Chapter Text
Sunnydale, My Kind of Town Prologue
The air in the old factory in Sunnydale was thick with ancient malice. The stone statue of Acathla stood in the center of the floor, its gaping maw a dormant gateway to hell. And tied to its base with thick ropes was the trembling figure of Dawn Chase. Her eyes, wide with fear, a fear that had gone beyond tears, were fixed on the whirlwind of battle.
“Cordy! Cordelia!”
Her scream cut through the din, reaching her older sister. Cordelia spun on her heel. At seventeen, she moved with a lethal grace that was all her own. Part cheerleader, part primal instinct. Her outfit, practical leather pants and a dark tank top, was streaked with dust and grime. Seeing Dawn, a fresh, ferocious energy surged through her. “I’m coming, Dawnie!” she shouted, her voice hoarse but steady.
“Cordy! I’m sorry, I just wanted to see where you were going at night,” Dawn cried.
“We’ll talk about your epic grounding when we get out of this,” Cordelia called back, ducking a swing from another minion and driving her stake home.
Across the chamber, the other Slayer, Buffy Summers, sprang into action. She was called into becoming the Chosen One in Los Angeles when the Master held Cordelia under the water of the sunken church. The petite blonde was a whirlwind. Where Cordelia was a scalpel, Buffy was the hammer. She fought with a wild, instinctual power that was still surprising her. She was locked in combat with several snarling vampires before staking them.
“See what happens when you roughhouse." Buffy quipped as they turned to dust.
“Focus, Summers!” Cordelia barked, not unkindly. “Minion management! Let the ancients handle their drama.”
The “ancients” were indeed embroiled in their own drama. In the center of the space, Angel and Penn circled each other, swords gleaming dully in the faint light. Penn smirked at his former mentor.
“Is this your grand redemption, Angelus?” Penn’s voice was a silken taunt. “Fighting for the very mortals that you once taught me to see as cattle? You were an artist once. Now look how far you’ve fallen, to being the Slayer’s lapdog?”
“You couldn’t understand, Penn.”
“Oh, I understand. I was a Puritan, remember?”
Angel said nothing, his face a mask of grim determination. Their blades met again with a sharp clang, sparks flying.
“She has changed you, Sire,” Penn pressed, lunging. Angel parried. “Was the tall brunette Slayer worth it? Worth killing Darla? Worth becoming this guilt-ridden phantom?”
“She has a name,” Angel growled, “and you have a date with oblivion.”
“Oblivion.” Penn laughed, a hollow, mocking sound. “Soon Acathla will swallow the world into an inferno. Then you, Spike, and everyone in this stinking dimension will soon suffer the eternal fires of hell. While Drusilla and I will walk through endless fields of blood together.”
Their duel was a brutal ballet with a souled mentor facing his former pupil.
Near the periphery, Spike was facing his own past. Drusilla, in a red lace gown that floated around her like cobwebs, pointed an accusing finger at Spike.
“You’re all covered in the Slayer. When I look at you, all I see is the wicked golden girl.”
Spike, his leather duster swirling, held a stake loosely in his hand. “Shut it, Dru! Having sodding Acathla swallow the world into hell is beyond crazy, even for you.”
“Crazy?” Drusilla’s voice rose to a shriek. “The stars told me to dance. They scream that you love the Sunshine - no spark in you like Daddy. My Angel never would have danced in the Sun without the nasty spark."
Spike scoffed. “Here’s the insane ranting part. Bloody hell, luv. Did I ever tell you how annoying that was? It’s no wonder I left you for someone who can hold a bloody conversation. And doesn’t shag every disgusting creature she comes across. I thought the Chaos Demon was bad, but this, with Peaches’ evil little mini me, is worse, you daft bint. ”
“Someone needs a spanking,” Drusilla singsonged warningly.
Spike grinned in a wicked fashion as the infamous former couple began to circle each other. “Since you asked so nicely. Ducks. Come to old Spike,” he said.
Meanwhile, Cordelia fought her way to the statue, but a figure moved from the shadows to block her path to her sister. It was Drusilla’s latest childe, Xander Harris, wearing his game face.
“Your sister squealed like a little piggy when Dru and I grabbed her, Cordy. Now, how does it feel to know both you and she will take the hell ride together when Acathla swallows this pathetic world?” he taunted his former classmate.
Cordelia’s voice was like ice. “Xander, when I’m done here, I am gonna stuff what’s left of you into a wood chipper. You’re a footnote, and you are about to be erased.”
Enraged, Xander lunged at her. They clashed in a vicious brawl and it was two against one as a minion attacked Cordelia from behind which distracted her from Xander.
Then the tide turned.
Spike had been forced back, dropping his stake to grab Drusilla’s wrists as her long, sharp fingernails raked towards his eyes. They grazed his cheek, drawing four dark lines. He shoved her away.
“Dru, don’t make me do this!” Spike yelled, his voice raw.
“You’re already dead inside, my little dumpling!” she screamed at him again. “Let Miss Edith see! Let her see the dust in your heart!”
This time, Spike didn’t try to grapple. As she flew at him, he sidestepped in a motion born of a hundred years of violence and a necessity to protect his darling Buffy and the world. He shoved the stake into Drusilla’s heart.
There were no poetic last words, there was no dramatic pause. Drusilla’s mad eyes met his, filled not with understanding but with a shattered childlike confusion. He thought or imagined that Drusilla whispered his name, William, as she exploded into dust.
Spike dropped to his knees in shock, the stake clattering on the floor. His sire. His former love. The batty, monstrous woman who had found a poet in London and offered him eternal life all those years ago was now dust at his hand.
Fueled by the pain of his childe's demise, Angel gained the upper hand against Penn. As Spike struck the final blow to the woman he once thought to be his love, Angel gained the upper hand in his own desperate battle.
“This is for Cordelia, her sister, and every soul you’ve tormented since I made the mistake of creating you, Penn,” Angel was roaring. Then he hurled Penn into the shimmering maw of Acathla’s portal.
Xander, grappling with Cordelia, froze. His sire was dust, and her lover was gone.
“This wasn’t in the brochure,” Xander stammered, blocking Cordelia’s punch.
“Running away, Harris?” Cordelia spat. “Some vampire you are!”
“I’m a survivor.” He saw Buffy coming to flank him. Xander turned and shoved a minion into Buffy’s path.
“Hey!” Buffy yelled as she dispatched the minion with a quick strike, but the delay was all Xander needed.
The young dark-haired vampire didn’t look back but fled using his vampire speed.
With the villains dusted or having fled, silence soon descended, apart from Dawn’s quiet sobs as Cordelia cut her free.
In the quiet, Buffy moved toward her lover. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He didn’t look up. His head was bowed.
Buffy leaned down to kiss him. It was not a gentle kiss, nor a sweet one. It was fierce and desperate, a grounding bolt of now in the aftermath of then. A claim, a comfort, an acknowledgment of the terrible thing he had done and the side he had chosen. Spike froze for a heartbeat, then his hand came up to cradle the back of her head, kissing her back with a raw, consuming intensity that spoke of dust and salvation.
After a long moment, they parted, foreheads resting together, breathing the same air.
A soft cough broke the silence. Cordelia stood with Dawn at her side, leaning against Angel for support. She was panting with exertion, her hair disheveled, but a smirk played on her lips. “Okay. World saved. Dawn traumatized. Vampire romance novel moment concluded. Can we please go? I need about twelve showers, and I have to call Giles. The Scoobies are probably having a collective aneurysm.”
Angel supported her weight, his own gaze lingering on Buffy and Spike with an unreadable expression before he nodded. “We’re done here.”
“What about Harris?” asked Buffy.
“He will probably be back with a badly thought-out plan and one of his lame jokes,” Cordelia reasoned.
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