Title: Furlough Author: kindred Disclaimer: Joss Whedon gets the profits here. My aim is entertainment, not infringement. Rating: NC-17 Feedback: Thank you, yes Summary/Spoilers: AtS 'Not Fade Away'. Buffy and Dawn travel to London to get updated on the latest averted apocalypse...our heroes return to their lives... A/N: Thank you to everyone who has given this story a chance. I appreciate your readership and your thoughts and opinions. A whirling smilie goes out to Debs and Toby and Jerusha. I enjoyed the cyber repartee! Epilogue: Freely The key clicked in the lock and Dawn pushed open the front door. A light switched on and Andrew was there, greeting his friends. "Oh Dawn, Buffy, you're back," Andrew bounced on his toes with his hands on his hips. "We've had some dermatological issues while you've been gone." Ever mindful of his duty, Andrew thought he better get that out of the way first. "Andrew--" Buffy sighed, finally feeling her exhaustion. Spike appeared in the hallway with the rest of the luggage. "It'll wait," Andrew's eyes twinkled at Spike. Buffy stood in the doorway looking at Spike. "Spike, please come--" "Excuse me!" Dawn shouldered her way past Buffy and grabbed her luggage from Spike. "I'm tired and going to bed." "'Night, Bit." Buffy took Spike's hand and repeated her invitation just to make sure it was out there. He passed across the threshold into Buffy's apartment. Andrew stood transfixed and elated in his Star Wars Episode One tee shirt and Spiderman pajama bottoms. "Andrew," Spike acknowledged him solemnly, anticipating something exuberant, perhaps involving physical contact. "It's good to see you again, Spike." Andrew arched an eyebrow instead of throwing his arms around Spike. Restraint was part of Andrew's new manly regimen. Perhaps if Spike stuck around a little eau de coolness would waft in Andrew's direction and infect him with some alpha goodness. With his new shaggy hair, Andrew thought 'butch' could be just the look for him. Buffy bent over and grabbed something she picked up at the airport from her carry all bag. She slapped a newspaper against Andrew's chest. "Congratulations, Andrew! Today is the day you find a new apartment. I'll clear my schedule and you and I will get on that first thing in the morning." Andrew blinked and nodded. He was actually surprised he'd lasted this long in Buffy's home. "Sound like a plan?" "Yes, that sounds like a plan." Andrew maintained his manly façade with aplomb. He'd miss video night on the sofa with Dawn. She was just coming around to the whole Timothy Dalton worldview, and of course, a heavy Johnny Depp rotation was no hardship for Andrew. Maybe they could make a weekly date of it. "Okay," Buffy yawned. "I'll see you in the morning. Good night, Andrew." Buffy picked up her luggage and led Spike down the hallway to her bedroom. Andrew locked the front door and returned to his bed on the fold out sofa. He soon fell back asleep and dreamed the dreams of the few...the just...the facially exfoliated. * August 2004 Los Angeles, California Behind the front desk of the Hyperion hotel, a newly connected telephone rang. It echoed through the deserted lobby. "Is someone going to answer that?" Angel's soft voice called from his back office. He stood up from behind his desk and walked out the door. It could be Connor. He had the new number and the ring was evidence that the line had finally been connected. Angel saw Illyria behind the desk. She stood listing at an impossible angle; her eyes fixed on a small pot of African violets with fringed pink flowers. The piercing sound of the ringing phone did not even register with her. "I'll just get that then," Angel leaned beside her and picked up the phone. "Hello? Hey...Pretty quiet here, how about you?" At that moment Charles Gunn ambled through the front doors in a business suit, carrying his briefcase and leaning on a cane. Illyria turned her head and acknowledged his presence. "Yeah, that would be great...okay...I'll see you." Angel hung up the phone and looked up at Gunn. "How'd that legal thing go?" Angel stood with his hands loose at his sides, looking strangely casual in jeans and a dark green dress shirt. Gunn offered his still intact legal expertise to his friend Anne and the kids at the shelter. He'd fought off threats of eviction and various misdemeanor offences. Compared to his Wolfram and Hart days, these legal squabbles were miniscule, but he made a difference. After the storm had passed over, the little things were once again paramount. Illyria stayed at the hotel if Gunn needed to be in court; otherwise she was by his side. She referred to him her consort designate. She said it was to let him know his place, as a lesser being, but Gunn knew different. Illyria had some serious chinks in her armor. Years of living hand to mouth on the street made Gunn a savvy observer of anything and anyone who crossed his path. In Illyria he saw an all too familiar pose. She pranced and preened and announced her superiority with the delirious and super confident air of a street hustler. Gunn knew that bravado intimately and he knew the fear it masked. With the loss of Wesley, Illyria's bouts of 'mightier than thou' pontification lessened considerably. She was down to two or three outbursts a day. They struck Gunn more and more as nostalgic reminiscences. Oddly, memories of existence as an omnipotent being mingled equally with memories of growing up in Texas as a skinny and frighteningly intelligent girl. Neither Fred nor Illyria, the blue tinged being was more a composite and therefore not that different from Angel or Gunn or Nina. Although she complained of the unwanted residual 'contamination' by the shell, she felt the emotional memories of having true friendships and loves, and not just the fawning absent devotion of the masses. Reduced from the rank of godhead, Illyria was simply a being passing through this realm and she had much to learn. Her bark was still an awesome hurricane and her bite was not inconsequential, but she did have weaknesses. She mourned for Wesley still and only the presence of Gunn would soothe her these days. "Another check in the win column. How you doing, Blue?" "This building annoys me. Its design is erratic." Her demeanor always softened toward Gunn. Illyria insisted on accompanying him to the shelter days before. They happened upon an unruly trio of knife wielding thugs who were harassing Anne's clients before turning their interest to Gunn and Illyria. Gunn watched as the pumped up fools goaded Illyria with a cry of "Show us your tits!" He stopped her from killing them, but she did manage to pocket two ears for her troubles. "I want to put the thump on some mo-fos, Charles." That statement caught Angel's attention. "Is this something to worry about, Gunn?" "You remember our little field trip the other day? Well, Illyria had a wonderful time." Angel nodded. An apparently content and involved Illyria was a good thing, wasn't it? Angel Investigations reopened for business. It was Gunn's idea to return to what they knew and did best, helping people. It was something Anne reminded him of, before the great battle. Something Gunn had almost let slip away. What do you do when you know your efforts won't make one bit of difference? When what is to come will come regardless of deed or thought or prayer. You do what you do. Everyday. In the trenches. Building a life worth living one step at a time. Believing that life is worth living. Having the faith to go forward into the unknown. Gunn found that faith again, not faith in gadgets or magicks or rolling the dice, but faith in himself and his two hands. He lived up to his obligations to the memory of the fallen: Wesley, Fred, Cordelia, and his beloved Alonna; to Anne and her kids; and to Illyria, a stranger in this strange land. A creature who needed a purpose and a compass, friendship and belonging in spite of her horrible deeds and arrogant conceits. Angel's sullen blankness eased as well. Nina helped with that. She would not bend or break in the face of the knowledge she had gained from knowing Angel. He was still distant, but she saw something there, something worthy of her effort. Having Angel in her life was no more daunting than the shadow inside her, the moon beast who lived beyond her fingertips. Nina lived each day and was grateful for another. The front door opened and Nina walked in. She looked toward Angel and smiled in greeting and heard the continuation of the conversation between Gunn, Angel and Illyria. "It continues to amaze me that your kind rose to dominance here. The human form is so shabbily conceived...so many vulnerabilities, so many weaknesses..." Having heard Illyria's 'you are all insects' rant more times than she would have liked, Nina walked over and kissed Angel's cheek. Illyria's attention piqued at that motion, but her scathing diatribe continued. "...Just a flick of the wrist and the ear comes right off. Horrible design." Nina wrinkled her nose in response. "A porpoise would have been a far better master of this world. Compact. Streamlined. Built for maximum efficiency of effort. Infinitely more beauteous than your porous carcasses. Their superiority over you in every conceivable capacity must irritate your puny primate egos in the extreme." Her statement ended as she observed Angel hug Nina to his side and tickle her hair with his nose. The front door opened again and tall broad shouldered blond man walked inside. He wore a uniform with matching shorts and crisp short sleeved shirt. He carried a clipboard, a parcel and a nametag that read 'Chip'. Chip approached a group of four people standing around the counter and barely gave the blue haired, leather clad female with the almost there homicidal glare a second look. This was LA. Everyone had a gimmick. "Package for Mr.-- uh...Angel. He's got to sign for it." Angel stepped up to speak to Chip. Illyria turned her attention to Nina. "Angel enjoys the olfactory experience of your subcutaneous extrusions." "Um...excuse me?" "Your hair," Gunn provided needed translation. "Angel likes the smell of your hair." "Why is that?" Illyria had the habit of making small talk seem like an interrogation. "I guess it smells good to him." Illyria had never actually spoken to Nina before. She didn't quite know how to respond. "What is your prescribed regimen?" "Um, just shampoo and conditioner, I suppose. And a comb." Illyria's matted mane had not escaped Nina's eye. "What is...shampoo?" Illyria's empty expression wavered. Angel signed the clipboard while listening to Chip's enthusiastic pitch. This was LA. Everyone had a pitch. "...It's a monsters in the sewers kinda deal. 'Godzilla' meets 'Daylight' meets 'Kitten with a Whip'..." "Well, that sounds interesting. Good luck with that screenplay thing, Chip." Angel handed back the clipboard and pen. "Later, dude." Chip grinned and sauntered out of the hotel, thinking it would be a great location for the first act of his movie. Angel stepped back over to the counter and rejoined the conversation. "...Well, I'm heading to the spa, you could come along." Nina's halting delivery and quizzical expression made it sound like a question. She looked from Angel to Gunn and back to Illyria. "I will kill things there?" "No." It was an automatic response from Gunn. Nina continued. "They will pamper and polish you...with shampoo. They aim to please." "Slaves will tend to this shape...make it pleasingly scented?" Illyria glanced toward Gunn. "Not slaves," Nina corrected her, "estheticians and beauty consultants." "They will die horribly if I am not well pleased." "Uhh..." Nina looked to Gunn for assistance. "If you don't like it, just don't leave a tip." "You will accompany me Charles." The tone of her voice was almost a request. "I suppose I could go for a little pampering." Illyria walked in a strident manner toward the front doors. That was Gunn's cue to set his briefcase on the counter. "I guess that's us leaving for the spa." Nina shrugged her shoulders and gave Angel a hug. "Later Duuude!" She mimicked Chip's cheery farewell. "Sure you can keep yourself out of trouble until we get back?" Gunn glanced in Angel's direction as he paused at the door. Angel nodded and tore open the packaging of the parcel. He walked back into his office with the jovial sounds of Illyria, Gunn and Nina ringing in his ears. Angel stared into the package and then rechecked the label for the return address. He paused before removing the contents, letting its message soak through him. He pressed his lips into an almost smile. There was no sender specified on the box but the place of origin was Rome, Italy. Angel looked around his office for the perfect place and found it. Beside the framed picture of Cordelia and the one of he and Connor, Angel carefully placed the unopened can of Mountain Dew. * August, 2004 Rome, Italy "You are the most infuriating vampire ever!" Buffy yelled at Spike while she kicked the chest of a longhaired vampire. "Infuriating? Me? You wrote the soddin' manual on infuriating, love. I got my own rhythm to these things and you just waltz right in and bollix it all up." Spike lectured calmly as he snapped the neck of a large opponent. "Yeah, yeah...see vamp, see vamp go poof. Some rhythm." She stepped backwards aggressively and impaled another vampire with her stake. The creature exploded in a cloud of dust. Buffy waved her hand and coughed loudly. Breathing in vamp dust was the worst, an unavoidable occupational hazard yes, but still unpleasant. The crowd of attackers soon evaporated. "You have just watched too many movies, Spike. I swear, I thought you were gonna start on the 'this town ain't big enough for the both of us' crap. Talking to them is a mistake, just grab the damn stake and apply liberally." Buffy brushed former vampire flakes from her halter top and denim skirt. "From now on you are banned from watching anything with Clint Eastwood on a horse! I mean, who watches westerns anymore?" Spike waved his hand. "I do, right here. And the dustier, the better." "That's 'cause you're bent." "Yes, I think we've established that, pet. Besides, you like me twisted, you know you do." Spike flared his eyebrows in a provocative manner. "Don't even start that. I'm PLENTY pissed off and...Forget it! The tongue curl has no power over me." "No? That's not what I heard last night--" "And stop tilting your head! I'm annoyed with you. Stop trying to seduce me." "I have to try now? Bloody hell, that cuts me deep, Slayer." He tilted his head and nailed her with a meaty lower lip thrust. Buffy swallowed hard. "And what's with you lately? All this macho posturing and nostril flaring? You used to be all fangs first and grrr. I think more than a little Angel has rubbed off on you." Spike's eyes turned stormy. "You take that back! I'm nothing like Peaches." "Careful, your broody's showing." Buffy smirked and backed away slowly. "You don't get to call me broody. I'm a thinker. He's a stewer. It's a whole different vibe." "Broody is as broody does..." Buffy turned and started running. Most nights they patrolled with the young slayers and then they did a short patrol alone. They bickered and squabbled and generally behaved like snarky grade schoolers. Usually there was taunting, accompanied by some minor sparring and a vicious clash of pheromones. Buffy disappeared behind an impressive mausoleum. "Yoo hoo, Mr. W-o-l-f!" Her playful singsong voice sailed through the steamy Roman night. In a flash he had her pressed against an ancient stone wall. "Looky, looky, what I found." His voice solidified into a low growl that resonated deeply within Buffy's body. Bite marks on her neck, and the intimate punctures on her nipples and between her thighs vibrated in response to his throaty declaration. Her scent thickened the air between them. "N-no fair. You can't just fire up the whammy Spike, that's...that's..." "Cheatin'?" He held her closely, examining his prize, this annoying and electrifying pearl of great price. "Well, I was evil, love. Some habits die hard." "Sp--" His lips covered hers with ravenous purpose. Her hands dove between them, searching for his hardness. Tonight they wouldn't make it beyond the dusty confines of a nearby crypt. Spike carried her through a door to a sarcophagus. His leather covered its surface. Hands worked in a furious duet as they dove at each other in a madness of their own making. A gasp of need and a reply of untamed hunger filled the musty confines of this makeshift boudoir. A surging and growling rhythm eventually gave way to a breathless vocal intonation of surrender: lips swollen beyond kisses, tongues silenced beyond words, eyes clouded beyond desire and flesh glowing beyond fantasy. Their bodies spoke the language of belonging, of fears eased and burdens lessened; of hope for the lost and the lonely to be found and acknowledged and sanctified. They knew that whatever the path or how distant the journey the trail ahead was not merely to be endured, but to be savored. Together. "Buffy?" Hovering in her bliss, Buffy grunted. "Unh." "Sweetheart--" "Shh...Shh...Afterglow is a sacred thing. Don't ruin it." "You cold? Uncomfortable? This is a sarcophagus, you know." "Is that a complaint I hear?" Buffy opened an eye and squinted at Spike. "It's only...our bed's nice and comfy. Better for you, I mean." "Our poor bed needs a break, don't you think? And it's not like we've never done it on a sarcophagus. What?" Buffy sat up on one elbow. "Is the Big Bad getting spoiled? You better not be going soft on me." Buffy smirked as her eyes and fingers trailed down his torso toward his cock. "Hey!" Spike flipped her over and settled in the warm embrace of her thighs. "Okay, I give," Buffy giggled. "Softness is NOT the issue." She sighed contentedly as Spike kissed the span of her collarbone. "Mmm, today was such a good day. Well, except for the parts when you pissed me off." "Right back atcha, Goldilocks." "You know Spike, if you'd just worked on that attitude thingy, you'd be the fluffiest, bunniest widdle vampire ever!" Buffy didn't even get the chance to smile. He was inside her deep and thick and snarling. "Ahhh," Buffy arched her back in response to his fervor. "You were saying, Slayer?" Buffy looked up into his burning yellow eyes, his wicked face tense and defiant. She tried to focus, but his attentions were more than distracting. A hushed voice sounded from deep in her throat. "There's my nasty widdle bunny boy..." The games had begun anew. The End