30. Triplicate
Please, Wesley... why can't I stay?
Why can't I stay?
Wesley jerked upright in the hotel bed, sheets tangled around him, and put his head in his hands... trying to calm his frantic gasps to a volume that wouldn't wake up his companions.
"I'm m-making tea," a voice said quietly. "Do you want some?"
He turned bleary eyes on Tara, still unused to seeing those wise, quiet eyes peeking out of a face he remembered best at twelve, shrieking through Buffy's house in a flurry of long brown hair and preteen energy.
Those memories aren't real. Dawn was never there, never hero-worshipped Faith just to irritate Buffy, never interrupted Scooby meetings, never called you Watcher Prissy-Pants. It didn't happen, no more than Connor...
Wesley let out another soft groan then; more guilt, excellent.
"You had another nightmare about Fred," Tara said, a statement not a question.
"They are... somewhat incessant." He reached for his glasses on the bedside table.
"Well... there's tea. Kind of, um, coffee-flavored...? I tried to clean the machine, but... y'know. But hey, more caffiene, less sleep, less nightmares...?"
"In that case, tea sounds excellent."
He watched her pad barefoot back into the bathroom... the shy, mothering white witch whose death had inspired a psychotic killing spree.
Wesley had always felt a bizarre kinship with Willow Rosenburg, a similarity he'd been unable to pinpoint back in their days of near-constant contact; an annoyance, a word on the tip of his tongue.
The parallels had snapped into place slowly afterwards; The Dark Dweeb, magically-inclined right hand of the Champion.
If he'd had the power to flay Knox with a wave of his hand, would he have done it?
Oh, yes. Yes, he would have.
Only... he would have done it much slower.
His gaze shifted then, across the beige-carpeted valley between the double beds, where the God-King Illyria slept peacefully beneath a pastel painting of a golf course.
She slept on whim, seemingly compelled from boredom rather than exhaustion, like sleep was a sort of screen-saver.
He wondered if she dreamt, and of what.
Soft footsteps; Tara had returned, handing him a hotel mug before settling herself cross-legged at the foot of his bed and blowing softly across the surface of her own.
"You like her," Tara whispered, looking at Illyria.
"Fred? 'Like' hardly encompasses it..."
"I meant Illyria. You like her, too. And not just because she looks like Fred."
Wesley paused. "I hated her. She killed Fred. I tried to kill her. I... failed."
"But you don't feel that way anymore."
"I..." Wesley sipped his tea. "I have no idea. It is... complex. Illyria is... she is certainly very interesting."
"She cares about you."
"I'm not sure if that is accurate. Humans are so beneath her. She is, after all, a god."
"Would you get rid of her? If you could?"
"To bring Fred back? Oh God, yes. But... I have a certain... affection for Illyria. I suppose if I were wishing, I should like to have them both around."
"But you can't," Tara whispered, her hands wrapping around her mug.
Wesley's eyes darkened. "Tara, there was nothing further you could have done. What you had already done was remarkable. You saved Spike, and you did the best you could for Dawn..."
"She's stuck out there, Wesley. It's horrible. I... I know."
One eyebrow lifted. "Tara... how do you know?"
"I like the way you say my name. Tah-rah, all soft. Reminds me of Giles..."
"How do you know?"
Tara sighed. "When I died... W-Willow was so angry. She... she couldn't bring me back, but her anger, the... the force of her will... it w-wouldn't let me go. I got... trapped here. I watched Willow go insane, I watched Dawn cry for hours over my body... and once I figured out how to move myself, I watched Willow flay Warren, hurt everyone, nearly end the world... and there was nothing I could do to stop it, nothing."
"Oh, Tara..." Wesley said in horror.
"I hoped she'd figure it out, set me free. Especially when the First came back as everyone but me... I t-tried to talk to them, tried to do anything... but all I could do was watch."
Tara fisted her sweater in both hands, staring at her knees. "When they left the country? After Sunnydale was destroyed? They left me behind. I couldn't travel fast enough to follow them... and then I didn't know where they were. Sunnydale was gone. The only place I knew I could eventually get to... where I might hear something... was where Angel was."
Wesley blinked in surprise. "You were at Wolfram & Hart."
"When I saw Spike was a ghost, I was so hopeful." Tears shone in Tara's eyes. "I mean, he and I weren't ever really close, but the thought... the thought of having someone to talk to, someone who could see me..."
"But he couldn't see you, could he?" Wesley said gently.
Tara shook her head. "Even Pavayne couldn't. Which was good, I guess...? I mean, getting fed to Hell, not so great... but sort of the final straw? I wasn't... I wasn't even a ghost. I was... less than a ghost."
"And now you're afraid you didn't do everything in your power to help Dawn."
"I was so... so miserable, Wesley. And now I'm really alive again. At Dawn's expense. How can I live with that? I m-mean, I t-tried to do the right thing, to protect her, b-but I... I failed. I failed. And I can't stop thinking about everything I could have done differently... what the heck was I doing, carrying the Orb in my purse? I should have had it somewhere safer, I should have..."
Wesley shut his eyes, breathing deeply. "Tara, if you're going to quote my autobiography, I do hope I get royalties."
"Huh?"
"'I Failed', by Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. And I just keep adding chapters. One might have thought my death would be the epilogue... and oh, did I mention that I was the only one on the team not to complete my objective? Illyria had to kill my target for me." Wesley sighed, running his thumb over the rim of his mug. "I'm thinking of having my father write the preface, only I suspect his litany of my shortcomings would stretch it into several volumes."
"Illyria hates your father."
Wesley did a double-take. "What?"
"She mentioned him... earlier, at the mall? I was talking about my dad. She said your father was an emasculating, pompous insect who should crawl before you, um, said something about ripping out his spine? She also said he was a 'wanker'... I guess Spike is kind of rubbing off on her."
"Illyria... called my father... a wanker?"
Tara nodded.
"I take back my earlier 'suppose'," Wesley said, something dangerously
close to real laughter coloring his voice. "I would definitely like to
keep them both."
"All right," Angel growled, channeling what seemed to be a world-class freak-out into championship pacing. "I'm sick of this diaspora crap. I want Connor here. I want Wes and Illyria here. And God help me, I even want Spike here. Are you done with that locator spell yet, Xander?"
"Oh, I'm done," Xander said. "This is me gaping in confusion."
Gunn leaned over Xander's shoulder. "So, what's the purple dot?"
"Well, technically there shouldn't be a purple dot. There should be one red Buffy-dot and one blue Dawn-dot. Instead, we have confusing purple crapness."
"As I feared," Giles sighed, removing his glasses.
Xander whipped around to face him. "Why's everything gotta be 'as I feared' or 'as I suspected'? Once, just once, can you jump in the air squealing 'Holy moley, I had no idea!' and then maybe run around screaming like a girl?"
"I don't like to infringe on your territory," Giles glared.
Angel ignored them. "So, 'as you feared'... what did you fear?"
"Buffy has been... integrated," Giles sighed. "Whatever part of her the monks removed to make Dawn... it's been put back."
Gunn raised an eyebrow. "That's why she was singin' 'bout Indian food?"
"I would imagine the process is rather traumatic. Possibly not as dramatic as that undergone by Angel and Spike, as Buffy only had half a soul return, but..."
"Y'know, I thought I knew what a soul was," Gunn protested. "Never involved any damn fractions."
"I don't think any of us can properly say what a soul is, Charles. Look at the different effects getting one had on Angel and Spike. Angel is completely different; Spike is so similar that he lost his and no one even noticed. Dawn's soul seems to have arrived with Dawn's memories... I can only surmise, Angel, that your soul did not do the same because none were formed... wherever it was."
"Let's save the theology discussion for another day, shall we?" Xander interrupted. "Just tell me what spell I gotta do to put Dawn back in Dawn's body."
"Xander, if we'd known the exact details of how the monks made Dawn..."
"So we'll figure it out, right? Those guys gotta have records somewhere!"
"And where would that be, Xander?" Giles challenged. "The scenic crater that is Sunnydale?"
"What exactly do you want me to do here?" Xander snapped. "Leave Buffy cookoo for cocoa puffs and singing about cheese when we're frozen in the headlights of an oncoming apocalypse?"
Giles hung his head. "Xander, Dawn is part of Buffy and moreover, always was. Perhaps we shouldn't try to remove her again."
"Am I the only one bothered that Dawn is dead?"
"She isn't technically dead, Xander. She never really existed. She was always a part of Buffy... and I suspect she will be again, once the initial shock is over. I think our efforts might be better spent in helping Buffy adjust rather than trying to split her soul in half again."
Xander closed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them. "Reveale."
A sheet of parchment flamed to life on the table in front of them, and Giles' eyes narrowed. "Xander... are you... communicating with Willow in some way we're unaware?"
"Yeah... that creepy way she used to talk in our heads? Goes both ways now. Pretty cool, huh? Don't even need to touch her to drain her anymore, which helps with the freako lust." Xander picked up the parchment, squinting at it. "Crap, what is this -- some kind of demon language?"
Gunn stuck out his hand. "Pass it over."
"Xander," Giles said carefully, "You haven't... you haven't had much training, and you saw firsthand what magic did to..."
"Don't worry, Giles," Xander laughed. "I'm not gonna be putting dancing guys in cages or gettin' freaky with the black magic crack."
Giles coughed. "Xander... I certainly don't mean to insult you, but you are somewhat... impetuous... particularly when, ah, emotions are involved..."
"Hey! I'm not..."
"No, you're just the guy who tried to decapitate Spike for sleeping with your ex-girlfriend," Gunn chuckled, eyes still on the parchment.
"Really?" Angel grinned. "Why didn't anyone tell me this funny, funny story?"
"It was part of my and Spike's Wes/Fred discussion," Gunn traced his finger down the page. "There was tequila involved."
"Hey!" Xander protested, "Riley staked Spike with that plastic stake just for..."
"Again, these are very pleasant stories that nobody's bothered to share..."
"It's K'Hortian," Gunn said, lifting the scroll to indicate it. "Species of demons with a real take-charge attitude towards reincarnation and a hell of a recycling program."
"I've heard of them." Excitement seeped into Giles' voice. "When one dies, they transfer its essence into another body..."
"An unborn K'Hortian, if one's available," Gunn continued. "But if not... they double up. Hence this handy-dandy little integration spell. Can't believe I didn't think of it myself, after those K'Hortian negotiations in February..."
Angel stared at the parchment in Gunn's hands, then at Xander. "You can summon up any spell you need? That's a hell of a talent you're just sharing now..."
"Willow says it has limits. She just hasn't figured out what they are yet. She thinks it might be sorta like those template books of Wesley's you guys mentioned... calling up knowledge? Gunn knew about the K'Hortians, he just didn't remember... Amy knew the de-ratting spell, she was just too ratty to cast it."
"Do you think this will work on Buffy?"
Gunn studied the parchment. "Worth a shot. Better than leaving her raving about N'Sync."
"Having suffered hours of exposure? I'm inclined to agree," Giles sighed.
"Here ya go," Cordelia said, handing Willow a re-wetted cloth.
Willow did not meet her eyes, Resolve Face in full effect as she tried to still Buffy's thrashing head long enough to apply the compress. "Thanks."
Cordelia regarded the figure on the bed. "Wonder what's going on in there?"
"Dunno. Doesn't look like fun, though..."
The stake slides into Katrina Silber's chest, her eyes popping open... and they're blue, Spike-blue, staring blankly at the sky.
And Warren Mears goes flying across a bordello-red bedroom, propelled by the weight of Katrina in a French Maid's outfit, kissing him frantically.
"Tell me you love me," Warren demands.
"I love you, Master."
"I love you too, baby," Warren purrs. "Get on your knees."
The crypt door flies open with a bang; Buffy does not do knocking.
"Tell me you love me."
Spike's face lights up. "I love you. You know I do."
"Tell me you want me."
"I always want you," Spike whispers, then gives her the naughty eyebrow. "In point of fact..."
Buffy's lips twitch in disgust. "Shut up."
Katrina rolls bonelessly down the hill, Buffy gasping in horror as her corpse bumps against rocks, gathers fallen leaves...
KilledahumanFaithohgodI'mFaithI'mjustlikeFaith...
And Spike's head slams into the concrete of the alley, the fine angles of his face swollen and blurred, bruises blooming over the pale finery of his skin, frantic fists sinking deeper into muscle, hearing bones crack, something wild and dark and angry blooming in the empty place inside...
And the light goes rainbow, stained-glass turning sunlight to crimson and green and gold, painting dark wood pews and red velvet as Faith, inside Buffy's body, punches her own in the face.
"You're nothing! Disgusting! Murderous bitch! You're nothing! You're disgusting!"
Spike tries to roll over, tries to catch an ankle, one last attempt to keep her from martyring herself, one last night to try and save her from her wish for annihilation...
Too much is broken; his ribs, his arm, his heart. He collapses back onto his back, stares up at the brightening sky, lets out as much of a groan as the punctured lung will let him.
This is the way the world ends, Spike thinks. Not with a bang, but with a whimper...
And then he hears the sound of size eight pink sneakers, pounding beneath the flapping legs of pyjamas; Dawn is screaming Buffy's name... and then his.
"Spike! What happened to you?"
Dawn's hands flutter over Spike's ruined face, wanting to soothe but not finding a safe spot to touch; she settles for wiping the worst of the blood from his mouth with her sleeve.
"What the bleedin' hell you doin' out here, Nibblet? All manner of beasties could have gotten a bite of you..." Spike tries to rise and falls back onto the concrete, Dawn's hand sliding beneath his head a second before it cracks against the pavement.
"Like the ones that got a bite of you? Geez, Spike, what the..."
"Go home, pidge. S'not safe..." Spike peers into Dawn's face. "You been cryin'? Who's made you cry? Bloody well kill 'em..." He coughs up more blood. "In just a minute..."
"Spike, you don't know, I have to stop Buffy, I..."
Dawn's face freezes in horror. Suddenly, she knows.
"You tried to stop Buffy," she whispers.
"Don't know what you're on about, Bit... ran into a bunch of muggers... human, y'know, chip... run on home, I just need a mo'..."
"You don't have a mo, you stubborn... stupid... do you know what time it is?"
Dawn tries to haul Spike to his feet, dropping him with a squeal when she realizes she's grabbed his broken arm. His lips are swelling larger by the moment, his words becoming more slurred, and the alley is getting brighter and brighter and no and no and NO he is not leaving her too, not when she's lost Mom and Giles and Tara have gone away and Buffy might as well be gone and...
She looks around frantically, her eyes falling on the dumpster in the corner. She grabs Spike by the collar and hauls him down the alley, her back shrieking in protest, and how fair is it that stupid Buffy got the Slayer strength if this is what she's going to do with it...?
And then she's opening the dumpster lid, pulling out garbage bags, and oh gross her hands are getting all slimy and it smells like maggots, dropping the bags over Spike, burying him like they're at the beach only with stinky old coffee filters and pizza boxes. She runs her hands over the pile, checking for light leaks, tugging oily rags and crusty hamburger wrappers over the holes. She is gonna shower, like, a million times after this...
"Sorry about the smell and stuff... I'll see if I can get Tara or Clem or something... don't breathe for a while, okay?"
Dawn studies the pile of trash, tears running down her cheeks. "I hate her."
Barely audible: "No, you don't."
"I do so! She's... it's like she's dead inside, like she can't feel anything, she..."
But Spike does not hear her, passed out now, weighted down by garbage and guilt he should not be able to feel,
(you can't feel anything real)
remembering Katrina's pale face as she sank beneath the surface of the water, slowly disappearing, swallowed by shadows,
(you belong in the shadows, with me)
sucked downward by the weights he has placed on her, and he can't be crying, he's the soddin' Big Bad, he doesn't cry, and certainly not for some anonymous bint that was a bloody accident... and why is it he can only see Buffy's face, tinged blue in the moonlit river, growing darker and more alien with each inch she sinks?
The beater, the beaten, the rescuer; Buffy screams as she sinks under the weight of despair in triplicate.