A/N: Only one day late, which is almost on time, right? ;) Hope you enjoy!

September 22, 2020, Picadilly Circus, London, United Kingdom, 0230 AM British Summer Time

Angel spluttered. Words had utterly deserted him. "You're - " he garbled. "You're - "

Faith shouldered past him into the entryway. "Alive. More or less. For now." She dodged the vampire's arm as he attempted to hug her and smacked him lightly on the back instead. "And I brought a present." She jerked her head behind her at Wesley, who was second in their little party. "Heya, Spike."

The blond vampire raised his sword to block her, as Angel was too busy gaping at a resurrected Wesley to be of any use. "Hello, pet. Care to establish your bona fides?"

"I walked in, didn't I?" Faith gestured to the front door of the flat.

The spacious three-bedroom in Piccadilly Circus had once been acquired as an investment by Rupert Giles using his promotional bonus following Buffy's defeat of the Master. As far as Faith was concerned, that initial bonus should have gone to Buffy and not Giles, but thus had it ever been. Watchers always got the credit - and the money - for the deeds of the Slayer. The flat had been willed to Faith upon Giles' death. His subsequent resurrection into his pre-teenage body had not changed things.

Faith was terribly fond of the place. During the decade or so of her intermittent occupancy, she had spelled and warded every door and window and air vent and water pipe to keep away vampires, angels, demons, ex-hook-ups, and proselyters. The Slayer had even gone so far as to enlist Willow's help expanding the wards until only those accompanied by someone keyed into the spells themselves could enter.

Had Faith not been exactly herself, she would have been frozen in carbonite the instant she stepped across the threshold.

Now that she thought about it, she remembered Andrew also being present the night they expanded the wards. All three of them - Andrew, Faith, and even Willow herself - had been more than a little drunk before they got to the end - that would explain the carbonite.

"So you did," Spike agreed after she passed the threshold test. The blond vampire grinned from ear to ear.

Angel had yet to recover. He was staring at Wesley as though seeing a ghost. Which, Faith figured, fair enough.

"Come on in, folks," she called over her shoulder. Wesley and Amara followed her into the apartment, past a still-shattered Angel and a coolly curious Spike, and down the hallway to the living room.

"Have a seat." Faith gestured to the black leather couch. "There's probably not anything in the fridge with these two around," she gave Angel and Spike a fond, teasing smile, "but I can check."

"Faith." Angel located his vocal cords. "What is going on? What happened? What - "

The Slayer interrupted him. "Answers in due time. Where's Fred?"

"Fred's here?" Wesley spoke for the first time. He was still in shock from the nauseating kaleidoscope nightmare that had been teleportation with Amara.

"Asleep. Why -"

A door in the back hallway creaked. A cloud of light brown hair and a pair of pajamas adorned with fluffy sheep jumping fences poked around the corner into the living room. The face above the sheep was cold and calculating.

"Hey, Bluebird." Faith recognized the expression. It was Wesley's turn to look shattered. The Englishman's mouth parted, and he inhaled sharply.

"The Burkle remains asleep," announced the woman in pajamas stiltedly. Her eyes were darting back and forth between Wesley and Amara as if unsure where to look, sparing little attention for Faith.

That was a-okay with the Slayer, who preferred not to be considered too closely.

"My lady," the ancient demon-king added belatedly.

"Illyria." Amara inclined her head. "Nice PJs."

Illyria blushed hotly. "My lady - " she said again.

"Do you continue to enjoy your co-habitation with this human?" the sister of God asked, wrinkling her nose. "I mean, I suppose it is - oh what's that human word? Ah, yes. Cute."

"I do what I must," frowned Illyria. "It is far from an ideal situation, yet it is the best solution we have found for the present."

She glanced at the two humans and two vampires, all four key enforcers of the various plans that had, from time to time, prevented Illyria from following her own desires and fully burning out the Burkle. She had, alas, grown used to sharing this vessel with the scientist. True, it was annoying, but it was less annoying than spending the rest of her eternity with various furious mud-monkeys and demon hybrids dogging at her tail.

"That was before." Amara's eyes gleamed. She was rather looking forward to this. "This is now."

"My lady?" Illyria repeated herself a third time.

Amara's voice dropped low, into an eldritch whisper. She began chanting in a language too ancient for the others to understand. She brought the fingertips of both hands to her sternum, then drew them away slowly. Streams of bright white, gossamer material spread from her chest to her fingers, and she gradually pulled them out and away from her body. She began to form the streams into a glowing sphere the size of a baseball.

"Are those . . . souls?" whispered Faith, who had done her research.

"Don't worry." Amara smiled another of her smiles that set everyone in the room to worrying, hard. "I can always get more."

The color of the sphere changed, from shimmering white to a violently cobalt blue. Shards of lightning sprang from Amara's outstretched hands to Illyria's head. Illyria groaned, and the air around her shivered.

"No!" Wesley started up from the couch. Faith grabbed his shoulders and forced him down while across the room, Spike did the same for Angel.

When the lightning cleared, where once had been one woman, there were suddenly two. Two thin and angular women, one wearing an ankle-length suede skirt, the other with electric blue streaks in her hair and tinting her form-fitting mahogany body armor.

The latter brought her fist to her heart in a salute. "Lady," she breathed.

The former stared at the sofa, her eyes wide and fragile and broken. "Wesley?" she croaked.

"Cue romantic reunions, heartfelt confessions . . ." Faith muttered to Angel, turning her back on the newly-reunited lovers. "Do you got a light?" she asked, intentionally ignoring the wonder and concern in his eyes. "I'd murder for a smoke."

"I - " Like Wesley and Fred and even Spike, Angel was again speechless.

Shaking her head, the Slayer cut him some slack. "Never mind."

She moved past the vampire towards the large window against the far wall that led out onto the fire escape. On her way, Faith stopped by the bookshelf to pull a small oriental vase out from among the grimoires. Flipping the vase upside down, she shook it until a pack of Marlboro Gold and a disposable lighter dropped into her hand.

Ha! Faith had guessed that they would never clear things out without her. G-d, she had missed this flat.

"Don't you want to discuss your grand plan first?" Amara's amused voice followed the Slayer as she drew back the shutters and raised open the sill.

"In a minute," Faith called back. "Let the lovebirds make with the smooching. I need me some sweet, sweet nicotine."

"You're really here?" Fred was saying to Wesley in a very soft, gentle voice.

"Yes, I'm really here," he assured her.

"What - how?" Her voice and her hands were shaking.

Amara watched them. She had not spent this much concentrated time in the company of humans and humanoids since she had been a girl. There was a current of frisson in the air, as though everyone was curious to see what might happen next. She was aware that everyone apart from Illyria, and perhaps Faith, remained acutely uncomfortable with her presence. Amara found that very entertaining.

But there was something more. A sense of a group understanding between the humans, vampires, and former demon-king who remained in the living room, an understanding that did not include Amara. It made her feel the barest taste of something like discomfort. She wondered if perhaps she should join the Slayer out on the fire escape so that everyone else could share in a group hug.

After a moment of contemplation, she did just that. Clambering over the sill, she pulled the hem of her black dress through before closing the window.

"Treasurer," she greeted the Slayer, who had already lit her cigarette and was perched on the fire escape, her arms wrapped through the steel railing, staring at the night sky. The street below was not empty, but it was close.

The woman did not turn. "Co-president," she acknowledged, then took a long drag on her cigarette.

Amara joined her on the step. There was not technically enough room, but such a little thing would not stand in her way. "May I?" She extended her hand for the cigarette.

Reluctantly scooting over, Faith raised her eyebrows. "You sure you want to?" she said mildly. "It's kind of a nasty habit. I had thought I quit," she reflected to herself.

"I am well acquainted with nasty. As you'll recall, I spent much of my early childhood with Crowley." The sister of God plucked the cigarette out of the Slayer's hand.

"And yet you don't have an accent. Miraculous." Faith looked back over London at night. Mentally, she added cigarettes and this view to the ongoing list of things that she had forgotten to miss. Barely fifteen minutes' alive, and already the afterlife was fading to some two-dimensional sepia-toned memory in the back of her head. With each breath of nicotine, the exhaustion and anger that flavored the memory faded just a little bit more.

Amara inhaled, winced, then coughed. She was not sure what she had been expecting, but it had not been this. "Eugh. You were right. That is . . . unpleasant."

"Not the best thing humans have invented, maybe. But still not the worst."

"What do you think is the worst?"

Faith laughed humorlessly. "I don't think we know each other well enough yet to have that conversation."

"We will," mused the sister of God. She returned the cigarette. "In time."

The hair on the back of the Slayer's neck stood on end, but she stubbornly refused to shiver. "The point of smoking out on the fire escape," Faith announced, stubbing out the end of her fag on the steel railing, "is to be alone."

She rose to her feet and dropped the dog-end into an empty clay flower pot beside the window. "Come on, then. Better get the big pow-wow over with before Wesley gets his tongue permanently stuck to Fred's tonsils."

There ought to have been battle lines drawn in the living room, Amara reflected, and she was surprised that there were none. The man she had also sprang from Heaven - Pryce, was it? - was seated on the sofa in between her vassal Illyria and Illyria's former vessel. After a brief scuffle, the Slayer Lehane and the vampire with the obvious dye-job had both squished into a leather recliner that matched the sofa. The other vampire, the serious-looking one that even Amara could recognize as handsome if squarely-built, had taken the wingback armchair.

It left Amara standing in front of the television while humans, vampires, and an ancient demon stared up at her, with fear, loyalty, and amusement written upon their faces. She regarded them, this motley crew of creatures that the Slayer had insisted were integral to her plan. And Illyria, the only one of her lieutenants to have escaped the Deeper Well. Illyria, whose vendetta against the snobby specimens called archangels had only been rivaled by Amara's vendetta against the Creator himself.

To her mild surprise, it was the mousy woman who spoke first. "What exactly is going on here?" asked the creature, the one Faith referred to as Fred. "Why are you helping us?"

The blond vampire - Spike? - co-sharing the recliner raised his hand. "Question seconded."

"Faith can answer that."

The Vampire Slayer shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Admittedly, this was at least in part because Spike had just successfully lodged an elbow in her ribs and shoved her up onto the arm of the recliner.

"Here's the deal, folks." She gave the vampire a rightfully deserved revenge-shove. "Dean volunteered for angel condom duty - shut up, Spike - and turns out the prick of an archangel broke the rules of their agreement. Which he should have known would happen," she muttered under her breath.

"We know all this," Illyria interrupted her, sounding bored. "Your apprentices and the younger Winchester made several very anxious calls earlier this evening. They wanted to enlist my help in tracking this new Michael."

Faith raised her eyebrows. This was all news to her. "And?" she prompted.

"And I told them I would try. I had little confidence in their efforts. But now . . ." Blue flames sprouted from the former god-king's hands, and Wesley flinched. Illyria smirked. "But now, with my lady returned," she nodded to Amara, "and my powers completely restored - "

Angel, Spike, and Fred all leapt to their feet, shouting over one another.

"You restored her powers?!" Angel half-asked, half-yelled at Amara.

"All of them?" Fred's hands were in fists.

"Complete as in complete?" Spike had gone deathly pale, more so than his usual corpse pallor.

Illyria clapped her hands, and the room froze. Time stopped for everyone except for the ancient demon, her lady, and Faith.

"I do not have the patience for this," she warned through narrowed eyes. "And I have no intention of listening to the same feeble protests I have heard a thousand times over. This is your doing," she said knowledgeably at Faith. "Isn't it?"

"It was my power that freed you," Amara pointed out calmly.

Illyria bowed. "And for that, I thank you. But I do not think you would have chosen to involve yourself quite so personally in such a mundane affair had not someone else sought your involvement." She looked back to the Slayer. "You should be dead."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Faith shot back. "I already did time in prison when I was alive the first time. Didn't need to spend eternity repeating the experience. Something you'd know about, considering the Well."

The ancient demon tipped her head in acknowledgement. "I will not ask to be privy to the details of your dealings with this mortal," she addressed Amara. "And I thank you for my freedom. I suppose it comes with strings?" She grit her teeth.

"Only the one. You are correct that this . . ."

"Faith," the Slayer supplied helpfully.

"That Faith did request my assistance."

Illyria sighed. "It's the Michael sword, isn't it? Always and ever, it is the Michael sword. That's the reason and the string, all in one. You seek to enlist my full assistance in separating archangel and vessel."

"Yes," Faith answered for her when Amara remained silent.

"You see," Amara addressed the ceiling, "I cannot ask you to do anything that might go against my brother's plans. He and I remain on something of good terms, and I should like that state of affairs to continue. And so I cannot ask you to bring fire and wrath and blood down on his archangels - regardless of which of the many universes he created them in. I could never ask for something like that.

"But," she went on, still resolutely talking to a tiny crack in the plaster, "if I had . . . say . . . another servant who rebelled . . . and that servant falsely represented her own seditious plans as my wishes and led other servants into insurrection."

"I understand." Illyria began to smile. She could appreciate underhandedness. The former god-king gave the Slayer a brief once-over, her eyes fixing on the silver symbol still glowing on her forehead. "And how, exactly, might I know the identity of my fellow servants?"

Amara looked away from the ceiling just long enough to track Illyria's gaze. "Oh, it is simple. They will have my mark writ upon their faces. Of course," she continued pensively, "it wouldn't do for them to have my mark so clearly visible forever."

She walked across the carpet to the recliner, leaning around a frozen Spike to kiss the Slayer gently on the forehead. The silver mark gradually began to fade.

"This is all I can do," she said more seriously. "Any more would risk bringing my brother into this. And that, I believe, none of us desire."

"Am I allowed to punch him?" asked Faith, unable to help herself.

"He would likely destroy you."

"Yeah, better to just keep this on the DL, then."

"One last thing," added Amara. "When you locate this Michael, if you require further assistance beyond what Illyria can do, then and only then, the two of you in conjunction may summon me. Otherwise . . . " she let her voice trail away.

"Otherwise what?"

Amara smiled nastily. "Otherwise, I may not answer."

In a cloud of inky smoke, the sister of God disappeared.

"You have no idea what you are doing," Illyria said bluntly as the smoke slowly dissipated.

"I've got enough of one," Faith retorted. "Find Michael, kick him in the nuts, get Dean, move on. That's my plan."

"Thin strokes leaving room for improvisation?" hazarded the Old One.

"Always." The Slayer grinned. "You do know my style. So, can I rely on you for help with this, Bluebird?"

"Sometimes, I quite detest that name."

"Well, you've frozen all our friends, so you don't exactly get your pick of nicknames right now."

Illyria complained, "They are not my friends. I am not -" She exhaled in frustration. "I am a god," she protested. "I have been here since before this earth was created. I watched the first amoeba eat its neighbor. I was worshipped once. And now with my powers returned . . . " She flexed her palms and the blue flames scorched up to the ceiling.

"Watch the paint," warned Faith.

"I will be worshipped again," Illyria concluded.

"Not by us," the Slayer pointed out. "Look, Illyria, we're allies in this. Can you at least accept that?"

The Old One's eyes flashed. "Allies, yes. Friends, never. I will help you, because Amara has asked it and because I missed my opportunity to wreak my vengeance on the Michael who conspired to imprison me in the Deeper Well. I shall happily bring destruction down onto his . . . "

"Doppelgänger?"

"Close enough. If you should need to contact me . . ." Illyria sighed. "If you should need to reach me, I shall take the Burkle's cell phone. Try not to call unless it's an emergency."

"Thanks, Blue. I do really appreciate."

"Do not call me that," Illyria reminded her, but her voice had softened. "I suppose I must return you to the natural flow of time."

"That would be good."

"Mmm." Illyria clapped her hands a second time, and the world restarted.

Faith put her hands over her ears to drown out the cacophony that was Spike and Angel and Fred all yelling over one another until Wesley bellowed to quiet them.

"Silence!" hollered the Englishman.

Shockingly, for once they listened.

"That's enough," Wesley continued. "Now where did they go?"

For neither Amara nor Illyria were anywhere to be seen.