Title: Breaking a Slayer 40-41

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

Spoilers/Ships: This is AU. Buffy/Spike/Angel. Xander/Anya. Willow/Tara.

Distribution: Sure, just let me know.

Feedback: Is always nice. DarkRhiannon@aol.com

Rating: NC-17.

Author's Note: Quotes are from Ats "To Shanshu in LA." I have, of course, taken incredible liberties with it in order to insert Spike into the tale. It only vaguely resembles what some of you may have seen. Sorry for the long delay. I have been unable to post to or sometimes even read Fanfiction.net for over a month now. With luck, things will be better now that the new servers are on-line. Thank you to all my faithful readers for your continued interest and even your occasionally forceful emails demanding new chapters (Jade). I much appreciate them all. -Rhi

*

Wesley was staring blearily at the scroll before him and rubbing his eyes. "Is there a reason Angel took this?"

Spike paced back and forth unceasingly, increasingly agitated by the state of things. "I don't bloody know. He’s too blinkin’ out of it to tell me anything. The stupid ritual is tomorrow night and he’s barely conscious. I should never have let him go harin’ off helping you lot on that stupid errand. Waste of bloody time, it was. That useless scroll makes no difference." He gestured rudely at Wesley.

Wesley looked up at him. "The prophecies of Aberjian. There is an entire passage…about Angel….Shanshu….Shanshu…. Or maybe it's shushan."

Cordy looked up from the paper she was reading. "Are you still trying to figure out that word? What's taking so long?"

Wesley was irritated. "Gee, I don't know, Cordelia. The prophecies of Aberjian were only written over the last 4000 years, in a dozen different languages, some of which aren't even human! Why don't we just get a phalangoid demon in here, suck the brain out of my skull? Maybe that would speed things up."

Cordy raised an elegant eyebrow. "He sure gets testy when he's translating."

Wesley said, irately, "This word is pivotal to what it prophesies about the vampire with a soul."

"Well, hurry up and figure out what it says about Angel, because I wanna know what it says about me," Cordy said. "If there is torrid romance in my future, massive wealth? If I have to I'll settle for enviable fame."

Wesley rolled his eyes at her. "This is an ancient sacred text, not a magic eight ball."

Cordy: "Nobody gets my humor."

Spike stopped pacing a moment. "I thought it was funny."

Cordy looked askance at him. "Hmm. Hey guys? Remember born-again lawyer-boy who wanted out of Wolfram & Hart so bad?"

"Lindsey?" Spike asked absently.

"They just promoted him. Junior partner," she added.

Wesley was indignent. "After all Angel did for him, he sells his soul for thirty pieces of silver."

Cordy corrected him. "Actually he sold it for a six-figure salary and a full benefits package."

"It's disappointing." Wesley said. "He had an opportunity to change."

Spike went back to pacing. "He didn't take it." He froze then looked up.

Wesley noticed him. "What?"

"Bloody late for visitors." Spike moved quickly to the outer office, scooping up Angel’s favorite battle ax. The one he "wasn’t allowed to touch." Serve his sire right if it got all corroded with some caustic demon blood because he was snoozing away downstairs instead of fighting by his childe’s side where he belonged. The incongruity of his thoughts didn’t trouble Spike in the slightest.

Cordy and Wesley followed him, oddly enough, not questioning their instinctive acceptance of his role as Angel’s Second.

Spike tapped the intruder on the back with his battle ax and it cowered down, letting out a scream.

Spike could smell him and recognized the scent. "Mr. Nabbit?"

Cordy asked, incredulously, "David?"

Nabbit replied, "Par-pardon my throat."

Spike realized he was threatening his sire's only paying customer, probably a bad idea, and pulled the razor sharp blade of the ax away from Nabbit’s pasty throat. "Sorry, bloke, I didn't mean to..."

Nabbit was exuberant. "Ah, that was awesome. Can we do it again?"

Wesley was confused. "Are you, do you need help?"

Nabbit replied blithely, "Me? No. I just popped by to hang. I blew off my board of directors because tonight it's my turn to be dungeon master. What do you think of my cape?"

Cordy had no idea what to reply. "Shiny."

Nabbit was apparently too socially inept to notice how awkward everyone was. "You guys wanna hang?" He looked past Spike into the office. "Oh, wow. Wow, wow." He entered the office and whistled. "This is where it all happens. The helpless - in agony - they have no one to turn to so they - come here to you… Drink that coffee…sit on this couch." He sat down…"Unspeakable fiends from hell hot on their heels."

The others looked at him silently. Spike glared at Cordy, ready to rip this guy's throat out, good or not, in a second or two if she didn't do something soon to get rid of him.

Nabbit babbled on, oblivious. "Ah, what did I do? Spun off my digital pager network, made a few more million." Everyone just stared at him. "Alright, several…Big whoop! What does that mean?"

Cordy looked envious. "No more shopping at the Penny Saver?"

Nabbit was wistful. "It's just you guys, your lives are so meaningful, so exciting. You fight demons! At any moment one could walk right through that very door!" They glanced over at the door then turned back to look at Nabbit. "You guys seen any cool demons lately?" he asked.

*

Two monks were chanting near a white circle between some trees. "This hallowed ground is made ready. His time is at hand. As it is written he of pure darkness shall come into the light."

The ground trembled, the circle flamed up high. Through the flames a face appeared, covered down to its mouth by a bronze-colored mask and framed by the hood of a cloak. The figure stepped from the circle and walked past the two monks to where Lindsey, Lilah and Holland were waiting in front of their office building.

Holland addressed the demon. "Welcome to Wolfram & Hart. I hope you had a pleasant journey?"

The demon walked past them without a word and the three lawyers followed.

*

Nabbit was still sitting on the couch, Wesley hovered in the door to Angel's office, while Cordy seemed torn between fawning over Nabbit and cringing away from him. Spike paced like an uncomfortable cat next to it, ready to hiss if the man didn't leave in the next minute.

Nabbit finally seemed to sense the tension. "You guys ah, never know what's going to happen around here that’s..." He got up abruptly and walked toward the door. "Okay. Nice to see you again."

Spike said insincerely, "You too."

Cordy added, chirpily "It was fun."

Wesley chimed in: "Drop by again."

"We'll hang soon," Nabbit replied as he left.

Wesley moved to sit in Angel's chair and spoke after a beat, "I know what it means."

Cordy thought he was referring to Nabbit. "A very wealthy man with just no life at all?"

"No," said Wesley, sitting abruptly, "The word in the scroll."

He walked into Angel's office. Cordy and Spike followed.

Cordy asked, "That shoe shine thing?"

Wesley said, "Shanshu."

Spike resumed pacing, unconcerned with prophecies, socially inept millionaires, or vapid employees.

"If it isn't Aegean but instead descends from the ancient Majar then its root is proto-hugaric. In which case it would mean..." Wesley’s voice trailed off.

"What?" Cordy asked.

Wesley looked at his book: "Death."

Cordy said worriedly, "But you said it was all about the vampire with the soul." Wesley looked at her and they both looked at Spike.

Spike had morphed to game face. In one blurred movement, too fast for human eyes to track, he ripped Wesley from Angel’s desk chair and lifted him one-handed to dangle helplessly by the neck in the air in front of him. "What did you say the word means?" he snarled in a voice so filled with rage that it was barely coherent.

Cordy screamed, "Spike, stop it! Wesley didn’t write it! We don’t even know if it’s true! Put him down!"

Spike snarled his anger at both of the ineffectual humans his sire had tied himself to and threw Wussly back into the seat with disdain. He stalked out of the room, leaving the humans behind to compose themselves as best they could while he checked to see if Angel had awakened yet.

Wesley brushed at his clothes, rubbing his neck ruefully. "It's probably years off, ah, after the coming battles. Apocalyptic prophecies aren't exactly a science. And-and I could be way off the mark, so no reason to be concerned."

Wesley jumped up awkwardly and too late to catch Cordy as she had a vision.

Cordy groaned. "Pain - killer."

Wesley tried to interpret. "Painful killer-demon."

Cordy reiterated. "Painkiller!"

Light dawned on Wesley. "Oh."

"A woman, judging by the plastic bag on her head I'm guessing homeless, versus a slime demon," she said.

Wesley asked,: "Where?"

Cordy answered, "I smelled something awful, that would be the slime demon. Yuck! Who lives behind a waste treatment plant in Elscando."

Wesley handed her some pain pills and turned to leave. "Got it! Do you need any more help?"

Cordy replied, " No, but enough with the scratch-and-sniff visions! Ah, thanks. If I ever meet these Powers That Be - I'm gonna punch then in the nose!"

Wesley tried to suppress a smile as he gathered up weapons before leaving.

"Do you think they have a nose?"

*

Buffy wondered how the heck she got herself into these situations. She tried to do the right thing. She trained with Giles. She spent time with Xander. Even with Anya. And now, here she was. In the middle of a clearing…in the woods…naked…with lesbians.

Oh, Willow hadn’t called it naked. She’d said something about getting in touch with nature. Rituals calling on the power of the First Slayer. Sky-clad. Buffy had agreed, had wanted to be with Willow, get to know Tara better. Certainly, she hadn’t been adverse to learning more about the power of the First Slayer, either. Power was a good thing, the more the better as far as she was concerned. She could always use a bit more to help her in the seemingly endless fight against this or that ugly baddie. How that involved getting naked in the middle of the afternoon, she wasn’t quite sure.

It wasn’t even that anything icky was going on. Will and Tara were totally oblivious to each other in *that* way, at least they seemed to be. Not that that would be icky, per se. Really, if Buffy thought about it, there was no ick there at all. It was Willow, after all, her best friend, so it could never be anything but ok, but she just couldn't think of her in those terms, never had. Still, she could see where others would. Will was pretty, with her pale skin glowing in the sunlight…Buffy drew her mind back to business with a mental snap.

The Wiccans had been all that was professional, she supposed, explaining to Buffy how the imposition of garments would have interferred with the rightness of the universe or something like that. Being sky-clad was more natural, more in keeping with the harmonies of the earth or something.

Buffy had to admit that the sun felt wonderful on her body. All warm and cozy. Incongruously like an Angel-hug, actually, which made little sense on the surface of things considering how cool his body temperature was. But he made her feel warm. Spike too, in a different way. She flushed, thinking of both of her lovers, missing them acutely, for more than merely sexual reasons.

She was relying on them more every day, despite their absence. Consciously and unconsciously, they were becoming as necessary to her as light or air or food. She missed them as she would miss her left hand were it to suddenly disappear, with a sharp and desperate ache that came upon her suddenly and without warning. Her very being reached for them and missing their physical presence, searched further afar for their psyches.

She brought her thoughts back to the clearing with another snap. Willow and Tara had both stressed how crucial it was for Buffy to center and ground herself within the sacred circle they had cast. Focus was key to the spell, vitally important in the 12 hours of fasting and connection that would allow her to tap into the enormous inner potential that she’d not yet begun to uncover. Yet the harder she tried to center the more unfocused she seemed to find herself. It frustrated her. It was as if something nagged at the edges of her mind, drawing her attention away despite her strongest intentions…

*

Voca was furious. "You lost the scroll of Aberjian?"

Holland admitted. "The scroll was stolen from our vault."

"The raising can not be performed without the scroll." Voca replied.

Lilah added, "We understand."

Lindsey stepped forward, "It was my mistake. I'll rectify it."

Voca hissed at him, "You will do nothing. I will retrieve the scroll myself. Who stole it?"

Holland winced. "Angel."

Voca roared, "Angel! I am summoned for the raising - the very thing that was to bring this creature down to us -tear him from the Powers That Be - and he - has the scroll."

Lilah sniped, "We're not unaware of the irony."

Voca grated, "He is in the possession of the scroll. His connection to the Powers That Be is complete."

Lilah soothed him, "He hasn't had time to make a full study of the text."

"No, and he won't," Voca swore. "All avenues to the Powers shall be cut off from him and the scroll returned to us."

Lindsey asked, "What can we do to help?"

Voca snarled at him, "You can leave it to me."

Voca and the two monks left the room.

Holland tried to sound sunny, "Well… end of discussion?"

*

Wesley was sitting in front of Angel's desk in the office. He closed the book in front of him. "Death."  He got up and walked into the outer office to sit down across from Cordelia.  "Every source says it's death."

Cordy glanced at him. "Well, it's just a prophecy.  It's not like it came from on high."

Wesley glared at her in disdain, "That's what a prophecy is, Cordelia."

Cordy rolled her eyes at him.  "Alright.  Yeah, but Angel faces death all the time - just like a normal guy faces waffles and French-fries.  It's something he faces every day like - lunch.  -  Are you hungry?" She got up to get a doughnut.

"The fact that his death is prophesied - which isn't good news - doesn't concern me nearly as much as the way Spike took that news," Wesley replied.

"What?  He freaked out about it, yeah, it's true." She sat back down. "But Angel's going to be fine."

Wesley looked concerned.  "Angel's not fine, Cordy, he's gravely injured. You've seen him hurt before, I know, probably even worse than this, but not when he was refusing to feed."
 

Cordy ate her doughnut:  "Angel is going to be fine. - He's got a soul." She went for another doughnut.

Wesley replied more agitatedly, "He's got a soul - but he's not getting better, he can't.  He got up.  "Even once the ritual is over and he can feed again, he-he can never be free."

Cordy looked at him, "Because of the demon? - That's what the ritual is for."  Wesley took her doughnut away from her.  "Hey!  I want that!"

Wesley asked urgently, "What connects us to life?"

Cordy answered him, "Right now?  I'm going with doughnuts."

Wesley glared. "What connects us to life is the simple truth that we are part of it.  -  We live, we grow, we change.  -  But Angel..."

Cordy finally got it.  "Can't do any of those things.  -  Well, what are you saying - that Angel has nothing to look forward to?  That he going to go on forever, in the world, but always cut off from it?"

"Yes."

Cordy was pissed.  "Well, that sucks!  We've got to do something.  We've got to help him."

Wesley looked gloomy.  "I'm not sure we can."

Cordy was even more pissed.  "What is your deal?  You go around boring everyone with your musty scrolls and then you say there is nothing we can do?"

"He is what he is," Wes replied. "It's not up to us to help him. I think…I think perhaps he needs Buffy and even Spike for that now. I think we may be a hindrance, rather than a help.

Cordy:  "He's Angel.  He's good.  And he helps the helpless and now - he's one of them.  -  Well, he's gonna have help, whether he wants it or not!"

*

Buffy was floating in a mist of green. Not really, she knew if she opened her eyes, she'd still be sitting cross-legged and naked on a cotton blanket (un-bleached cotton was important, Tara said, because it was from the earth and thus didn't interrupt power flows, whatever that meant). But Willow had said to visualize something powerful and earthy, so Buffy had thought of earth and power and that thought had meant green somehow to her, so green mist it was.

It was a welcoming mist, somehow, drawing her in and soothing jangled nerves. Her muscles had relaxed from a tension so long held that she'd ceased to realize that it was even there. The ever-present ache of failures past, bad decisions, faults and self-blame slipped slowly away to be filled instead with a quiet calm and a sense of renewed peace and a harmony with herself.

Buffy felt as if each individual bone in her body had expanded ever so slightly, puffed somehow with an energy that she couldn't quite see, but could feel tingling at the tips of her fingers and toes. She wondered idly, if she opened her eyes, would she be glowing green and sparkly with all this living energy that she felt coursing through her veins like sparkling wine or firecrackers on the Fourth of July?

Her attention kept pulling away from her body, towards something else, even though Willow had said to think about her inner self. It was almost as if something was calling to her…if she listened really hard, could she hear it? She tried to listen…

No matter. She shook her inner self back to business. This felt marvelous, a renewal of mind, of body and spirit unlike anything she'd ever experienced before, and it was all due to Willow and Tara. She had to thank them for this marvelous gift, to share the love that she felt in her heart for such wonderful friends. In the moment of her thought, she felt the energy expand suddenly, searching for the heartfires of the two whom she sought.

The spell increased three-fold as the energies of the two witches, previously used only to power the sacred circle that held Buffy safe from external dangers, were welcomed into the harmony of the Slayer's strength. They didn't fight the pull, flowing with it, instead as it pulled them inexorably like some tidal crest washing back toward Buffy.

She gasped as the power of the two witches flowed into her, augmenting her own in unexpected ways. She had little aptitude for magic, her own intuition lent itself more to anticipating the next movement of a foe in battle rather than partaking in a spell, but suddenly she understood the allure of the life that called so strongly to Willow. Understood it, but knew that it was not one that she could share. Instead, she instinctively channeled the power toward the roots of her own strength, opening the doorways of her own mind and glimpsing unseen avenues back into the past.

Buffy found herself in a desert, alone but for a feral, half starved creature with a painted face and a stake. This, she realized, was the spirit of the First Slayer. The woman was savage, untamed and raw. Power incarnate, alone and lonely. Buffy was saddened by her at the same time she was drawn to her. They communed without words, moved towards one another and danced in a graceful blur of strike and counterstrike, neither giving nor asking for quarter until they drew to a halt, panting in unison. No victor, no loser. Equally matched they faced each other.

The First Slayer bowed, then tossed Buffy the stake she held. Buffy stared down at it. It glowed briefly in her hand before melting into her skin with a tingle she could feel all over her body. It wrenched her back to reality with a jerk. She opened her eyes to find Willow shaking her.

"Buffy! Buffy, please, can you hear me? Buffy, please! Oh, Goddess, what if she doesn't wake up, Tara?"

"Will, it's all right, I'm ok," Buffy said, groggily, rubbing her eyes with her hands. Geeze, who turned out the lights? It was black out, gleaming stars overhead proclaimed the night well underway. She shivered, dew dripped from her body to the now sodden cotton blanket.

"Willow, next time you want me to do this sky-clad stuff, bring a robe for afterwards, K?" Buffy griped, rubbing her arms briskly and pushing herself slowly to her feet, wincing as pins and needles proclaimed just how long she'd been sitting there.

"Did i-it w-work, Buffy?" Tara asked, hesitantly.

"Yes, Tara, thank you, it did," Buffy replied. "I don't know exactly what happened, but I definitely met the first Slayer. Still something kept distracting me. It was like my attention was being pulled away. I guess I just have lousy concentration. No big surprise there."

"Hey," Willow said sharply, "don't say stuff like that. You're not stupid. I've seen you concentrate just fine for hours when Giles needed you to learn new fighting moves or study some weird vampire lore. Don't sell yourself short, Buffy. You're one of the smartest people I know.

"Whatever, Will. Let's all just get home. I don't really feel like patrolling tonight anyway. I'll check in with Giles and go sleep. I feel really groggy.

Author's Note: Quotes are from Ats "To Shanshu in LA." I've taken considerable liberties with them in order to include Spike (Gunn and Kate are gone because Kate annoys me and Gunn distracts me. *mmmmm Gunn*).

Spike stomped loudly into Angel’s basement bedroom, hoping to irritate his sire into wakefulness. It failed. He clomped over to Angel’s bed and gazed down at the recumbent vampire. Angel was even paler than his wont. He looked dead. An atavistic chill raced down Spike’s spine. Were it not for the bond that linked them even now with his sire dead to the world, Spike would howl in fear and rage as he had when Angel’s soul had been restored and Angelus had disappeared from their family.

William had never loved Angelus the way Spike reluctantly admitted that he loved Angel. Angelus had been brutal in his passions, taking whomever he pleased with as much violence as served his whim, caring not for the damage he inflicted on his childer or victims in the process. But William had worshipped the elder vampire with all that was in him, idolized and admired him for his cunning ways and hedonistic beauty. Angelus had accepted that worship as his due and handed out brutally erotic caresses and painful whippings with equal frequency and fervor.

Spike kicked off his boots and curled himself against Angel’s back, pressing gently against his sire’s bandaged body and encircling his darkly bruised shoulders until he could nestle his head into the thick, dark hair and smell that clean soap and incense scent that was his sire’s alone. Sighing in momentary contentment and willing away all thoughts of death, their absent mate and the future, Spike nestled closer and closed his eyes.

*

Buffy was dreaming. She walked the desert sands again, searching for the gaunt figure of the first Slayer who had gifted her with stake and energy earlier that night. But something else called to her, pulling her away from the power that was hers by right and duty. Something dark and cold drew her from the brightness of the windswept sand into a dank and shadowy forest that appeared as if by magic at her left.

*Giles would remind me that left is 'sinister.'* she thought to herself as she entered the glade, wary even in her dreams. Looking down, Buffy realized that she had shed the encumbering clothes that she wrapped herself in these days. Clad only in a flimsy tunic, she shivered at the feeling of vulnerability that encroached upon her, even in dream-state.

*The ritual was supposed to help me get over that feeling,* she thought grumpily, irritated at herself for letting a piece of dream clothing make a difference. It wasn’t' real anyway, so what did it matter?

*I'm not that frightened, broken girl anymore. I'm not! I'm stronger now. I've put myself back together,* she thought to herself, searching further into the dark resolutely. *I won't go back to that scared little rabbit, not even in a nightmare.*

The gloomy dark of the woods lifted suddenly at her thought, as if part of the oppressive atmosphere had evaporated upon her decision not to allow it to bother her. She walked forward faster, choosing her path with care and sensing rather than seeing the way she needed to go.

At last she came to another clearing in the underbrush, and there, fighting frantically, yet silently, in full game face, was Spike. Clad in his black jeans and duster with his red t-shirt on, he whirled gracefully, dodging the vicious slashing blows of the first Slayer, who looked as if she'd happily rip him to shreds if he didn't turn to dust first.

"Pet?" he queried, an unspoken plea in his voice for help against this feral thing he didn't understand.

"Slay?" growled the first Slayer, holding out the twin of the stake she'd given to Buffy earlier.

Buffy froze, torn between the urgent demands of her nature and her unnatural bond with the vampire who had brought her back from the brink of madness and pain that summer. Without Spike, she would surely have self-destructed after the rape and her mother's death, had she even survived that long. Yet the Slayer before her called irresistibly to the Slayer within her, beckoning Buffy into the fray. Her dream-self reluctantly joined the dance of death, whirling into battle against the vampire almost against her will and grasping the stake from the outstretched hand of the first Slayer.

*

Angel was dreaming. He knew this because the constant agony he'd been dwelling in for days was absent. He signed unnecessarily in the dream and glanced around himself. He stood in a chamber hung with white draperies that billowed in continual, sinuous motion. Blinking at the hypnotic effect, Angel paced slowly forward, noting immediately that he felt no pain. He glanced down and saw, without surprise, that he was naked to the waist and free of hurt. His favorite leather pants, now packed away because of bad associations with his evil half, hugged his powerful legs like a second skin.

Every one of his senses seemed alive and pulsing, despite the clear impossibility of that. He stalked forward, alert to danger in the bright, confusing whiteness of the room, then jumped backwards as a bleeding woman rushed him.

"Drink!" she commanded, holding a bloody wrist to his mouth.

Angel shook his head in negation and stepped quickly from her, shuddering at the nearness of fresh human blood, but afraid, even in dream state, to taste the forbidden stuff before his ritual.

The ritual itself was unbelievably simple, the preparation was the key. Purity, of mind, body, and soul. He must abstain, mustn't give in. He gasped as one of the wounds from his physical body reopened itself on his astral one.

A beautiful young man approached him next, bleeding already from the neck. It would be easy to sip just a little from the blood welling up there so enchantingly. It could do no harm -- the boy was already injured. Angel denied himself and another bruise appeared on his naked torso. He groaned in response and continued walking through the billowing white curtains of the bright room, searching everywhere for an exit.

More people, more denial, more wounds. Each burned like a brand in his side. Angel stumbled and fell as his flesh was slashed open by invisible knives. He didn't have enough blood in his body to bruise or bleed as much as he was doing. He couldn't fathom where it was coming from. It didn't matter, Angel, suffering, bleeding and bruised beyond bearing now crawled forward slowly on bloody hands and knees. Intent on escaping the billowy room before he glimpsed any more people, or was tempted anew, he crawled mindlessly forward, groaning in anguish as he did so.

*

Buffy struck out at Spike, then pulled her punch, wincing as the stake in her hand almost penetrated into the flesh directly above his heart. The look on his face was far worse than any physical hurt she had caused him. He looked…betrayed, lost, utterly alone, and it was her fault. She had done this to him. In her quest for control, for power, for pride, she had destroyed one of the two men who loved her. Looking into his eyes, she knew that she'd lost him as surely as if she had plunged the stake into his chest.

"No!" Buffy screamed, waking alone in her bed, abruptly in the early dawn light and reaching for the cool, comforting bodies of the mates who weren't there. *Spike,* she thought, *I've got to call Spike, NOW!* Buffy grabbed for the phone and dialed the number of Angel's apartment, her hands shaking at the busy signal that stretched on and on no matter how many times she redialed.