The sky was drawn and overcast on the day Delores Landingham was buried.

Spike awoke around eight in the morning to the bland cream of the bedroom ceiling. There were a few indiscernible cracks in the plaster; things he’d never bothered to notice until he and Buffy did a survey of the damage done by Glory. Now he noticed everything. Every tiny imperfection in his home; the first place he’d ever legally owned. The first place that was paid for, not stolen. The first place, in over a hundred years, he’d considered home.

Every time he saw a crack in the wall, his mind provided a vision of Glory harming his mate, and he had to clench his fists and ward off a growl to keep from attracting attention to himself. It was an old house, and from what he understood, the fight between the gods had taken place downstairs in the front parlor; still, his mind enjoyed tormenting him. Enjoyed riling his demon and tickling his bloodlust. Even with the fight behind them, he couldn’t help the burden of failure that compressed his shoulders.

They had arrived home from Sunnydale to find the downstairs furnished with several assorted antiques—some that compensated for what was lost in the fight, some that filled blank space they had yet to occupy. There was a card on the table, signed from everyone in the West Wing—even Bonnie, Ginger, and Margaret, and specific instructions not to thank or even mention a word of their generosity. They felt, the note said, that it was owed for everything they had sacrificed in the past few months.

What amazed Spike all the more was it had evidently been Josh’s idea. And he figured that the tacit acceptance end of the deal was to avoid the Deputy Chief of Staff’s appearing as though he liked the vampire or the world of monsters and mayhem that existed off the pages of Grimm’s Fairytales.

Donna had left a message on their answering machine—another welcome home present—that explained that Josh, despite his Josh-like qualities, was very protective of everyone he knew.

It was the day of Delores Landingham’s funeral, and Spike found himself at an odd place. The changes in his life over the past two years had been colossal; he hadn’t cared, prior to falling in love with Buffy, about the plight of the human race, or any of its players. He could’ve happily drunk from Xander’s throat and washed him down with witch’s blood, then gone a round with the Slayer to see if he could claim his third. Now, the thought of any of the aforementioned made him shudder with self-disgust. Made him feel the need to repent for actions he’d previously dreamed about, even if they had never taken place.

Now he was the mate of the Slayer, and he felt her pain. He felt everything that she felt, and these past two weeks had overwhelmed her with blow after blow to the isolated worldview she had of their shattered fairytale life. Now Mrs. Landingham was dead. A human was dead, and Spike was overwhelmed with the pain of senseless loss.

The impact of her death surprised him. He felt shaken—invaded. Suddenly, this woman he’d barely known was gone, and he felt for her. For her, for the President—for people he wouldn’t have cared two pisses about such a short time ago.

He could have killed her himself once upon a time, and that bothered him.

That bothered him a lot.

Spike expelled a soft breath and turned his eyes to his mate. If he could erase these past two weeks for her, he would in a heartbeat. She’d buried her mother, become the guardian of her teenage sister, forced herself to become a stone in the face of crippling grief, and all while she was nursing scars that would never fully heal. Not where it counted.

She had a lot of scars.

Dawn was living with them now—sleeping in one of the guestrooms, and generally making life chaotic. While Buffy was doing her best to tolerate the girl’s erratic mood swings, her patience wasn’t infinite, and then it’d be a whole new ballgame.

He wondered how the Slayer would feel about sending the Bit back to England for school. Buffy had too much on her plate to sort through without worrying about a hormonal teenager.

Things were so different now. Everything was.

Spike raised a hand to his mate’s shoulder. She was lying on her side, her back facing him, her breaths soft and tempered. He wanted to bury himself in her arms, leave the world to turn without them this once, and forget the mounting waves that were preparing to crash on all sides.

Abbey Bartlet was worried about Buffy. Where the President had practically adopted the vampire, the First Lady had taken the Slayer under her wing. Between the private problems in the First Family—most centering on the President’s possibly running for a second term, against the preset agreement with Abbey that he wouldn’t because of the MS—the family still went out of their way to help those in need. To help those on the outside that they considered family.

Buffy was hurting, and he could only help so much.

His fingers wrapped around her shoulder, and he pressed a soft kiss against her skin. “Sweetheart,” he said gently. “You with me?”

She shuddered beneath his touch. “Always.”

He smiled. “Din’t know you were awake.”

“That’s because I was being very still.” She turned to face him, her eyes drawing him in. A man could get lost in her eyes, and never want for escape. “Are you going to the funeral?”

“’S a day funeral.”

“You’d find a way to get there.”

Spike pursed his lips and conceded the point. “I’ve been to too many funerals in the past couple weeks,” he said, crawling over her slowly. It had been forever, it seemed, since they could be together like this. His life in the past few weeks had been a series of small tragedies. Buffy’s external scars had healed within three days, and ever since she had been burdened with grief to the point where all he could give her was the comfort of his embrace.

He remembered so clearly leaving the afternoon before Glory’s attack. Teasing her about the “free-time” they had coming. About the night on the town he wanted so much to give her. The night together they’d deserved for far too long.

Buffy’s hands slid up his arms, her fingers threading through his hair. “We’re gonna get through this, aren’t we.” she said gently. It wasn’t a question, more a statement of affirmation. “After a while, the pain will go away, and we’ll be okay again.”

“We’ll be okay again,” he murmured, dropping a kiss against her cheek. His hard cock danced over her naked abdomen, sliding over her skin sensually until he was bathed in the liquid warmth of her haven. “Can I come in?”

She nodded with a small whimper and pressed a kiss to his lips. Then he slipped inside her, and his body rejoiced. “’ve missed this,” he murmured against her lips. “You’re so warm. You’re like coming home.”

For a few minutes, at least, they could pretend. They could pretend the world around them didn’t exist. That the past few months had been a dream, and they were at the beginning again. They were back in Natchez, basking in the warm glow of newfound love before a god attempted to strip his girl away, had plagued her with a burden she didn’t think she could carry. The same she feared a thousand times more than it was powerful. He remembered so well the days before he’d known her sweet solace. Back when Faith had invaded her body, grabbed him by the cock, and inadvertently changed his life forever.

Next time he saw Faith, he’d have to hug her. Or maybe a friendly wave from across a very large room would suffice. He didn’t care to get too close to Faith, and it had nothing to do with her being a psychotic Slayer-turned-god.

“You feel so good,” he hummed into her ear. “Every time.” His thrusts were slow and steady, his eyes fixed on hers, drawing in every glimmer of pleasure that flashed across her face. Her pussy tightened around him, squeezing him rhythmically with every plunge. He slid a hand between them, fingers finding her clit with ease. “Your skin’s like silk.”

“Ohhh,” she moaned, locking her legs around his waist. “Spike…”

“That feel good?”

“Oh yes.”

His blunt teeth skimmed the cool column of her throat, playing tantalizingly over the claim mark he had given her. “Skin of silk,” he said again, thrusts growing hard and frantic, “an’ you taste like milk an’ honey.”

“Spike!”

He wasn’t going to be able to make this last today. Regardless however much he wanted to keep reality behind a locked door, keep in the warm sanctuary of her body; keep everything from crashing into his paradise, he needed too badly to feel her coming around him. To reach his pinnacle with her, and give himself that reassurance that, despite however the day went, he would emerge with her on the other side.

A simple day could change everything. Funny how it had taken a hundred and fifty years of living to understand that.

His game face burst forward before he could help himself. “Need your blood,” he told her softly. The gentility of his voice offset the heavy sound of their bodies smacking together, her mewls painting the air, his answering groans scratching at his throat. “Need to taste you.”

“Do it,” she gasped.

He pressed his lips to the pulse point on her throat. “I love you,” he said as he sliced his fangs into her flesh. His fingers pinched her clit, her blood filled his mouth, and she came hard around him, her orgasm triggering his own.

Hours later, he collapsed beside her, tugging her close to him, nuzzling his face in her hair.

“I love you,” he said again.

“I love you.”

“We’ll be okay, sweetling. We always are.” Spike pulled back just slightly and brushed a tender kiss across her lips. “’S all right.”

Buffy sighed and nodded. “I know,” she said. “I just…God, I feel…”

“It’s changed. This past year has changed us.”

“Yeah.” A pause. “I don’t know…I guess…I know I’ve been Miss Detached for the past few days—”

“Your mum died, luv. No one expects you to be the picture of perfect health.”

“I just don’t know what to do. We have the house back in Sunnydale, we have the house here…I have Dawn, who I…” Buffy drew in a sharp breath and buried her face in his shoulder. “I don’t know what to do anymore. She’s not gonna be happy here, and if we go back to Sunnydale…”

“We don’ have to go back.” At her questioning look, he shrugged and kissed her brow. “You think I haven’t noticed that all your mates are now residents of your nation’s capital? What happens if we go back? We move into the house where your mum lived, sort through your mum’s things, an’…the Initiative is there, pet. I don’ see the point in movin’ back.”

Buffy licked her lips. “You want to stay.”

“I want what you want.”

“Spike—”

“You know me well enough to know I’m not just sayin’ that. I really don’ care where I am, as long as you’re there. I tell you, luv, I’m used to haulin’ my hot, tight li’l body to all corners of this miserable world. I jus’ want you.”

“You want to be here, too.”

He glanced down. “I think that you’d be happier here,” he said, “after all the bad’s gone. More so than back on the Hellmouth. An’ yeh, I like it here. I won’ lie.”

“Then that’s what’s important to me.”

“Buffy—”

“I don’t want to go home to my mother’s room. I don’t want to deal with it. I don’t.” She paused. “And you’re right. Here we’re…I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“’S not gonna be any easier anywhere we go, luv.”

“I know.”

“Point of fact, dealin’ with the reelection, with the various political scandals…not to mention your self-trainin’, it’s gonna be bloody difficult.”

She nodded. “I know.” A brief pause. “But it’s going to be worse anywhere else. Here, we have friends that will help us…like if gods decide to trash our place, we have people who’ll replace our furniture.”

Spike grinned. “I’d’ve replaced our furniture,” he replied, mock-wounded, as though his manhood was at stake for having not acted the part of the provider.

“I know, but aren’t you glad you didn’t have to?”

“Yeh. Bloody hate furniture shopping.”

It was boring and senseless, especially since Buffy picked out most everything they owned with the exception of one or two of the big purchases—like the bed. Everything else was a model of classic elegance that emanated from a girl that no one would have thought to be classically elegant. He thought it was due to the fact that they were living in a home that was more or less theirs—not her mother’s and not some trash SunnyD apartment. It was their home, and that knowledge dragged her classic elegance out of hiding.

“Are you going to Mrs. Landingham’s funeral?” Buffy asked again after a few minutes.

“Are you?”

“I feel like I should.”

“He’s buryin’ her then comin’ clean with the MS scandal. ‘S a bloody big deal.”

“I can’t believe he’s not postponing.”

“He can’t bloody well postpone; too many people know about it.” Spike sighed and sat up. “’F it were me or you, he’d be there in a heartbeat. I’ll find a way to get there.”

“I’ll go with you.”

He looked at her, smiling softly. “Sweetheart, I don’ think anyone’ll ask why you’re not with me if you don’ wanna go. You jus’—”

“I know.” She kissed his shoulder. “I’ll go. I’m not going to sit here in the dark and feel sorry for myself. Mom’s gone…not going to another funeral won’t bring her back. I don’t want…I don’t want Mom to become an excuse for me. Today, it’s the funeral of a woman who was nice to me, even if I didn’t know her very well. Tomorrow, who knows? I’m the Slayer—that hasn’t changed. I’m a god—that hasn’t changed, either. Nothing’s changed. We’re still here, and she’s not. But the world is still turning, there’s still evil, and I have…I can’t shut myself off. I won’t.”

Her words stirred a forgotten memory; sitting in the parlor of his childhood home, consoling his mother after word of his father’s disappearance arrived. Mary was playing with her dolls upstairs, oblivious to the world until she heard them crying. For weeks after that, it had felt wrong to take pleasure in anything while his father was gone. It was a horrible feeling; as though the memory of the loved one was betrayed by the intrusion of life. He realized now how horribly wrong that sentiment was, and couldn’t help but smile at the resolve on Buffy’s face.

She was his girl, through and through.

“The press conference is still scheduled for tonight?”

Spike nodded. “Far as I know. I’m not on the inside.”

“Bull.”

He couldn’t help but concede the point. “Can I help if the man likes to yap his head off whenever I’m in proximity?”

“He trusts you.”

“Bad choice.” He gestured to himself. “Evil here.”

“Honey—”

He could sense her argument a mile off. “An’ if you make with any of that ‘not really evil anymore’ rot, I swear I’m gonna—”

“What? Bite me?”

The thought was tempting, and his fangs told him so. “Minx.”

“Told you.”

“Was gonna say ‘pound you into the mattress.’” He flashed a grin and leaned inward to nibble on her lips. “Don’ be denyin’ my capacity for evil.”

“Sweetie, your capacity of evil softens every minute.”

“Don’ be usin’ the word ‘softens’ with me.”

Buffy smiled. “I’m just saying, the longer you stay mated to me, the less aggressive you’re gonna become. I just keep sending you good vibes.”

“That sure as hell wasn’ in the brochure.” Spike smirked and tackled her back to the sheets before she could raise her voice in protest, kissing her thoroughly as his hands slid up her arms and back again. “We’re never gonna get outta bed at this rate.”

“Not seeing where that’s a bad thing.”

“Me neither, pet, ‘less we’re gonna go to the funeral. ‘S this afternoon.”

When Buffy pursed her lips and nodded, that was it. He heaved a great sigh of reluctance, forced himself to his feet, and cast a hand through his hair. The day ahead was not one he was looking forward to in the slightest. With the mood the President was rumored to be in, he couldn’t imagine the outcome of the press conference being positive in the least. The Senior Staffers were running around like decapitated chickens trying to figure out if he was going to run for a second term or step back graciously and throw support behind John Hoynes.

Honestly, Spike didn’t know what to expect. Only that today would likely not be one he’d easily forget.

*~*~*

It was strange, the way the same church could look so different, depending on the occasion. Today, the high arches of the cathedral were illuminated by large, multi-rose windows that, as the sun shone through, hit an angle of such brilliance that it had to have been painted by the hand of God. It had looked at the beginning of the day that the weather would be appropriately gloomy, but now the sun was shining so bright, it was almost impossible to believe they had awoken with the threat of showers looming overhead.

There were small murmurs running throughout the congregation; Donna sat between Margaret and Carol, holding the former’s hand as she began to weep. Bonnie was seated with Ginger and Cathy, and they were chatting quietly about an incident that had occurred two years prior in which Mrs. Landingham had reprimanded them in her smart-ass, school-marmy way about the appropriate garb to wear in and around the Oval Office.

There was no one in attendance, Donna mused, that had not thought the world of Mrs. Landingham.

Most notably, the drawn, desolate face of a man lost. A man on the verge of losing everything. Secret Service agents, with the begrudging assistance of the ushers, guided the President and the First Lady to a pew in the front.

The Commander In Chief drew in a deep breath as he sat. From Donna’s position, it appeared that it was taking a considerable effort for the man to remember that he needed to breathe.

She turned her eyes to Willow, who was seated a few rows ahead next to Sam. The young Witch had dressed sensibly. A black dress and a hat that made her pale skin look even paler.

It was as though Donna was coming out of a slow awakening—a dream she’d been living in for the past year and a half and nothing was real anymore. Willow was there with Sam, because they were living together. Willow had turned twenty a few months before; she was the same age as Zoey Bartlet, the President’s youngest daughter. And for the first time in their acquaintance, her age, to Donna, was front and center.

The last time she really spoke with the redhead, she’d been told that she was supposed to become her pupil. Become a witch herself. Become something more than she was—more than the assistant to Josh Lyman, and one of the most respected people in the West Wing who was not in the Cabinet or considered Senior Staff. Willow had decided for her, with the help of Giles, that she would become a witch, simply because she had the power.

Willow was only twenty. She’d seemed so much older for such a long time, but she wasn’t. She was still a little girl playing in a big world, with a much grander understanding than most girls her age of the way the world worked. She and Sam were admittedly happy together, but she was still a child. In so many ways, she was still a child.

And she was becoming powerful. In small, nearly indiscernible steps, she was becoming more and more powerful. One day she poured coffee like everyone else, the next day she used magic to do it. Small things like that. Frightening things like that.

Yet Donna respected and trusted Giles. She’d once told Spike that Giles was his Leo, and she still believed it. Even though she hadn’t really spoken with the man for months, she trusted his judgment.

Josh wasn’t going to like this.

Donna drew in a breath, tearing her eyes away from the redhead and her boyfriend as the service began.

Nope. Josh wasn’t going to like it one little bit.

When the reverend began to speak, his voice fell over the crowd, hushed but thunderous as it echoed through the hall. He had a magnanimous voice. The sort Mrs. Landingham would have loved.

“‘I am the Resurrection and I am Life,’ says the Lord. ‘Whoever believes in Me shall live, even though he die.’ God of Mercy, You are the hope of sinners, the joy of saints. We pray for our sister Delores whose body we honor with Christian burial. Give her happiness with Your saints, and raise up her body with the saints at the Last Day to be in Your presence forever...As for me, I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the last, He will stand upon the Earth. After my awaking, He will raise me up. And in my body, I shall see God, and I myself shall see, and my eyes behold, Him who is my friend…”

The President was sitting as though he had turned to marble. Donna could not see his face.

But he was so still.

She sighed again as tears stung her eyes. Mrs. Landingham was gone. Buffy’s mom was gone. The President had Multiple Sclerosis, and the world was falling apart.

But not because of the god. No. For months, Donna had lived with the knowledge that she was in danger by association. She was in danger because her friend was the Slayer, whose sister was the Key. And now Glory was gone, and death had settled over them. The House of Usher had collapsed.

The President’s pain was private, but she could feel the tension in him from miles away. Could feel the pain. Was that a part of her new powers? The powers Willow had told her about? The powers she was supposed to grow into?

The day was going to be long and painful. She knew it.

And if she could do anything, she would erase the personal hell the President was going through. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. After everything they’d been through, it wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Donna sighed and struggled to focus on the reverend’s words, but her mind was overflowing with stark realities she didn’t yet want to face.

Willow leaned in to whisper something to Sam, and the blonde felt herself getting irritated.

She wished Buffy and Spike were with her.

*~*~*

“You better get off here.”

Buffy frowned and wet her lips. “Can I say again that I don’t wanna do this?”

“Pet, we’re already runnin’ late. Plus I gotta go in through the sodding underground tunnels as it is. If you come with me, you’ll get your pretty dress all dirty.” As if by suggestion alone, Spike lowered a hand to her leg and caressed her skin through the thin fabric. “’S fine. I’ll see you when I get there.”

“I think I’m going to wait outside, then. I don’t…if the service has started, it’d be disrespectful to just bust in and make a big commotion.”

Spike squeezed her leg. “So you’re sayin’ that I should—”

“It won’t be as noticeable when you go in, sweetie. You won’t walk in during the middle of the thing, and you won’t make a ton of noise doing it. The front doors? Not quite as inconspicuous as the basement.”

The metrorail was coming to another halt. It was her stop. Expelling a deep breath, Buffy rose to her feet; Spike followed.

“I’ll see you there, sweetheart.”

“Yeah.” She smiled softly and brushed a kiss across his lips. “Twenty minutes.”

Spike sat once again with a sigh as he watched her battle the passengers for the exit. He wanted so badly to go with her. His goddess of sunlight while he was resigned to the sewers and the shadows.

His eyes remained with her until he couldn’t see her any longer, and he forced himself to sit back and relax.

Every time he felt they were close to tunneling out of the darkness, something happened that sent them spiraling back to where they had started. He wanted to give Buffy a vacation from all of this. A place where they could just be with each other and not be bothered with the pressures building on the outside world. A place where they could sit down and figure out what to do for Dawn—what was best for her, what was best for Buffy. What was best for all of them.

Jed was a father of three, and that made him more of an expert in Spike’s book than anyone he knew. Perhaps he’d have some advice.

But not today. He wouldn’t bother the man today. Today especially.

If he ripped one thread away, the entire foundation would crumble. Today was going to be hard on everyone. He wasn’t about to add to that.

Not now.

*~*~*

“First reading will be from Mr. Charles Young, from the Book of Wisdom, Chapter III.”

The President was barely listening to the reverend. He felt detached, as though the entire service was down a hall in his mind, and if he kept venturing far enough, he’d make it there. He’d be able to say goodbye to Mrs. Landingham the way he had never truly prepared for.

But there was more to it than that. He was shattered. He was thoroughly shattered. And the more he struggled to climb out of the darkness, the deeper he sank.

He recalled the day he first met Mrs. Landingham—the first day so long ago. He’d called her Delores then, and hadn’t made that mistake twice. She’d gotten him on board a campaign for equal pay for women at his father’s school, and despite however much a failure he felt he had been in that endeavor, she had changed his life forever.

Leo McGarry had gotten him to run for President, but he honestly felt he would have never made it without the woman he was silently memorializing today. She was too young to have died, too fiery to be extinguished; the sister he’d wanted and been given too late in life, and robbed of far too soon.

She was gone. She’d survived with him for years, she’d survived an attack by an angry hellgod, and she’d refused any time off after he’d nearly commanded it of her. She had made it through things that fiction writers only dreamed about, and in the midst of her own saga of America’s unsung heroes, she was killed by a drunk driver. It wasn’t worthy of her, and the knowledge absolutely shattered him.

“But the souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God,” Charlie was reading. “No torment shall ever touch them. In the eyes of the unwise, they did not appear to die, but they are at peace. For though in the sight of others they were punished, their hope is full of immortality.”

The years had taught Bartlet many things.

You've never had a big sister and you need one, she’d said so long ago. During the days when being anything but his father’s son was a pipe dream. She’d broken him out. She’d turned it around for him, and she’d done it by coaxing his better angels to sing.

You're blessed with inspiration. You must know this by now. You must have sensed it. Look, if you think we're wrong... if you think Mr. Hopkins should honestly get paid more than Mrs. Chadwick, then I respect that. But if you think we're right and you won't speak up because you can't be bothered, then God, Jed, I don't even want to know you.

“…peace. Wherever there is danger, let us sow love. Wherever there is injury…harm. And wherever there is doubt, let there be faith in you. Amen.”

Music filled the chamber as the scene around him shifted. Reverend Monohan was leading Toby, Sam, Charlie, Josh, and two men that Bartlet didn’t know toward the casket. Donna, Margaret, and Carol were crying softly. Willow’s eyes were large and sad.

It seemed such an undignified way to say goodbye.

*~*~*

Buffy found a secret service agent that knew her almost immediately, and as she approached the cathedral, the doors spilled open.

Oh God.

The faces were too familiar, even with people she’d never seen before. People she’d never met. Sadness abound, a deeper pain scarring the eyes of those who had known the woman the best. She saw Donna talking with CJ. She saw Willow consoling Sam, who looked to have just allowed himself to break. She saw Abbey Bartlet, who saw her immediately, and waved her over with a look of motherly distress on her face.

The First Lady’s unending concern for her was comforting but unnerving at the same time. Buffy honestly didn’t know what she had done to deserve anything of what the First Family gave her, but now when she needed a mother so badly—a mother who would never attempt to take the place of Joyce Summers—anything that Abbey wanted to give her, she would accept without hesitation.

“I’m so sorry I missed it,” she said the minute the woman was within earshot. “There was a—”

“No, sweetheart, don’t worry about it.” Abbey took her in her arms for a hug, squeezing her tightly. “Your dress is lovely. Jed will be so pleased that you made it…though I’m hoping you didn’t hurry off and forget that that husband of yours has a slight allergy when it comes to sunlight.”

Buffy smiled weakly. “Spike talked me into getting off the Metro instead of following him underground. Did he not make it in yet?”

“I didn’t see him.”

The Slayer expelled a deep breath. She would have worried had the claim not reassured her that he was perfectly safe, as well as nearby. Perhaps they had arrived at the same time.

“How are you feeling? Did the prescription I gave you—”

“Worked like a charm. Didn’t think it was possible for chemicals to speed up a healing process for a god, but hey.” Buffy glanced down. “I’m so sorry about Mrs. Landingham. I didn’t know her very well, but—”

“Thank you.” Abbey smiled weakly. “She was a wonderful woman.”

“I wish I’d known her better.”

“She thought very highly of you, for however little you knew each other. And I think Spike reminded her too much of the President for his own good.” The First Lady patted her shoulder and heaved a sigh. “Buffy, I want you and Spike to come with me to Manchester this summer.”

“What?”

“After tonight’s press conference, I suspect Jed will need a refuge from the media…at least for a day or so. I intended to stay there with Zoey for a little while, and I know she’d love having a girl her age of your…experience, I might say, there to talk with about things she’d never share with me.”

“Abbey…”

“I absolutely won’t take no for an answer. You owe me after canceling at Christmas.”

“So that’s it…” Buffy licked her lips, her eyes drawn to the cathedral doors, where the President had not yet emerged. “He’s not going to run again?”

“No, I don’t think so. He was thinking about it for a while…”

The look on the First Lady’s face flashed with a spark of forgotten ire, but it was gone just as quickly. Such had been a touchy subject between the two for quite a while. The prospect of the President’s going back on a promise he made to his wife to only seek out one term had left Buffy feeling as though she herself had been betrayed. Likely because there were elements of Josiah Bartlet that were so similar to Spike that the thought had her thoroughly shaken.

“We’ve talked about it,” Abbey continued. “He hasn’t said whether or not he’s reached a decision, but with the press conference tonight and losing Delores Landingham…I can’t see him in a place to do anything but announce his endorsement for John Hoynes.”

Buffy nodded, turning her eyes again to the cathedral. The President had still not come out, and the doors were sealed shut.

“Is he…did the President leave already?”

The First Lady frowned and followed the Slayer’s gaze. Leo McGarry was standing near the door, and the two exchanged a look that spoke for everything.

“No,” she said, turning back to the young woman. “No. The President’s still inside. He’s having a talk with God.”

*~*~*

“Mrs. Mueller gets half as much to teach music as Mr. Ryan gets to coach crew.”

She turned back to him. He grinned, slid his hands into his pockets, and bounced slightly on his heels. And in just seconds, she was smiling so brightly, he would have sworn the heavens had opened, and all the glories of the world were shining upon him.

“You’re going to do it.”

Jed balked. “Well, I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“When?”

“Just then. You stuck your hands in your pocket. You looked away and smiled.”

Jed made a self-conscious sound and withdrew his hands from his pockets.

“That means you made up your mind,” Mrs. Landingham concluded.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yes it does.”

“I stuck my hands in my pockets!”

“And looked away, and smiled.”

President Bartlet’s eyes were glued to the altar, his heart hammering. He felt as though someone had lit a fire under his feet, and the race to the explosion was growing faster with every second.

Leo was behind him the next second. “It was a beautiful service, I thought.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought it was a beautiful service,” he said again softly. “She was a real dame, old friend. A real broad.”

The President nodded. “Yeah.”

There was a beat. Then Leo leaned in and said, “We gotta go back to the office now, sir.”

He nodded again. “Yeah.”

“We've got some decisions to make now.”

He knew that. He knew that well. The staff was waiting on word of what to expect in the next year. If they should start updating their resumes, or prepare to fight to keep the Oval Office. He knew that. The knowledge did little to help the struggle.

And he had something to say now. He wanted to speak.

“Leo, would you do me a favor?” he asked gently.

“Yeah?”

“Would you ask the agents to seal the cathedral for a minute?”

His Chief of Staff just looked at him. Then understanding dawned, and he nodded. “Yeah.”

The President listened as Leo turned back toward the agents. It was only seconds, but it felt like years. Then the heavy doors whined and shut, and he was alone in the House of God.

Bartlet turned back to the altar.

“You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?” He released a heavy sigh and began a slow walk up the center aisle. “She bought her first new car and you hit her with a drunk driver. What, was that supposed to be funny?” He paused. “‘You can’t conceive, nor can I, the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God,’ says Graham Greene. I don’t know whose ass he was kissing there, ‘cause I think you’re just vindictive.

“‘I am the LORD thy God. Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’ Do you pride yourself in having that in writing? Of all the gods I’ve met, I must say, at least they’re upfront about their egos. And yet, throughout these past few months, when tried by faith and spurned on by a promise you have never kept, I refused to stop worshipping you. For what? You burn down houses and ask us to pay homage in yours. You take Buffy’s mother away from her when she needs her the most, and rob homes of men on my detail of their fathers and sons.”

He drew in a pained breath, his eyes never leaving the altar. “What was Josh Lyman? A warning shot? That was my son. What did I ever do to yours but praise his glory and praise his name? There's a tropical storm that's gaining speed and power. They say we haven't had a storm this bad since you took out that tender ship of mine in the north Atlantic last year…sixty-eight crew. You know what a tender ship does? Fixes the other ships. Doesn't even carry guns. Just goes around, fixes the other ships and delivers mail. That's all it can do.

“Gratias tibi ago, domine. Yes, I lied. It was a sin.” He held out his arms. “I've committed many sins. Have I displeased you, you feckless thug? 3.8 million new jobs, that wasn't good? Bailed out Mexico, increased foreign trade, thirty million new acres of land for conservation, put Mendoza on the bench, we're not fighting a war, I've raised three children…”

He slowly ascended the stairs to the Inner Sanctuary, his voice rising octaves for all the world to hear. And he didn’t care anymore. He truly didn’t. There was this, and then he was finished.

“That's not enough to buy me out of the doghouse? Haec credam a deo pio? A deo iusto? A deo scito?” He stopped, arms extended, and he shouted, “Cruciatus in crucem! Tuus in terra servus nuntius fui officium perfeci.” His voice raised an angry note. “Cruciatus in crucem.” A beat, then he waved dismissively. “Eas in crucem!”

President Bartlet turned away in anger, descending to the lower sanctuary and drawing out a cigarette. The alien sound flitted through the cathedral, and he took sadistic pleasure in his disgrace. He indulged a single puff, then dropped the cigarette butt beside his shoe, and ground it into the floor.

He looked back at the altar. It was over now. Everything was over.

“You get Hoynes!”

He turned and paraded out. He was finished. He was finished with everything.

It ended tonight.

*~*~*

Spike drew in an unnecessary breath as the President left the sanctuary. He felt like a child who’d walked in on his parents making love, or something equally personal. He never wanted the President to know he’d been anywhere near him during that. Never.

He needed to find Buffy. This changed everything.

He was so foregone in his thoughts, in the demented unraveling of everything just as the pieces had started to gather together again, that he didn’t notice for a few seconds that he was standing in light. Not much, but enough. A ray of sunshine had found him, and he stood as he would anywhere. A man. A vampire in the House of God.

He was standing in sunlight.

*~*~*

It started raining as the sky fell dark. The address with his wife had aired, and now the Senior Staffers were waiting for the word.

Buffy was in the bullpen when he saw her. For whatever reason, it had taken forever to get to the White House. It seemed everyone in DC was out tonight. Spike walked up to her and wrapped his arms around her middle, pressing his chest to her back.

He smiled softly when she shivered and melted against him. “Where have you been?” she asked.

“Everywhere. There’s a chance I ended up in Paraguay for about twenty minutes for as bloody long as it took to get over here.” He brushed a kiss to her throat. “Worried?”

“Well, yes, but I knew you were okay.” She sighed. “They’re waiting for the President’s decision.”

“Decision?”

“On reelection.”

Spike sighed and pressed his cheek to her golden crown of hair. “I don’ think there’s gonna be a reelection,” he said softly, tightening his hold around her. “It’s over now.”

Buffy heaved a deep breath and nodded, turning in his arms, resting her head against his chest. “I know,” she replied. “I saw it, too.”

*~*~*

“We'll call them Answer A and Answer B,” CJ said.

“Yeah,” Josh agreed.

“Mr. President, does this mean you won't be seeking a second term?” she continued. “Answer A is 'You bet. I will absolutely be seeking a second term. I'm looking forward to the campaign. There is great work that is yet to be done.'”

Toby and Sam sat silently, not looking at each other, not reacting.

“Yes,” the Deputy Chief of Staff said again, nodding.

“Answer B…”

Josh’s eyes narrowed, and he provided his assessment. “'Are you out of your mind? I can't possibly win re-election. I lied about a degenerative illness. I'm the target of a Grand Jury investigation and Congress is about to take me out to lunch. I'd sooner have my family take their clothes off and dance the Tarantella on the Truman Balcony than go through a campaign with this around my neck.'”

CJ looked at him and sipped at her water.

“You think that’s too on the nose?”

“I do.”

Sam glanced down. “I want to bring it up again.”

The Press Secretary made a face. “Why?”

“’Cause I got shouted down the first three times and I work here just like you do.
Can I help you?”

She looked at him for a long minute, then nodded. “Sorry.”

The Deputy Communications Director leapt to his feet and began pacing. “I think we have to explore ways of calling this off.”

Toby released a long sigh. “Sam…”

“I think it might be a mistake to send him on at a moment when we're trying to
demonstrate…”

“Listen—”

The younger man had lost his grip on his temper, and he could no longer keep himself from yelling. “We don't know what the hell they're talking about in there, Toby. We don't know whether he's running or not! I think we have to—”

“There are no ways! The story's leaked. It's out there. We're doing this. Don't worry; it's going to be fine.” He stood and headed toward his desk. “They're lighting him from outside the window.”

*~*~*

Just a few minutes later, Josh was in his office, and Donna was standing over him with a weary look on her face.

“It was a nice service, don’t you think?” she asked softly.

He paused, then nodded as though he just understood what she was saying. “Yeah. Yeah, it was.”

“I’m gonna run across the street to the OEOB for a minute. The President is still after information on the storm. I'm not sure why he's got it in his teeth.”

Josh shuffled through his papers.

“Yeah.”

“Josh, can this really be how it works?”

He stopped and looked at her.

“We have no idea if he's gonna run again,” she continued. “He's in a room with Leo making a decision. Two people in a matter of minutes. This is how it works?”

The phone rang.

“This is how it works today.”

*~*~*

It was Answer B, and everyone knew it. Leo had told Josh, and Josh had told Donna and Toby, and the word had spread fairly quickly among Senior Staffers. Thus it was hard for CJ not to take the man she regarded as a father by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, but she didn’t. Instead, she continued as she’d been told to do, trying to keep emotion out of her voice. “You'll want to take the first question from Lawrence Altman, the Times' Chief Medical Correspondent.”

“Why?”

“Because if you call on anyone else, the first question will be about reelection. Call on Altman, it will be a medical question, and it'll have two or three follow-ups. It'll allow you to feel comfortable a little before you start with the political mess.”

The look in the President’s eyes was distant and apathetic. “Okay.”

“Altman will be in the front row, first seat on your right.”

“Okay.” He turned away from her then, his head throbbing.

The first question will be about reelection.

“Mr. President?”

“Yeah?”

“Where's Altman going to be?”

He sighed in resignation. “CJ…”

“Mr. President, I'm going there right now. This is the last time I'm going to see you before you step up... please, where's...?”

“Front row, first seat on the right.”

“Whose right?”

“My right.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Thunder roared as she left. Bartlet turned again to lean on his desk. The wind outside was howling as though God was throwing a temper tantrum. Throwing everything he could at him to make him lose his footing. And with every gust, the President’s ire only grew deeper.

There was a sudden crash, and the storm blew the portico door wide open, drenching his floor with rain.

“Ah, dammit,” he growled, losing himself in the moment. “Mrs. Landingham!”

He turned away, swallowed in pain.

“I really wish you wouldn’t shout, Mr. President.”

It was her voice, but it was in his head. As was the vision of her that his mind projected, standing just a few feet away from him, looking at him with dry disapproval, but her eyes sparkled with that cunning twinkle he knew so well. She wasn’t there. He knew she wasn’t there. He was just so used to it. He could see her and make it real.

“The door keeps blowing open,” he told her.

“Yes,” Mrs. Landingham said, “but there’s an intercom and you could use it to call me at my desk.”

“I was—”

“You don't know how to use the intercom.”

“It's not that I don't know how to use it, it's just that I haven't learned yet.”

The image of Mrs. Landingham looked at him, and he smiled shyly, as though she’d caught him in a lie.

“I have MS,” he said to the figment, “and I didn’t tell anybody.”

“Yeah. So, you're having a little bit of a day.”

“You're gonna make jokes?”

Mrs. Landingham shook her head. “God doesn't make cars crash, and you know it. Stop using me as an excuse.”

The President motioned for her to sit, and he sat opposite of her. Staring at nothing with his eyes, but seeing her with everything else. With everything that mattered.

“The party's not going to want me to run,” he said.

“The party'll come back. You'll get them back.”

He smiled ironically. “I've got a secret for you, Mrs. Landingham. I've never been the most popular guy in the Democratic Party.”

She leaned in. “I've got a secret for you, Mr. President. Your father was a prick who could never get over the fact that he wasn't as smart as his brothers. Are you in a tough spot? Yes. Do I feel sorry for you? I do not. Why? Because there are people way worse off than you.”

“Give me numbers.”

“I don't know numbers. You give them to me.”

“How about a child born this minute has a one in five chance of being born into poverty?”

“How many Americans don't have health insurance?” she asked.

“Forty-four million.”

“What's the number one cause of death for black men under thirty-five?”

“Homicide.”

“How many Americans are behind bars?”

“Three million.”

“How many Americans are drug addicts?”

“Five million.”

“And one of five kids in poverty?”

“That's thirteen million American children,” he told the empty chair. “Three and a half million kids go to schools that are literally falling apart. We need one hundred and twenty-seven billion in school construction, and we need it today!”

“To say nothing of fifty-three people trapped in an embassy,” she told him.

“Yes.”

“You know, if you don't want to run again, I respect that.” She stood up. “But if you don't run 'cause you think it's gonna be too hard or you think you're gonna lose…well, God, Jed, I don't even want to know you.”

*~*~*

“And he’ll be speaking to that just as soon as he gets here.”

The room in the State Department was an ocean of camera flashes. A sea of hungry sharks, waiting for her to toss them the bait.

“Uh, Frank, then Leslie.”

“Has there been any discussion of a Special Prosecutor?”

She nodded. “Tomorrow morning, the President will direct the Attorney General to appoint a Special Prosecutor, yes.”

The reporters clamored for her again. “I can’t see,” she protested. “Joan!”

She didn’t hear the question, but picked up enough words to guess what the point was.

“A list of three prosecutors is given to a three-judge panel. The prosecutors, as well as the judges, were all appointed by Republican presidents.”

Margaret and Donna arrived in the back. They were plastered with rainwater. She saw them and sighed in relief before returning to the reality of the sharks that seemed to get closer with every second. “Please,” she yelled, “I can only answer fourteen or fifteen questions at once. Hal!”

*~*~*

It was strange, standing in the middle of the bullpen with only a few people flitting around them. Willow was watching in Sam’s office; Buffy and Spike were sitting on Donna’s desk, the vampire’s arms wrapped around his mate’s middle, her back pressed to his chest.

“I can't comment on a witness list that doesn't exist, but I imagine subpoenas will be issued to most Senior White House Staff including myself,” CJ was saying. “Again, I can't comment on what kind of hearings Congress has in mind. I'm sure there'll be one but you'd have to talk to Congress.”

Damn, she hadn’t thought about that.

“We’ll need to leave town,” Buffy whispered. “Me, you…Willow. We can’t be here when that starts.”

“We’re not a part of this, sweetling. We don’ need to go anywhere.”

“They’ll come after us.”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that we were…I dunno, they’ll find something small and make it big! They’re Republicans!”

He chuckled. “Yeh, well, they’ll have to really dig. An’ if Jed wants us to leave, he’ll tell us. Right now, I think we oughta stay put an’ not give a damn about the rest.”

Buffy wasn’t so sure. Spike’s perspective on things was with a wide-angle lens. She wondered at times if that made his ability to anticipate the small problems a little more difficult. He knew the outcome always—it was the salient details that got buried in the woodwork.

“Here he is.”

*~*~*

“Okay, here now, the President of the United States.”

Everyone stood as a sodden, defeated Bartlet entered the room and walked toward the podium. He passed CJ, who muttered, “Front row on your right,” as he took his place.

President Bartlet looked over the room. He saw Lawrence Altman, the medical expert who stood out like a sore thumb. The man was looking at him with almost taut expectation.

And it happened then. A choice was made. He turned instead and pointed at the center of the room. “Yes, Sandy.”

He could feel CJ’s shock, and he didn’t care.

If you don't run 'cause you think it's gonna be too hard or you think you're gonna lose…well, God, Jed, I don't even want to know you.

He was not going to be that man. Not in this century. Not the boy his father had raised.

“Mr. President, can you tell us right now if you'll be seeking a second term?”

The President smiled dryly. “I'm sorry, Sandy, there was a bit of noise there, could you repeat the question?”

From his left, he could feel the eyes of his staff. All of them.

Leo turned away from the monitor near the door and looked at him, his eyes wide as though realizing something.

“Watch this…”

*~*~*

“What’s happening?” Buffy demanded, her voice shrill. “Spike?”

Spike’s eyes widened and he tightened his arms around her, not tearing his eyes away from the screen. “Watch this.”

*~*~*

In the midst of thunder and lightening, with rainwater rolling down his skin, the world waited for the President to speak.

He looked at them, and they looked back.

And President Bartlet slowly slid his hands off the podium and into his pockets. He looked away in the direction of Manchester, and smiled.


End of Part I

To be continued in Gardens of Crimson Roses – Part II: Sacrament