Chapter Text
If Buffy had a nickel for every time someone with a W name revealed themselves to be capable of serious villainy and in need of a Slayer-style takedown this year, she’d have three nickels.
Which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it’s happened three times.
Three souls too. Huh. Did they get them from the bargain bin or are these things just seriously overhyped?
Answer unclear, but what’s definitely not overhyped is the rush of a fight. Her embarrassingly close skirmish with Warren at the amusement park was the last time she let her fists and fury out into the world, and she’d missed the feeling. The trauma-induced sabbatical was nice, but this…
It’s good to know she’s still got it.
“You're interfering in matters that don’t concern you,” Wesley says from the floor, crab-walking away after she stepped through the threshold of the door, exchanged a series of jabs with him, and summarily decked him in the face. She’s confused why he’s not getting back up for more until she notices the subtle shift backwards of his arm, the way his hand’s searching for something even as he tries to distract with his words. “And at the bidding of this creature—”
Said creature whoops obnoxiously from the hallway when Buffy kicks the newly-acquired bludgeon out of Wesley’s hand. “That’s my girl!”
Hearing that phrase leave Spike’s mouth for the first time since the alley makes something in her chest twist, but she willfully ignores it. Abandon all hope ye who go down that train of thought. Instead, she glares at her ex-Watcher as he gets back up on his feet, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Your girl?” he repeats dubiously, starting to circle her. “Evidently, I should never have left Sunnydale.”
She mirrors his movements and they begin to dance, each waiting for the other to strike. “Clearly I should’ve paid more attention to Hell-A. It’s not enough that Angel had a kid and Cordelia let canary yellow into her life—now you’re evil and hot?”
“What was that last bit?” Spike asks instantly, a new edge to his voice. “Let me in, mate. Wanna have a chat.”
“Not bloody likely,” Wesley says before lunging. Buffy’s gotta hand it to him, he would never have struck first in the past. Though that sheltered stickler for the rules also wouldn’t have held a woman captive, so she obviously doesn’t know him at all anymore.
But she can throw curveballs too, so instead of attempting to dodge or block his blow like he must've been expecting, Buffy crashes into him at full force. The imbalance in kinetic energy propels him against the wall and she pins him there, a hand wrapped tightly around his neck. Ignoring Spike’s jealous grumbling in the background, she says sternly, “Invite him in.”
He chokes something unintelligible out. Satisfied that he’s stopped what he must have realized was a doomed attempt to overpower her, she loosens her grip enough for him to speak properly. “I am not signing my death warrant tonight,” he rasps.
“He’s not going to hurt you,” she says confidently. “Not if I don’t let him. But if you really want to be stubborn, I don't have a problem throwing you to the wolves... and by that, I mean the hungry vampire outside your door."
Spike growls for added effect, though he must know she’s lying. Wesley gulps, eyeing the two of them warily. Unsure what they’re capable of. "You honestly trust him to control himself?"
"Yes," she says simply. Maybe that truth shouldn't come to her so easily, but there's another person's wellbeing at stake here, so it's best if she cuts straight to the point. No prevaricating. "Either you let him through—“ she squeezes Wesley's neck again and shakes him against the wall like a ragdoll, “—or he can have you.”
He tries to splutter a response, his face flushed with the strain of trying to push air out, so she lets up on his neck once more. He coughs before finally spitting out, his fists clenched in anger and voice hoarse, “Come in, Spike…”
“Pity,” he says, walking in with a smirk. “I was lookin’ forward to a bit of hallway tag.”
“Spike,” she says warningly, standing in front of Wesley so neither of them can try anything. “We don’t have time for macho posturing. Find the woman so we can let her go.”
“You don’t understand!” Wesley yells indignantly. Spike pays him no mind and stalks off into his bedroom. “She’s responsible for Angel’s disappearance and for what happened to Connor. For what happened to me. She should be imprisoned for her wrongdoings—so what if I'm keeping her in solitary confinement most of the day, she gets the occasional walk—”
“That’s crazy,” Buffy says bluntly. “Do you hear yourself? No matter what people do to us, we can’t keep them locked up and deprived of social interaction!” She pauses, thinking of Amy in her rat cage. Mistakes were perhaps made. “Not while they’re human!”
Wesley scowls, rubbing his neck where it's gone red and splotchy from her rough grip. But there’s something else too, something she didn’t notice before: a long scar, extending all the way across his throat. Like someone slit it. “You have some nerve showing up here and commandeering everything,” he says darkly. “We’ve managed just fine without you. I was going to get him back… I had a plan...”
Spike clears his throat. They turn to see he’s dragged a chair out into the living room, a redheaded middle-aged woman still gagged and bound to it. She looks like she hasn’t seen a shower in weeks and certainly hasn't gotten to change out of her filthy clothes. As she blinks furiously, eyes trying to adjust to the light, Buffy's overcome with a wave of pity for her and revulsion that Wesley could do this in the name of petty vengeance. “Oh my god.”
“Would’ve taken you to her closet, but he gave her a bucket in the corner,” Spike says, pinched expression on his face. “Could’ve done without smelling that. Fella likes the drawn-out type of torture.”
“I was not torturing her,” Wesley says incredulously, gesticulating wildly to the wide-eyed woman trying to say something through the gag in her mouth. Buffy rushes over to help, hardly hearing Wesley as he continues rambling. “She’s been fed regularly! I needed assistance in the search for Angel, and since everyone else seems determined to ignore the general fact of my existence, it only made sense to employ her services—”
“EMPLOY?” the woman hollers at the top of her lungs as soon as she's able. Buffy stoops down to work on the rest of her bindings while she keeps shouting. “You told me you’d drop me in the ocean with a cinder block tied around my waist if I didn’t do what you wanted, you sick fucking bastard.”
Wesley laughs a little manically. “Like you did to him, Justine?" Buffy freezes. Does he mean Angel? "You whinging, hypocritical bitch. I should’ve snapped your neck after you told me everything I needed to know and put us both out of our misery.”
She shoots him a death glare as she stands up with Spike and Buffy's help, the latter's mind still racing with thoughts of what Wesley could possibly mean. But whatever this woman did... surely it can't be okay to treat her like this. Justine starts rubbing circulation back into her arms, rope burns visible all around her wrists. “Oh, because you've had it so hard? You’re pathetic.” She wobbles as she starts to walk but soon regains her balance. “If I never see you again, it'll be too soon.”
"Justine, right?" Buffy tries, following after her as she beelines straight to the door. "Hi, I'm Buffy and, um, I'm so sorry for what you've been through here—I obviously don't know anything about the situation, but if you can tell us where to find Angel, that would be a big help! Why don't we take you to the hospital and we can chat on the way there?"
"That psychopath can tell you everything, but you'll never manage to get him back anyway," Justine answers, trembling hands wrestling with a knot in her hair in a hopeless attempt to make herself presentable to the general public. "Your precious Angel's lost. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get the hell out of LA. And to change my fucking name. Who ever thought humans could be worse than the bloodsuckers on the streets?"
With that, Justine slams the door shut in Buffy's face. She blinks dumbly for a moment before turning around to see Wesley looking utterly defeated, his head hanging woefully. "We were going to find him together... I was close, I know I was..."
"That woman. Was she evil?"
He glances up at her resentfully. "She was a terrible person. I wouldn't have done this otherwise. You know me, Buffy—I’m not insane."
Buffy looks back and forth between him and the chair, manacles still hanging off the wooden legs. "Sane people don't chain their enemies up in their closets and force them to do their bidding. You're the only one here who's come up with that."
"Well," Spike begins. "This one time in Majorca—“
"Spike!"
"What?" She gives him a look. "Er, I mean yes, dear, this is a level of depravity no one in their right mind would ever sink to. Should feel ashamed of yourself, you foul mangy cur, et cetera."
"Are you two finished throwing stones from your glass houses?”
"Oi!" Spike snaps, hands going to his hips. "Buffy's just fine. She's a moral paragon compared to the both of us, in fact, so lay off her before I take a bite out of your pasty arse."
Wesley looks appropriately ill at the thought. Buffy sighs. "What happened to you, Wesley? You were never so... so angsty and surly and this in Sunnydale! That's a person you did those things to!"
She feels out of her depth. It's clear Wesley has some demons he's battling in his head, but that doesn't mean he has the right to turn into one himself. Shouldn't he go to jail for what he's done?
Then again, who is she to pass judgment? Doesn't Willow deserve an even worse punishment than Wesley? She killed a human. As did Spike in the not-so-distant past, repeatedly and with relish, yet Buffy’s basically given them both a pass. Come to think of it, the woman she just let high tail it out of the door could be a danger to everyone around her, so far as Buffy knows, so maybe she deserves to be put away too—and so does the stupid, naive Slayer who released her, they should charge her with aiding and abetting—
"Buffy," Spike says, hands on her shoulders. Shaking and a little woozy, she can’t help but lean into his touch. He must've heard her heart rate pick up as she spiraled. "Deep breaths, there's a girl. The bint's safe, you got her out, and she's not gonna come bothering anyone again. Know the look of someone who's been shell-shocked into a lesson, and she's not forgetting this one anytime soon. You did good, pet. Alright?"
She nods, letting herself find comfort in his words, in his unshakeable faith in her. I did good I did good I did good. The notion helps to set her at ease, warmed on the inside because someone who's seen her at her very worst thinks she's managing to stay at her best.
But she still feels kind of lightheaded. It's all just a lot. Fucking Los Angeles. "We should never have come here."
"I agree," Wesley says wryly.
"You leave her alone, you poncy git," Spike snaps, still trying to calm her down, hands running up and down her arms.
Buffy steps away, breaking out of his hold and ignoring the look of slight disappointment he doesn't shutter fast enough. She's too overcome with a burst of self-consciousness, all of a sudden realizing she doesn't want to project an image of herself as someone unable to stand on her own. Someone who seems (is) so weak. No, she needs Wesley to take her seriously as a leader, because it's time she turns into one again. No more Ms. Nice Slayer. Shit hit the fan in this city a while ago and it's going to take her at the top of her game to set it back to rights.
Fake it until you make it, Summers. She's always been good at that. Though she's never had to fake anything around Spike—not even in bed, there’s truly never been a need—
"Here's how this is gonna go,” she says loudly, forcing herself to focus. “You're going to thank your lucky stars I'm not walking you over to the LAPD for kidnapping, and then you'll explain, in as much detail as possible, exactly what in the ever-living Hell has been happening here. With you, with Cordelia, and with Angel. Justine was helping you find him, but three heads are better than two, right? So we're tapping in." Spike groans in protest. She keeps going. "And when this is over, you're going to consider, I don't know, rehab for your anger issues? Counseling? I'm not picky, so long as you learn it's not okay to treat human beings that way."
“It’s possible I acted rashly by imprisoning Justine," Wesley concedes begrudgingly. "Though in my defense, she tried to kill me. And in light of all that she did to Angel..."
"Cut the suspense an' spit it out already," Spike says, visibly annoyed. "Something about a cinder block in the sea?”
Buffy's stomach sinks at the dark look that crosses Wesley's face. She doesn't think she's going to like this story very much. “Justine Cooper, the woman you just freed, was closely allied with the vampire hunter Holtz. He swore to make Angel pay for destroying his family many years ago, before the soul was ever cursed upon him."
Another thing you and I have in common now, Angel. A curse that changes our entire lives. We could've talked about that too... But maybe they wouldn't have, even if they had the opportunity. It's not like she wanted to share much with him the last time they spoke. Most of their reunion in that diner had been spent in stretches of awkward silence, and she might’ve bitten her nails down to the quick if he hadn't done them both the favor of saying he had to go when he did. And as she walked out, she could only think, why is it so much easier with Spike?
She had internally screamed at herself for allowing that question to cross her mind, but now she wonders if it wasn't the first sign of some shift having taken place inside her. Like some parts of her knew it would be him far before the rest.
Leaders shouldn't let their minds wander. Leaders stay on task. Leaders tune back into Wesley's explanation and make themselves pay close attention, damn it. "There was a plot to fake a prophecy that warned of Angel hurting his son. Despite my best efforts to cross-reference, I... I fell for it. I tried to take him away so he could be safe, but then..." Wesley trails off, practically vibrating with fury and glaring at the empty chair. Buffy had never thought of Wesley as scary before today, but the look in his eyes is unsettling.
"She took him from me, and nearly killed me right then and there..." He's lost in thought for a minute, finger tracing the scar stretching across his neck. When he comes back to himself, he looks right at Buffy, more lucid now than he's seemed the rest of the night. "What I did to her was wrong, but she took everything away. The person—the people that I loved. My life as I knew it was gone, Connor was whisked away to Hell, and all anyone can do to this day is blame me for doing what I thought was best for him… Can't you understand why I would have a hard time showing her mercy?"
She thinks of Spike and what he would've done to Warren if she had died for good, chip or no chip. Willow and what she actually did to him. Whether Buffy herself could've felt any sympathy for someone who hurt Dawnie or Mom, or tried to take them away from her. "... I get it. But it's over now, Wesley. You can't go looking for her."
He nods. Still doesn't seem remorseful, but there's acceptance on his face, and that has to be good enough in a situation as twisted as theirs. He takes a breath, glancing at the door like he's making sure Justine's not going to pop back in, before saying hesitantly, "She... she is to blame for Angel's disappearance. She attacked him, took him on a boat to the middle of the ocean, sealed him in a coffin, and dropped him into sea. Cast him off to suffer, day and night, his own mind a prison... but at least the coffin has a window, so he can see for himself that help isn't coming…”
The words take a minute to sink in. Coffin. Sea. Angel.
Oh God.
"You let her off easy," Spike says in shock, face stricken. Buffy's not able to say anything at all, hands clamped tight over her mouth to stop herself from shouting.
Angel must be going insane. Experiencing a slow-burn loss of self, just like what happened during his last round of unspeakable torment—and even though it’s not her fault this time, she's still so worried and afraid for him. What's it like, trapped that far down underwater? Is there nothing but darkness for him, unending darkness and the gnawing pit of hunger in his stomach?
The empathy morphs into something else, and Buffy's struck by the realization that she's an awful person. Completely, irredeemably selfish. Because in the middle of all this horror on Angel's behalf, a big part of her is getting distracted, swept up in fear of his fate becoming her own. That could be you, if you make an enemy ambitious and creative enough. She tries to think of something else, anything but how terrifying it would be to waste away all alone and get torn out of Heaven, coming back to do it all over again, and again, and again...
That isolation isn't her reality. It's Angel's. And they have to do something about it.
"We need to get him out," she says shakily, trying to convince herself she doesn't regret letting that monster go free. "It's already been two weeks. He probably thinks he's back in Hell, I know how he gets—goddamnit, Wesley, in all this time why didn't anyone think to freaking CALL ME?"
"We take care of our own here," Wesley says, leaving unspoken the fact that he's fallen out of the fold and apparently, she's never been in it. "I've been using a ship to search for him nightly, forcing Justine along to help. I don't know what you think you could possibly do better, Buffy—I've had things handled since well before you crashed the party."
Spike cuts in before she can let loose some choice words about Wesley and his dumb poncy face. "So you are as dim-witted as you appear. Not surprising. I've got an eye for this sort of thing."
"I beg your bloody pardon?"
Spike gestures in his general direction. “I'm a good judge of character. Can tell you like to pretend otherwise, but in reality, you do a terrible job thinkin' outside the box. No creativity in that head of yours. Raised to follow the Council's rules and never consider any loopholes, eh? Like lettin' the Slayer call the shots—and maybe, just maybe, considering she's got a bigger skillset on her side than you think."
Wesley looks him up and down dubiously. "You're referring to yourself?"
"Uh, duh," Spike says. "She's got me, and my abilities, at her disposal. And the funny thing about vampires..."
He trails off, tongue poking out between his teeth in a cocky grin. Buffy's puzzled but Wesley's face dawns with clarity. "You don't need to breathe."
Oh. "You can swim underwater for as long as you want?"
"Well, not quite," he answers consideringly. "Got a limit... at some point I’ll get tired. But I can put in some sprints, so long as the ocean floor’s not too far down—and even then, I’ve got a good set of eyes and quite a bit of time until sunrise.”
“You’re volunteering to go down yourself?” Buffy’s blown away by the gesture, unsure if Angel would do the same thing for him, even if she begged. But Spike barely has to think about it.
He smiles softly, like he can tell she's touched. “If it’s so important to you, and it means we can get out of here sooner rather than later—then yeah, I’ll swim with the fishies for a couple nights.”
"Could you smell him?" Wesley asks intently. “Naturally, you’re familiar with your sire’s scent. Would it be detectable even through the ocean?"
"Never really tested that,” Spike says thoughtfully. "Sound travels faster in the ocean than out, yeah? Might be the case that smell does too. But it’s just as likely all the pollution and whatnot will overwhelm my nose, and the water’s dense—I can't be certain.”
Wesley nods, staring at Spike in a little awe, finally realizing he should be taken seriously. Then he turns to Buffy and looks chagrined. “I might… that is to say, there is a chance… Well. I believe I owe you an apology for underestimating what you and yours are capable of.”
“Thank you,” Buffy says diplomatically. It’s hard to be especially friendly when she can’t stop taking sidelong glances at the Chair of Captivity in the middle of the room. “So, okay, we can probably go look for him for at least a few hours, or however long Spike feels comfortable swimming, every night starting now. But there’s something I still don’t get. If Angel’s in a coffin at the bottom of the ocean—which, wow, what a sentence—then where’s Cordelia?”
Wesley grimaces. “I have no idea. Her disappearance doesn’t appear to have anything to do with Angel’s, aside from the fact that they vanished on the same night. To the best of Justine’s recollection, they didn’t cross paths. She was nowhere near that boat, and yet…”
“She’s gone too,” Buffy finishes. Despite the definite lead they’ve gained on Angel’s whereabouts, it stings that they came here searching for more information on Cordelia and got nothing. Buffy hopes she's somewhere much more pleasant than Angel right now, or at the very least alive. “And you don’t know anything about the demon deal she made with the Powers in exchange for her visions? Specifically, what it turned her into? Or if there’s maybe any… any connection to Heaven involved…”
Wesley shakes his head. “I can’t imagine how Cordelia’s transformation would be related to any Heaven dimensions, but I also know very little about it. Perhaps I could have learned if I’d spent more time around her, but given that I was hospitalized and ex-communicated, I didn’t have many opportunities.”
Buffy fidgets with her hands awkwardly, unsure how to respond to the bitterness in Wesley’s tone. It’s the elephant in the room they haven’t been acknowledging, but sorry your loved ones don’t talk to you anymore sounds off. “I’m still not completely sure what’s been going on since, y’know, nobody called me, but I do know that mostly everyone deserves a second chance,” she says eventually, exchanging meaningful looks with Spike. “Maybe when we find Angel, they’ll reconsider some things. And for what it’s worth, Fred seemed pretty bummed that you aren’t around anymore—she’s the one who suggested we come here in the first place.”
“Really?” Wesley asks instantly, voice going up in pitch. He clears his throat self-consciously before asking more levelly, “Ah, is that so?”
They stare at him in silence for a few moments. There’s a blush creeping into his cheeks and his eyes are lit up with something that might be hope.
“Oh, you poor blighter,” Spike says at last. “Just don’t go commissioning any robots.”
“Spike!”