She stands on the platform waiting for the midnight train, the lyrics from the Ray Charles' song running through her head, though this train is coming from Los Angeles and not going to Georgia. The thought sends dark amusement through her, and she checks her watch.
Late. It's now officially the Winter Solstice, but that means less to her now than it did in years past.
A cool breeze whips her skirt around her legs, but she doesn't feel the chill, just looks down in annoyance and mutters a spell. The suede settles back over her knees and the wind moves off to play with other people waiting.
The phone in her pocket chirps and she slips it into the palm of her hand, flipping it open and putting it to her ear.
"Is he there yet?" came the impatient voice of her lover.
"The train's late."
"I told him to come yesterday. The ritual is going to be fucked if he doesn't get here by one." Angry snarls fill her ear and she frowns.
"He likes to push the envelope. You, of all people, know that."
"Teleport home with him."
She frowns deeper. "That will take a lot out of me."
"Tough shit."
Snarling in her own way, she snaps the phone closed and shoves it back into her jacket pocket just as the train whistle sounds in the distance. A few minutes later, it pulls into the station, and finally stops.
He's the first one off the train, out of first class, and she wonders who he ate to get that cushy ticket. There's a devil's grin on his face that widens when he spies her and he bounds over to her to wrap her in his arms. "Red!"
"Hi, Spike," she says, muffled against the leather of his duster.
"So, the poof all up in arms that the train is ten minutes late?" Pulling back from her, he slings an arm around her shoulder and they start walking off the platform.
"You know it."
"Plenty of time yet."
"He has everything meticulously planned down to the second, as always." When they reach a secluded spot, she turns and takes his shoulders. "Hang on."
And an instant later they're at the mansion. She sags against him, panting, and he cups her upper arms gently. His voice is concerned, "You okay?"
"Hate doing that," she gasps out, then pulls away from him and heads inside. He trails her into the main room, noting little changes.
The biggest, though, are in the man impatiently waiting for him before the fireplace. He still hasn't gotten used to this latest version of his sire, even though he's been back on this plane of existence for two years.
"You're late."
"Yeah, yeah, when you're god-emperor you'll make the trains run on time."
A nasty smile creeps across Angelus' face. "That is on the list."
Spike rolls his eyes and gets a smack across the back of his head for his troubles, then his sire is laughing and pulling him into a quick embrace.
"It's good to see you, boy. L.A. suits you. I've heard only good things."
"Lots of big nasties to play with there and only human hunters."
"Well, we're about to get rid of the biggest non-human problem we have." Angelus pulls back and gestures for Spike and Willow to proceed him. "The spell's set up in the basement."
As they head that way, Spike muses a bit regretfully, "I would have liked to do her first."
"Trust me, she's not that good," Angelus laughs, and wraps an arm around Willow. "Not like my spitfire here. Buffy's like Lilith--she always has to be on top, and you know me, I don't let anyone take control."
Spike laughs at that and Willow accepts Angelus' comment for what it is. The truth of her life with him.
She made her choice on a mid-winter's eve two years before, when he'd fought his way out of hell and come for her. Death had been one option. Becoming a vampire another. The third had surprised her, but since it let her keep her mind and soul, she'd jumped at it. The bonds he'd put on her itched sometimes, but the darkness she'd allowed into her soothed her, and she was content.
A tiny part of her regrets that Buffy must die, but mostly she wants to live so she accepts it and her part in the spell. As the hour approaches, she steps into the malevolent circle and stoops to pick up an incongruous pink tulip, pushing aside all thoughts of her former friend and concentrating on her lover. As she plucks the petals and begins the spell, Spike and Angelus stand on opposite sides of her, chanting, their shared blood empowering the ritual.
The darkness of mid-winter embraces her and she sends it from herself with a cry.
And across town a Slayer dies.
End