had a late night and tired slayers were sloppy slayers.

After taking one last sip of her coffee, she left the house and headed for the gallery, not noticing the two strange cars parked in front of her house as she drove away.

~~~

Slipping down from the car window, Faith wiped the gathering sweat from her brow, once again ignoring that tingle of conscience that tugged at her soul every time she saw or thought of Joyce Summers. After nearly five minutes, she heard the Summer’s Jeep pull out of the driveway and drive past her car. Only then did she sit up and grab the cellular phone that lay on the passenger seat. Hitting the speed dial, she made her call.

"Hey Boss, it’s inside."

"Good. Very well done, Faith. Why don’t you go home and catch some rest. We can’t have a tired Slayer tonight, now can we?"

She found herself grinning in response. As evil as the mayor could be, he still took care of her. "Sure thing. I’ll be at home if you need me," the slayer said then hung up. Bed—my wonderful comfortable bed.

"It may be empty now, B, but pretty soon I’ll have my own pet vampire to fill it," she whispered to herself as she turned on the ignition and pulled her brand new Mustang GT out onto the road. As she passed the black De Sotto, she smirked, remembering Angelus’ rage once he found about the return of his wayward progeny to the Slayer’s side.

Angelus’ anger was a beautiful sight. A wondrous, sexy sight.

~~~

Spike’s phone rang first.

Half asleep, he entangled himself from the warm, sleeping body of the slayer and reached down to the side of the bed and grabbed his duster. Digging through the inside pocket, he found it and pulled it out.

"What?"

"Spike? It’s Joyce."

He felt the slayer’s body stiffen at the sound of her mother’s voice. "Joyce?" Buffy reached over to snag the phone and he slapped her hands away and turned to his side—trying to ignore the hot feel of her glaring eyes on the back of his head. "What can I do for you?"

"I know it’s early—or late—for you, but I thought I was just calling your voice mail. I’m sorry—"

"It’s alright, luv. I had all my calls forwarded," he said, rolling over onto his back and meeting Buffy’s confused, swollen eyes. "What’s wrong?"

"No—nothing like that. It’s just that this morning someone left a package at the doorstep for you and Buffy and I—"

"Package? What kind of package?"

"That’s the strangest thing. Not only was it addressed to both you and Buffy, but also for a flower box, it was pretty heavy. I know you and my daughter don’t get along—"

He felt Buffy tense at the word flower box and Spike remembered over a year ago when Angelus had sent Buffy a dozen red roses…"Can I call you back?"

"Sure. I’m at work now. Do you have the number?"

He couldn’t help but chuckle at Buffy’s indignation when he nodded. "Sure do, luv. Thanks and I’ll get back to you." He closed the phone and met the slayer’s astonished face and grinned.

"What can I say, pet? She likes me."