Two Roads Diverged
“This is such a Buffy/Spike plan,” she said in an exasperated voice.
He ignored her. She went on. She knew that was an idea of the bad, but pushing him was becoming more and more of
a full time job.
In a purposely mangled English accent, she went on: “There are some caves in the woods north of town. I don’t
think the Initiative knows about them.”
Spike drew up short. He gave her an obligatory glare. He knew she was baiting him. And well, she had laid it on
pretty thick.
“Have you got a better plan?” he asked, his tongue slicing over the words.
Yes, actually.
“I think we should split up,” she told him.
“Oh, brilliant plan,” he said. “And in horror flicks, that’s right about when the blond gets it. Wait!” He feigned a
gasp. “We’re both blond.”
“Sarcastic much?” Buffy said.
She left him on the path, putting some distance between them. It was, fortunately, darker than dark in the woods
north of town. It enabled her to hide some of her anxieties, if not all of them. His vampire senses made him
obnoxiously astute.
He caught up to her, but she headed him off conversationally.
“We’re never going to find anything Coven-related at this pace. There’s too much ground to cover,” she said.
“We have all night,” Spike said. The incredulous look stitched into his brows made her more eager to get further
away.
“Look, I’ll go this way,” she said, gesturing south. “I’ll circle back when I reach the edge of town. You go that way.
We’ll meet back in the middle.”
“And if we happen to meet any beasties…”
Buffy exhaled a sigh of frustration. “We won’t engage said beastie. This is strictly reconnaissance. Right?”
Spike studied her, the weight of concern on his shoulders combined with something like suspicion.
“The witches, Buffy. They have a way of knowing things,” he said.
Like the way Adam knew things? Buffy thought.
But that was ludicrous and she knew it. Sorta knew it. Spike had changed. Even if he didn’t have a soul, he was the
man – er, vampire – who delivered on his promise to protect Dawn when everyone else had deserted them.
Except, one thing didn’t fit. One thing that was a growing wedge between them. And it was time now to start
sorting things out on her own. She needed outside help, and needed him not to know about it.
“They’re not omniscient,” Buffy told him.
Spike hovered, a pinnacle of indecision.
“Buffy, if something should happen to you…” he said in a begrudging growl.
“It won’t.”
On that note, they parted.
As she left, finally stalking away in what must have once been a patented Buffy huff, she felt shaky and strange.
She had been seeking exactly this opportunity for the last week and a half. Ever since that night on the rooftop
when Spike showed her the Sunnydale Witch Trial, in which the witches ironically conducted the trial, Buffy had
been quietly hatching an escape plot.
Okay, so escape was too strong a word. It wasn’t like she was a captive. She just needed to get away. She had a
plan, and for the moment, it did not include Spike.
Buffy veered south, quickening her pace. She put as much distance between them as possible. Around her, the pines
towered, heightening the whole foreboding forest feel. Because it was so damn dark, every wind-tilted bough had
Buffy leaping like a scared kid in a fairy story.
She never used to be so jumpy. Life in the basement had gone a long way to drive her to the edge of Wiggins.
Sleeping all day, patrolling with Spike every night, spoon-feeding Dawn, and rocking her during her hair-pulling
tantrums – all of it made them unbearable housemates. Buffy figured the only thing keeping her sane was the Surreal
World effect of the whole affair. That, and the cage of hopelessness that was Sunnydale, CA.
Buffy at first felt that she could ride it out. After all, it was so dreamlike, it stood to reason that it must be a
dream. Soon, her sleepwalking would start up again, and one day, she would awake in her own bed surrounded by
her family and friends. It’d be just like Dorothy returning from a whacked-out Land of Oz. Dawn would be there.
William, too. And Willow, and Xander and Giles. And Andrew.
But that changed this morning when Buffy attempted to slide into the elastic-banded yoga pants she’d been wearing
the night she turned up in Sunnydale. Seemingly overnight, the baby had grown enough to make them hand-me-
downs to someone less pregnant.
Which begged the question she’d been asking herself since she arrived: Why hadn’t Spike sensed it?
Angel had heard the heartbeat back when she scarcely knew the baby existed. She had spent hundreds of hours in
close proximity with Spike, and for all of his extra-sensory perceptiveness, he hadn’t even made the first quip at
the bottom-ward shift in her body weight.
The way she had it figured there were two potential reasons for it. One was that something was wrong with this
Spike. The other, much more paralyzing in its implication, was that there was something wrong with her baby. He
couldn’t hear a heartbeat if…
No. Buffy didn’t continue the thought. Had done quite well at keeping an arm’s length on that theory. Besides, a
baby wouldn’t continue to grow without a beating heart. Right?
Buffy cranked up her pace again, now almost jogging along the brambly deer path that cut a silver swath through
the dew-drenched underbrush. An abandoned railroad track ran parallel to the path until it finally intersected with
the warehouse section of Wilkins Avenue. From there, she worked her way downtown, to the Sunnydale Primary
Care Plaza.
Buffy reached the sidewalked edge of Wilkins Avenue without incident. Keeping to the shadows, she crept the half-
mile to the heart of town.
She had patrolled these streets for a thousand nights. She understood too clearly what was missing. However evil
the Coven and Triadcorp might be, they had done wonders for the safety and prosperity of the downtown sector.
She knew, too, that vampires and random demon underlings were the lesser evils. Big Evil put the smack down on
competition. It was like getting into business with the Mob. Sure, you could walk around at night, but there was a
price.
That’s what Spike had wanted her to see.
Or had he?
It was another nettle, another prickle of concern.
“Where were you?” she had asked when she realized that the witches were responsible for what Dawn had become.
“Why didn’t you stop them?”
His reply: “I was bound, gagged, down a bloody well…”
She hadn’t heard that part until later, when she turned the scene over and over, looking at it from every angle with
her Slayer’s eyes. Bound, gagged and down a well, he’d said.
In her mind, a question floated up like a small red balloon. How did he get out?
That question, coupled with her expanding waistline, propelled her down the sidewalk toward the darkened offices
of a Sunnydale clinic. She needed at least one answer. She was capable of calculating. Of thinking rationally. Of
looking at things objectively. She hadn’t had a lot of practice in the last months, but she still could make a plan.
Buffy stood in front of the double glass doors of the office suite. Her plan included breaking into a doctor’s office.
Sunnydale Primary Care was situated in a strip mall and smelled as such – like asphalt, latex gloves and sanitation
supplies. It was a combination of scents she associated with her mother, and with death. Buffy would take Dawn for
waffle cones at Cold Stone while her mother went in for routine blood work.
Buffy had seen these kinds of clinics before. She felt sure that this one would have what she needed. Buffy breathed
in, then applied steady pressure on the door handle. After several seconds, the door jarred with a metallic groan
from its frame.
Buffy waited, stock still, breathless. She expected buzzing alarms or flashing lights, but got nothing but the arid
cool of the lobby.
She stepped back from the doors and frowned. Nothing was not what she expected to happen. The silence of the
open, broken door proved just as daunting as the screech of sirens.
“Meanwhile… Somewhere beneath Sunnydale, in a subterranean laboratory, a brilliant scientist hides in a desperate
attempt to escape the diabolical clutches of his foes – The Initiative. If they find him, all of his research is for
naught. But he has something, apart from his uncanny resourcefulness and rakish good looks. A weapon of
inconceivable power that he will use…”
“Hey! Give it!” Jonathan shouted. “I told you, you can’t play with that. It’s a prototype.”
Andrew lifted the bug-eye goggles from his face. He cradled the weapon closer to his body. It was a thing of beauty:
a meter-long silver cylinder polished to gleaming, with an ergonomically-designed inset control panel in its base.
“It’s a field test,” Andrew said. “It’s within parameters in my job description to test our inventions.”
Jonathan reached for the weapon. Andrew dodged.
“It’s not ready for a field test,” Jonathan yelled. “And you don’t wanna test it in here.”
“Relax, Hoggle. I’m taking it to the Danger Room.”
“No you are not,” Jonathan said.
Jonathan reached again. Andrew feinted. Jonathan managed to get under him and latched onto the weapon.
“Gimme!” Jonathan groaned.
“You gimme,” Andrew said through clenched teeth.
Both gripped the shaft of the weapon and struggled over it. With a lot of huffing and puffing, they tug-o-warred
over the weapon between them. Andrew put his hand over Jonathan’s sweaty face, trying to pry him off. Jonathan
bit into the fat of Andrew’s thumb.
“Ow! Release, Cujo,” Andrew shouted. He lost his grip on the control panel. Jonathan seized the shaft with both
hands. Andrew recovered a shaky grasp on the weapon. His hand slid to the base…
And with a violent burst, the weapon discharged. The blast struck a bank of metal filing cabinets, turning them into
a puddle of smoking molten goo.
Jonathan threw up his hands. “Now look what you did!”
“That was awesome,” Andrew marveled.
Jonathan treaded to the edge of the puddle. With his hands on his hips, he said, “My Battletech Hexgrids were in
there.”
Andrew polished the shaft of the weapon with a loving caress. “Who cares? You can buy like a thousand more when
Triadcorp sells the patent for The Meltinator.”
Jonathan wheeled on Andrew. “You don’t get to name it! It’s my invention.”
“I designed the ergonomically sound control panel component, Jerkathan,” Andrew said.
“Give it,” Jonathan demanded. “I don’t grant you clearance to test that device.”
Andrew stuck out his tongue. “Already did.”
“Did not.”
“Did too. And, I declare The Meltinator a complete success. Although, the firing mechanism’s a little touchy.”
“Don’t call it that. That is the dumbest name…”
Jonathan grabbed for the weapon again, but this time Andrew held it high above his head.
Andrew heard the scuff of bootheels on the cement floor a second before the burnt-sugar-and-bourbon voice
addressed them.
“If you boys are done playing slap and tickle,” he said.
Andrew and Jonathan sprung apart and turned to face Spike just as he lit up a cigarette. Spike – all raw sex and taut
masculine vigor wrapped in supple black leather – reclined against a stack of crates, his cigarette dangling from his
lips.
But he never came just to chat. Which meant…
“I have news,” Spike said. He sauntered across the lab leaving an elegant trail of smoke in his wake. “Where’s
Warren?”
Andrew sucked in his bottom lip. “He’s otherwise occupied these days,” he said sullenly.
“Yeah,” Jonathan concurred. “Corporate jet-setting keeps him real busy.”
“Meanwhile, you two spend a lion’s share of Triadcorp’s research funds making your nifty little toys,” Spike said,
eyeing the steaming molten puddle with derision.
“The Meltinator’s not a toy, Spike,” Andrew said, all defensive, ignoring the cut of Jonathan’s eyes.
Spike took a deep drag from the cigarette, then flicked the butt into the pool of smoldering ooze. “Fine,” he said.
“You’ll do. Pass this message along: The Slayer’s come back to Sunnydale.”
Andrew and Jonathan exchanged startled expressions. Then, Jonathan said, “Faith’s out of prison?”
“Guess again.”
Andrew pondered. “Then the Dark Slayer is dead. I knew that life in the Big House was bound to wear her down,” he
said. “More importantly, how are we going to win the new Slayer over to our objectives? Faith was a really hard
sell…”
Spike grinned, full of self-pleasing. “Uh-uh. Wrong.”
At which point, Jonathan and Andrew stood, figuratively head-scratching.
“Buffy,” Spike said.
“But she’s dead,” Jonathan exclaimed. “I went to her funeral.”
“So did I,” Andrew put in.
“You did not, you big suck up,” Jonathan said. It was seldom mentioned, but Jonathan could be so cruel.
“Was dead,” Spike corrected. “And yet, she’s back. Mad as ever, to be sure. But I can tell by the dawning concern
on your faces that you understand how this complicates things.”
“But Dawn?” Andrew said.
“The girl is secure,” Spike said, in a way that blocked further discussion.
“What does she want?” Jonathan said. “What does Buffy want? Not to mention how did she come back?”
“Yeah,” Andrew said.
Spike rolled his eyes. “All the reasons I need to speak with Warren,” he said.
“Look, just because he took out your chip doesn’t mean…” Andrew began.
Spike gave him a warning glare. “Just let him know the Slayer’s back in town, and that I need a word. With him.”
Jonathan folded his arms. “Fine.”
Spike turned on his weathered bootheel and left them.
“He is such a showman. Always leave them wanting more,” Andrew said.
“Shut up, Leo Bloom,” Jonathan said. “On a scale of badness magnitude, this ranks at least a level Q.”
Andrew holstered his Meltinator. “Don’t be such a bobble head. There’s nothing Buffy can dish out that we can’t
handle.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Jonathan said, squinting his eyes into the vague middle distance of their laboratory. “Spike
has always had a thing for Buffy. His ability to act rationally has been compromised. We have to inform Warren.
Before all Hell breaks loose.”
Once she made it past the outer doors, the inner offices were simple enough. She searched three offices, going
through desk drawers, filing cabinets and closets, but so far, she’d found nothing she could use.
Beside the door of the fourth office, she came across a name she recognized.
Dr. Kriegel. Her Mom’s doctor. The memory brought a pang of bitter sadness to her heart. But with a whispered
prayer, she broke the tumblers of the lock and pushed inside.
Buffy went straight away to the desk and began rifling through the drawers. She found prescription pads and
patient files aplenty, but not what she needed.
After a moment’s searching, Buffy stepped back, wanting to put her fist through something to vent her frustration.
“Where do doctors keep their stethoscopes anyway?” she asked to no one in particular.
“I keep mine in the glove box.”
Dr. Kriegel stood in the doorway, one hand on the open door, the other in the pocket of his blazer. He was a
squarish man, tall and balding. He looked more like Sam the Eagle than a surgeon. Buffy recalled that he would pad
the truth for the sake of consoling when the occasion called for it.
“Stay back,” Buffy ordered.
“It’s my office,” Dr. Kriegel said.
“I know,” Buffy said, stepping further into shadow. “Just. Please don’t come any closer.”
“I don’t have any drugs here,” Dr. Kriegel said.
“I don’t want drugs.”
“There’s no money either. All the talk about doctors having tons of cash is unfounded rumor.”
He kept his hand in the pocket of his jacket and Buffy knew he had his pointy finger on speed dial for 911. Either
that, or a gun. It was Sunnydale after all.
Buffy fidgeted. “I’m not here for money. I…”
Dr. Kriegel stepped over the threshold. “Not drugs or money? I don’t have blood either.”
Buffy scoffed. “Sunnydale,” she said.
“Look,” Dr. Kriegel said, taking his hand from his pocket and holding them both up for her to see. “I won’t call the
police if you just go now.”
“I was serious about the stethoscope,” Buffy said.
“Beg pardon?”
“And vitamins. The folic kind,” Buffy said in a rush. “I need them.”
Dr. Kriegel chuckled. He sounded entirely relieved. “You broke in for – oh.” He paused. “I’m an oncologist.”
“I know.”
“You know?” he asked. He took another step toward her.
And Buffy stepped away. “I mean, now I know. After rummaging. But I was hoping someone in this place would have
what I need.”
Dr. Kriegel leaned toward the desk. “You know, there are free clinics in this town. I’ll write the number down.”
Buffy cleared her throat. “I can’t go to a clinic.”
Dr. Kriegel studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment before speaking again. “I think… it might be your lucky
night,” he said.
Buffy closed her eyes. “You have vitamins?”
“Is your bladder full right now?” he asked.
“Boy, you’re really random with the questions....”
“Dr. Braden has an ultrasound,” he said. “Much better than a stethoscope.”
With trembling arms, Buffy cradled her belly. “Oh. Really?”
“Really. If you’ll, um,” he gestured toward the hall. “It’s right this way.”
Buffy lay back on the padded table in Dr. Braden’s office, the paper lining crackling under her as she adjusted to
get comfortable. Not that comfort was really an option, with the catheter and all.
“You comfortable?” Dr. Kriegel asked. He had finished tinkering with the ultrasound machine. It was making a series
of soft, sonorous wave sounds.
“In a manner of speaking,” Buffy said. “You sure you can drive this thing?”
“I know my way around an ultrasound,” he said, reassuringly. “Shall we?”
Buffy nodded. She focused all of her attention on the blank TV screen that sat on top of the ultrasound. She really
couldn’t help herself. Her life and sanity hung in the balance.
Dr. Kriegel seemed to understand.
Buffy rolled up the hem of her faded black T-shirt. To a casual observer, Buffy didn’t even look pregnant. She looked
like a college sophomore after two semesters of frat parties and kegs-o-beer, maybe. But prospective mother,
maybe not.
“This will be cold,” Dr. Kriegel said, squirting green gel on her belly.
It was cold. Buffy squealed, then giggled nervously. Dr. Kriegel seemed to be enjoying himself. He returned to the
ultrasound and retracted the wand thingy.
“Ready?”
Buffy drew in a deep breath. She couldn’t say the word. So she nodded instead.
At first, when the wand met skin, there was nothing. No sound. No image on the screen. Nothing. Buffy squeezed
her eyes closed, awaiting the worst.
Then, she heard it. A steady, rapid rumbling.
“Is that…?” she said, and stopped herself.
“Heartbeat,” Dr. Kriegel said. “Yep.”
Buffy pressed her hands to her lips. “It’s so fast.”
“Good and strong. Have a look,” Dr. Kriegel said.
Buffy craned her neck to look at the ghostly blue image that appeared on screen.
“She’s really in there,” she choked out, realizing in the next second how completely ridiculous it must have sounded.
Dr. Kriegel rolled the wand around, giving Buffy the tour de womb. “Do you know the date of conception?”
“August 12th,” Buffy said automatically.
Dr. Kriegel chuckled. “I may be an oncologist, but I’m certain you’re further along than six weeks. I’d put you at 16
to 18 weeks.”
“Um…” Buffy stammered. “I mean April. I always do that.”
Dr. Kriegel’s smile faltered. “You’re… not from around here?”
“No.”
He continued to move the wand over her belly. Buffy couldn’t pry herself from the picture on screen. At one point,
she thought she saw an arm. It may have been a leg. It was a wiggly appendage, anyway. The motion and the
beating heart meant good things.
Every molecule in Buffy’s body hummed. Over and over, two words fell and tumbled like feathers on an updraft. My
baby. My baby… For the first time, her hands itched to hold this baby. She wanted to feel the weight of her in her
arms. It was the most powerfully frightening instinct she had ever felt. Ever. More powerful than the instinct to
protect Dawn. Stronger than the impulse to fight.
“I thought I might have known you,” Dr. Kriegel said, his words hesitant.
Buffy dragged her eyes to meet his. She watched him, wondering how far she could trust him. He’d been her
mother’s doctor, all the way to the end. But that was another life, and another Sunnydale. For all she knew, he
could be completely Handmaid’s Tale. It wasn’t a risk Buffy felt she could take. Except, he had been extra helpful
and accommodating so far.
Dr. Kriegel nodded. “I see things. In this town, I see a lot of strangeness. A thousand times, I’ve told my wife, ‘we
should leave this place. I hear Eureka’s nice.’ Hell, I’d bet Tijuana’s got a lower mortality rate.
“But I stay. Even people in Sunnydale get cancer. I think people here need good doctors. That’s what I am. So I
stay.”
He paused. Buffy didn’t know which was louder – the sound of her baby’s beating heart or her own.
“I’ll help you, Miss…”
“Pratt,” she supplied. “The name’s Pratt.”
Dr. Kriegel chewed his lip. Buffy understood that he knew who she was, and where he’d seen her before. He also
knew that her name was not Pratt. But, it was a secret both were willing to keep.
He smiled. “I can help you, Miss Pratt,” he said. “Vitamins. A place to stay–”
“Clothes?”
“You name it.” Dr. Kriegel replaced the wand on the ultrasound. In the absence of the bubbly, underwater noise of
the baby’s heartbeat, the room seemed somehow flatter, empty. It was a sound that would stay with her for
always, though. She had her answers. There was nothing wrong with her, or the baby. But there was something
wrong with Spike.
Buffy took a deep, stabilizing breath. She could skate right in to the next stage of her plan. Here she had a doctor
willing to lend a hand, and an office chock full of long distance service.
“I could really use a phone,” Buffy said.
Buffy dialed the number from memory, realizing that it had been a long time since she’d been in Sunnydale and by all
rights it would have changed.
Dr. Kriegel hung back near the door, giving her space and privacy. After the fourth ring, Buffy was ready to hang it
up when someone in LA picked up the line.
“Angel Investigations,” answered a strident, overly confident female voice. “Harris speaking.”
The gears in Buffy’s mind screeched and locked solid. For several seconds she reeled, until finally her brain
relinquished the name.
“Anya,” Buffy said. “Anya Harris.” She covered her mouth, but couldn’t stifle her stunned laughter.
The next part of Buffy’s plan just got a little less complicated
“This is such a Buffy/Spike plan,” she said in an exasperated voice.
He ignored her. She went on. She knew that was an idea of the bad, but pushing him was becoming more and more of
a full time job.
In a purposely mangled English accent, she went on: “There are some caves in the woods north of town. I don’t
think the Initiative knows about them.”
Spike drew up short. He gave her an obligatory glare. He knew she was baiting him. And well, she had laid it on
pretty thick.
“Have you got a better plan?” he asked, his tongue slicing over the words.
Yes, actually.
“I think we should split up,” she told him.
“Oh, brilliant plan,” he said. “And in horror flicks, that’s right about when the blond gets it. Wait!” He feigned a
gasp. “We’re both blond.”
“Sarcastic much?” Buffy said.
She left him on the path, putting some distance between them. It was, fortunately, darker than dark in the woods
north of town. It enabled her to hide some of her anxieties, if not all of them. His vampire senses made him
obnoxiously astute.
He caught up to her, but she headed him off conversationally.
“We’re never going to find anything Coven-related at this pace. There’s too much ground to cover,” she said.
“We have all night,” Spike said. The incredulous look stitched into his brows made her more eager to get further
away.
“Look, I’ll go this way,” she said, gesturing south. “I’ll circle back when I reach the edge of town. You go that way.
We’ll meet back in the middle.”
“And if we happen to meet any beasties…”
Buffy exhaled a sigh of frustration. “We won’t engage said beastie. This is strictly reconnaissance. Right?”
Spike studied her, the weight of concern on his shoulders combined with something like suspicion.
“The witches, Buffy. They have a way of knowing things,” he said.
Like the way Adam knew things? Buffy thought.
But that was ludicrous and she knew it. Sorta knew it. Spike had changed. Even if he didn’t have a soul, he was the
man – er, vampire – who delivered on his promise to protect Dawn when everyone else had deserted them.
Except, one thing didn’t fit. One thing that was a growing wedge between them. And it was time now to start
sorting things out on her own. She needed outside help, and needed him not to know about it.
“They’re not omniscient,” Buffy told him.
Spike hovered, a pinnacle of indecision.
“Buffy, if something should happen to you…” he said in a begrudging growl.
“It won’t.”
On that note, they parted.
As she left, finally stalking away in what must have once been a patented Buffy huff, she felt shaky and strange.
She had been seeking exactly this opportunity for the last week and a half. Ever since that night on the rooftop
when Spike showed her the Sunnydale Witch Trial, in which the witches ironically conducted the trial, Buffy had
been quietly hatching an escape plot.
Okay, so escape was too strong a word. It wasn’t like she was a captive. She just needed to get away. She had a
plan, and for the moment, it did not include Spike.
Buffy veered south, quickening her pace. She put as much distance between them as possible. Around her, the pines
towered, heightening the whole foreboding forest feel. Because it was so damn dark, every wind-tilted bough had
Buffy leaping like a scared kid in a fairy story.
She never used to be so jumpy. Life in the basement had gone a long way to drive her to the edge of Wiggins.
Sleeping all day, patrolling with Spike every night, spoon-feeding Dawn, and rocking her during her hair-pulling
tantrums – all of it made them unbearable housemates. Buffy figured the only thing keeping her sane was the Surreal
World effect of the whole affair. That, and the cage of hopelessness that was Sunnydale, CA.
Buffy at first felt that she could ride it out. After all, it was so dreamlike, it stood to reason that it must be a
dream. Soon, her sleepwalking would start up again, and one day, she would awake in her own bed surrounded by
her family and friends. It’d be just like Dorothy returning from a whacked-out Land of Oz. Dawn would be there.
William, too. And Willow, and Xander and Giles. And Andrew.
But that changed this morning when Buffy attempted to slide into the elastic-banded yoga pants she’d been wearing
the night she turned up in Sunnydale. Seemingly overnight, the baby had grown enough to make them hand-me-
downs to someone less pregnant.
Which begged the question she’d been asking herself since she arrived: Why hadn’t Spike sensed it?
Angel had heard the heartbeat back when she scarcely knew the baby existed. She had spent hundreds of hours in
close proximity with Spike, and for all of his extra-sensory perceptiveness, he hadn’t even made the first quip at
the bottom-ward shift in her body weight.
The way she had it figured there were two potential reasons for it. One was that something was wrong with this
Spike. The other, much more paralyzing in its implication, was that there was something wrong with her baby. He
couldn’t hear a heartbeat if…
No. Buffy didn’t continue the thought. Had done quite well at keeping an arm’s length on that theory. Besides, a
baby wouldn’t continue to grow without a beating heart. Right?
Buffy cranked up her pace again, now almost jogging along the brambly deer path that cut a silver swath through
the dew-drenched underbrush. An abandoned railroad track ran parallel to the path until it finally intersected with
the warehouse section of Wilkins Avenue. From there, she worked her way downtown, to the Sunnydale Primary
Care Plaza.
Buffy reached the sidewalked edge of Wilkins Avenue without incident. Keeping to the shadows, she crept the half-
mile to the heart of town.
She had patrolled these streets for a thousand nights. She understood too clearly what was missing. However evil
the Coven and Triadcorp might be, they had done wonders for the safety and prosperity of the downtown sector.
She knew, too, that vampires and random demon underlings were the lesser evils. Big Evil put the smack down on
competition. It was like getting into business with the Mob. Sure, you could walk around at night, but there was a
price.
That’s what Spike had wanted her to see.
Or had he?
It was another nettle, another prickle of concern.
“Where were you?” she had asked when she realized that the witches were responsible for what Dawn had become.
“Why didn’t you stop them?”
His reply: “I was bound, gagged, down a bloody well…”
She hadn’t heard that part until later, when she turned the scene over and over, looking at it from every angle with
her Slayer’s eyes. Bound, gagged and down a well, he’d said.
In her mind, a question floated up like a small red balloon. How did he get out?
That question, coupled with her expanding waistline, propelled her down the sidewalk toward the darkened offices
of a Sunnydale clinic. She needed at least one answer. She was capable of calculating. Of thinking rationally. Of
looking at things objectively. She hadn’t had a lot of practice in the last months, but she still could make a plan.
Buffy stood in front of the double glass doors of the office suite. Her plan included breaking into a doctor’s office.
Sunnydale Primary Care was situated in a strip mall and smelled as such – like asphalt, latex gloves and sanitation
supplies. It was a combination of scents she associated with her mother, and with death. Buffy would take Dawn for
waffle cones at Cold Stone while her mother went in for routine blood work.
Buffy had seen these kinds of clinics before. She felt sure that this one would have what she needed. Buffy breathed
in, then applied steady pressure on the door handle. After several seconds, the door jarred with a metallic groan
from its frame.
Buffy waited, stock still, breathless. She expected buzzing alarms or flashing lights, but got nothing but the arid
cool of the lobby.
She stepped back from the doors and frowned. Nothing was not what she expected to happen. The silence of the
open, broken door proved just as daunting as the screech of sirens.
“Meanwhile… Somewhere beneath Sunnydale, in a subterranean laboratory, a brilliant scientist hides in a desperate
attempt to escape the diabolical clutches of his foes – The Initiative. If they find him, all of his research is for
naught. But he has something, apart from his uncanny resourcefulness and rakish good looks. A weapon of
inconceivable power that he will use…”
“Hey! Give it!” Jonathan shouted. “I told you, you can’t play with that. It’s a prototype.”
Andrew lifted the bug-eye goggles from his face. He cradled the weapon closer to his body. It was a thing of beauty:
a meter-long silver cylinder polished to gleaming, with an ergonomically-designed inset control panel in its base.
“It’s a field test,” Andrew said. “It’s within parameters in my job description to test our inventions.”
Jonathan reached for the weapon. Andrew dodged.
“It’s not ready for a field test,” Jonathan yelled. “And you don’t wanna test it in here.”
“Relax, Hoggle. I’m taking it to the Danger Room.”
“No you are not,” Jonathan said.
Jonathan reached again. Andrew feinted. Jonathan managed to get under him and latched onto the weapon.
“Gimme!” Jonathan groaned.
“You gimme,” Andrew said through clenched teeth.
Both gripped the shaft of the weapon and struggled over it. With a lot of huffing and puffing, they tug-o-warred
over the weapon between them. Andrew put his hand over Jonathan’s sweaty face, trying to pry him off. Jonathan
bit into the fat of Andrew’s thumb.
“Ow! Release, Cujo,” Andrew shouted. He lost his grip on the control panel. Jonathan seized the shaft with both
hands. Andrew recovered a shaky grasp on the weapon. His hand slid to the base…
And with a violent burst, the weapon discharged. The blast struck a bank of metal filing cabinets, turning them into
a puddle of smoking molten goo.
Jonathan threw up his hands. “Now look what you did!”
“That was awesome,” Andrew marveled.
Jonathan treaded to the edge of the puddle. With his hands on his hips, he said, “My Battletech Hexgrids were in
there.”
Andrew polished the shaft of the weapon with a loving caress. “Who cares? You can buy like a thousand more when
Triadcorp sells the patent for The Meltinator.”
Jonathan wheeled on Andrew. “You don’t get to name it! It’s my invention.”
“I designed the ergonomically sound control panel component, Jerkathan,” Andrew said.
“Give it,” Jonathan demanded. “I don’t grant you clearance to test that device.”
Andrew stuck out his tongue. “Already did.”
“Did not.”
“Did too. And, I declare The Meltinator a complete success. Although, the firing mechanism’s a little touchy.”
“Don’t call it that. That is the dumbest name…”
Jonathan grabbed for the weapon again, but this time Andrew held it high above his head.
Andrew heard the scuff of bootheels on the cement floor a second before the burnt-sugar-and-bourbon voice
addressed them.
“If you boys are done playing slap and tickle,” he said.
Andrew and Jonathan sprung apart and turned to face Spike just as he lit up a cigarette. Spike – all raw sex and taut
masculine vigor wrapped in supple black leather – reclined against a stack of crates, his cigarette dangling from his
lips.
But he never came just to chat. Which meant…
“I have news,” Spike said. He sauntered across the lab leaving an elegant trail of smoke in his wake. “Where’s
Warren?”
Andrew sucked in his bottom lip. “He’s otherwise occupied these days,” he said sullenly.
“Yeah,” Jonathan concurred. “Corporate jet-setting keeps him real busy.”
“Meanwhile, you two spend a lion’s share of Triadcorp’s research funds making your nifty little toys,” Spike said,
eyeing the steaming molten puddle with derision.
“The Meltinator’s not a toy, Spike,” Andrew said, all defensive, ignoring the cut of Jonathan’s eyes.
Spike took a deep drag from the cigarette, then flicked the butt into the pool of smoldering ooze. “Fine,” he said.
“You’ll do. Pass this message along: The Slayer’s come back to Sunnydale.”
Andrew and Jonathan exchanged startled expressions. Then, Jonathan said, “Faith’s out of prison?”
“Guess again.”
Andrew pondered. “Then the Dark Slayer is dead. I knew that life in the Big House was bound to wear her down,” he
said. “More importantly, how are we going to win the new Slayer over to our objectives? Faith was a really hard
sell…”
Spike grinned, full of self-pleasing. “Uh-uh. Wrong.”
At which point, Jonathan and Andrew stood, figuratively head-scratching.
“Buffy,” Spike said.
“But she’s dead,” Jonathan exclaimed. “I went to her funeral.”
“So did I,” Andrew put in.
“You did not, you big suck up,” Jonathan said. It was seldom mentioned, but Jonathan could be so cruel.
“Was dead,” Spike corrected. “And yet, she’s back. Mad as ever, to be sure. But I can tell by the dawning concern
on your faces that you understand how this complicates things.”
“But Dawn?” Andrew said.
“The girl is secure,” Spike said, in a way that blocked further discussion.
“What does she want?” Jonathan said. “What does Buffy want? Not to mention how did she come back?”
“Yeah,” Andrew said.
Spike rolled his eyes. “All the reasons I need to speak with Warren,” he said.
“Look, just because he took out your chip doesn’t mean…” Andrew began.
Spike gave him a warning glare. “Just let him know the Slayer’s back in town, and that I need a word. With him.”
Jonathan folded his arms. “Fine.”
Spike turned on his weathered bootheel and left them.
“He is such a showman. Always leave them wanting more,” Andrew said.
“Shut up, Leo Bloom,” Jonathan said. “On a scale of badness magnitude, this ranks at least a level Q.”
Andrew holstered his Meltinator. “Don’t be such a bobble head. There’s nothing Buffy can dish out that we can’t
handle.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Jonathan said, squinting his eyes into the vague middle distance of their laboratory. “Spike
has always had a thing for Buffy. His ability to act rationally has been compromised. We have to inform Warren.
Before all Hell breaks loose.”
Once she made it past the outer doors, the inner offices were simple enough. She searched three offices, going
through desk drawers, filing cabinets and closets, but so far, she’d found nothing she could use.
Beside the door of the fourth office, she came across a name she recognized.
Dr. Kriegel. Her Mom’s doctor. The memory brought a pang of bitter sadness to her heart. But with a whispered
prayer, she broke the tumblers of the lock and pushed inside.
Buffy went straight away to the desk and began rifling through the drawers. She found prescription pads and
patient files aplenty, but not what she needed.
After a moment’s searching, Buffy stepped back, wanting to put her fist through something to vent her frustration.
“Where do doctors keep their stethoscopes anyway?” she asked to no one in particular.
“I keep mine in the glove box.”
Dr. Kriegel stood in the doorway, one hand on the open door, the other in the pocket of his blazer. He was a
squarish man, tall and balding. He looked more like Sam the Eagle than a surgeon. Buffy recalled that he would pad
the truth for the sake of consoling when the occasion called for it.
“Stay back,” Buffy ordered.
“It’s my office,” Dr. Kriegel said.
“I know,” Buffy said, stepping further into shadow. “Just. Please don’t come any closer.”
“I don’t have any drugs here,” Dr. Kriegel said.
“I don’t want drugs.”
“There’s no money either. All the talk about doctors having tons of cash is unfounded rumor.”
He kept his hand in the pocket of his jacket and Buffy knew he had his pointy finger on speed dial for 911. Either
that, or a gun. It was Sunnydale after all.
Buffy fidgeted. “I’m not here for money. I…”
Dr. Kriegel stepped over the threshold. “Not drugs or money? I don’t have blood either.”
Buffy scoffed. “Sunnydale,” she said.
“Look,” Dr. Kriegel said, taking his hand from his pocket and holding them both up for her to see. “I won’t call the
police if you just go now.”
“I was serious about the stethoscope,” Buffy said.
“Beg pardon?”
“And vitamins. The folic kind,” Buffy said in a rush. “I need them.”
Dr. Kriegel chuckled. He sounded entirely relieved. “You broke in for – oh.” He paused. “I’m an oncologist.”
“I know.”
“You know?” he asked. He took another step toward her.
And Buffy stepped away. “I mean, now I know. After rummaging. But I was hoping someone in this place would have
what I need.”
Dr. Kriegel leaned toward the desk. “You know, there are free clinics in this town. I’ll write the number down.”
Buffy cleared her throat. “I can’t go to a clinic.”
Dr. Kriegel studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment before speaking again. “I think… it might be your lucky
night,” he said.
Buffy closed her eyes. “You have vitamins?”
“Is your bladder full right now?” he asked.
“Boy, you’re really random with the questions....”
“Dr. Braden has an ultrasound,” he said. “Much better than a stethoscope.”
With trembling arms, Buffy cradled her belly. “Oh. Really?”
“Really. If you’ll, um,” he gestured toward the hall. “It’s right this way.”
Buffy lay back on the padded table in Dr. Braden’s office, the paper lining crackling under her as she adjusted to
get comfortable. Not that comfort was really an option, with the catheter and all.
“You comfortable?” Dr. Kriegel asked. He had finished tinkering with the ultrasound machine. It was making a series
of soft, sonorous wave sounds.
“In a manner of speaking,” Buffy said. “You sure you can drive this thing?”
“I know my way around an ultrasound,” he said, reassuringly. “Shall we?”
Buffy nodded. She focused all of her attention on the blank TV screen that sat on top of the ultrasound. She really
couldn’t help herself. Her life and sanity hung in the balance.
Dr. Kriegel seemed to understand.
Buffy rolled up the hem of her faded black T-shirt. To a casual observer, Buffy didn’t even look pregnant. She looked
like a college sophomore after two semesters of frat parties and kegs-o-beer, maybe. But prospective mother,
maybe not.
“This will be cold,” Dr. Kriegel said, squirting green gel on her belly.
It was cold. Buffy squealed, then giggled nervously. Dr. Kriegel seemed to be enjoying himself. He returned to the
ultrasound and retracted the wand thingy.
“Ready?”
Buffy drew in a deep breath. She couldn’t say the word. So she nodded instead.
At first, when the wand met skin, there was nothing. No sound. No image on the screen. Nothing. Buffy squeezed
her eyes closed, awaiting the worst.
Then, she heard it. A steady, rapid rumbling.
“Is that…?” she said, and stopped herself.
“Heartbeat,” Dr. Kriegel said. “Yep.”
Buffy pressed her hands to her lips. “It’s so fast.”
“Good and strong. Have a look,” Dr. Kriegel said.
Buffy craned her neck to look at the ghostly blue image that appeared on screen.
“She’s really in there,” she choked out, realizing in the next second how completely ridiculous it must have sounded.
Dr. Kriegel rolled the wand around, giving Buffy the tour de womb. “Do you know the date of conception?”
“August 12th,” Buffy said automatically.
Dr. Kriegel chuckled. “I may be an oncologist, but I’m certain you’re further along than six weeks. I’d put you at 16
to 18 weeks.”
“Um…” Buffy stammered. “I mean April. I always do that.”
Dr. Kriegel’s smile faltered. “You’re… not from around here?”
“No.”
He continued to move the wand over her belly. Buffy couldn’t pry herself from the picture on screen. At one point,
she thought she saw an arm. It may have been a leg. It was a wiggly appendage, anyway. The motion and the
beating heart meant good things.
Every molecule in Buffy’s body hummed. Over and over, two words fell and tumbled like feathers on an updraft. My
baby. My baby… For the first time, her hands itched to hold this baby. She wanted to feel the weight of her in her
arms. It was the most powerfully frightening instinct she had ever felt. Ever. More powerful than the instinct to
protect Dawn. Stronger than the impulse to fight.
“I thought I might have known you,” Dr. Kriegel said, his words hesitant.
Buffy dragged her eyes to meet his. She watched him, wondering how far she could trust him. He’d been her
mother’s doctor, all the way to the end. But that was another life, and another Sunnydale. For all she knew, he
could be completely Handmaid’s Tale. It wasn’t a risk Buffy felt she could take. Except, he had been extra helpful
and accommodating so far.
Dr. Kriegel nodded. “I see things. In this town, I see a lot of strangeness. A thousand times, I’ve told my wife, ‘we
should leave this place. I hear Eureka’s nice.’ Hell, I’d bet Tijuana’s got a lower mortality rate.
“But I stay. Even people in Sunnydale get cancer. I think people here need good doctors. That’s what I am. So I
stay.”
He paused. Buffy didn’t know which was louder – the sound of her baby’s beating heart or her own.
“I’ll help you, Miss…”
“Pratt,” she supplied. “The name’s Pratt.”
Dr. Kriegel chewed his lip. Buffy understood that he knew who she was, and where he’d seen her before. He also
knew that her name was not Pratt. But, it was a secret both were willing to keep.
He smiled. “I can help you, Miss Pratt,” he said. “Vitamins. A place to stay–”
“Clothes?”
“You name it.” Dr. Kriegel replaced the wand on the ultrasound. In the absence of the bubbly, underwater noise of
the baby’s heartbeat, the room seemed somehow flatter, empty. It was a sound that would stay with her for
always, though. She had her answers. There was nothing wrong with her, or the baby. But there was something
wrong with Spike.
Buffy took a deep, stabilizing breath. She could skate right in to the next stage of her plan. Here she had a doctor
willing to lend a hand, and an office chock full of long distance service.
“I could really use a phone,” Buffy said.
Buffy dialed the number from memory, realizing that it had been a long time since she’d been in Sunnydale and by all
rights it would have changed.
Dr. Kriegel hung back near the door, giving her space and privacy. After the fourth ring, Buffy was ready to hang it
up when someone in LA picked up the line.
“Angel Investigations,” answered a strident, overly confident female voice. “Harris speaking.”
The gears in Buffy’s mind screeched and locked solid. For several seconds she reeled, until finally her brain
relinquished the name.
“Anya,” Buffy said. “Anya Harris.” She covered her mouth, but couldn’t stifle her stunned laughter.
The next part of Buffy’s plan just got a little less complicated
Author's note: Special thanks to my beta reader, Mattallicarock, who has been on this long journey with
me since I began two Aprils ago. And, he's not even a Buffy fan!
Another thanks goes to StevenH for beta reading this last chapter in addition to Mattallicarock, because
he's more familiar with Season 4 and Season 6 canon.
However, neither men knew anything at all about ultrasounds. I based what I wrote on my cousin's recent
experiences during her pregnancy because I could never afford an ultrasound during mine. For Buffy's
pregnancy, I'm giving her part of what I went through, but not the whole package. I could wear most of
my non-maternity clothes until around the 20th week of my pregnancy.
I think it's reasonable that Buffy's not showing because she's probably not getting all the food she should
have. For me, it was the five months of daily morning sickness that was not confined to morning. I decided
to spare Buffy that dread.
There are more chapters on the way. I've already written two, but they are out of sequence. The more I
write, I'm discovering more about the story and... it's starting to make more sense. I'm excited about that.
If you've been with me all this time, I'm very, very grateful. I hope you are enjoying it as much as I'm loving
the writing of it.
me since I began two Aprils ago. And, he's not even a Buffy fan!
Another thanks goes to StevenH for beta reading this last chapter in addition to Mattallicarock, because
he's more familiar with Season 4 and Season 6 canon.
However, neither men knew anything at all about ultrasounds. I based what I wrote on my cousin's recent
experiences during her pregnancy because I could never afford an ultrasound during mine. For Buffy's
pregnancy, I'm giving her part of what I went through, but not the whole package. I could wear most of
my non-maternity clothes until around the 20th week of my pregnancy.
I think it's reasonable that Buffy's not showing because she's probably not getting all the food she should
have. For me, it was the five months of daily morning sickness that was not confined to morning. I decided
to spare Buffy that dread.
There are more chapters on the way. I've already written two, but they are out of sequence. The more I
write, I'm discovering more about the story and... it's starting to make more sense. I'm excited about that.
If you've been with me all this time, I'm very, very grateful. I hope you are enjoying it as much as I'm loving
the writing of it.
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.Chapter Index.
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
Time Is Running Out
Primal
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
Time Is Running Out
Primal