Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Art by Natsuki Minami

"Seriously, PJ, another existential crisis over a pop quiz?" Max adjusted his backpack, trying to appear nonchalant as they navigated the crowded hallway.

PJ wrung his hands. "It's not existential, Max, it's mathematical! What if 'x' isn't what I think it is? What if 'y' is secretly plotting against me?"

A very, very large shadow loomed over them. Marty, the sixth-grade Goliath who looked like he'd been held back three years, grinned, revealing a gap where his front tooth used to be. “If it isn't Mutt and Jeff," he sneered. "Or should I say, 'X' and 'Y'?"

Max rolled his eyes. "Marty, isn't this bullying routine getting a little old? Speaking of old, don't you have a driver's license to study for?"

Marty's grin widened. "Funny, Mutt. But not funny enough to save you from my patented 'Trash Toss'!"

Before they could react, Marty grabbed them both by their collars. Max found himself airborne, followed by a squeal from PJ. With surprising accuracy, Marty deposited them, one after another, into the overflowing recycling bin by the cafeteria door.

A chorus of laughter erupted from a group of kids nearby, pointing and snickering. Max untangled himself from a rogue juice box, while PJ emerged, looking like he'd just wrestled a flock of angry paper cranes.

"Well," Max sighed, leaning against a half-eaten banana peel, "at least we're eco-friendly."

PJ pulled a crumpled worksheet from his hair. "I think I just got 100% on a calculus problem from a discarded napkin.”

Later, slumped on a bench in the deserted playground, Max kicked at a loose pebble. "You know, one day, I just want some respect."

"Respect?" PJ scoffed. "Max, we just got composted. The only respect we're getting is from the local fruit flies."

"No, seriously," Max insisted. "Imagine walking down the hall and people actually move for us. Not just out of pity, but out of, you know, genuine deference."

PJ pondered this, then nodded. "Like, 'Oh, look at those guys. They're probably on their way to invent cold fusion or something equally terrifying.'"

"Exactly!" Max's eyes lit up. "Or maybe we become renowned video game developers."

"And we'd be like, 'Sorry, can't chat, we're busy designing the next level, which involves sentient killer robots and a particularly challenging physics puzzle involving quantum mechanics and…'" PJ trailed off, a dreamy look on his face.

Max grinned. "And Marty would be working at the school cafeteria, trying to get us to take extra tater tots."

PJ snickered. "And we'd politely decline, of course. 'No, thank you, Marty. We're on a strict, respect-gaining diet.'"

"One day, PJ. One day." Max clapped him on the shoulder, leaving a faint smudge of banana peel on PJ's shirt.

"One day," PJ echoed, picking at the smudge. "But first, we probably need to figure out how to get that juice box smell out of our backpacks."

~*~*~*~*~*~

As Max and PJ trudged down the sidewalk, the afternoon sun casting long shadows behind them, the lingering aroma of recycled goods clung to their clothes. Max spotted a familiar figure in his front yard. A tall, graceful form with a cascade of auburn hair was pulling a small duffel bag from the trunk of a car. She was wearing an orange top, a blue jacket, light blue jeans, and brown knee-high laced boots.

Max’s eyes widened. "Debbie!" he yelled, breaking into a sprint.

His eighteen-year-old cousin, Debbie, looked up and smiled. He practically launched himself at her.

"What are you doing here?" Max asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Are you staying for the night?"

Debbie laughed, a warm, husky sound. "More than one night, actually. My parents had an unexpected trip, so I'm bunking with you for a bit." She raised an eyebrow at Max. "That is, if you don't mind sharing your double bunk bed?"

Max's grin stretched from ear to ear. "Mind? No way! This is awesome!"

PJ finally caught up, slightly out of breath. "Hi, Debbie!"

Debbie looked them both over, her nose wrinkling slightly. “What’s that… interesting aroma? You two smell like a forgotten lunchbox convention."

Max and PJ exchanged a quick, panicked glance. They definitely weren't about to confess their recent encounter with the recycling bin.

"Oh, that?" Max said, trying to sound casual. "We, uh, had a really intense dodgeball game. And, you know, the gym bags. They really… retain odors."

"Yeah," PJ chimed in, nodding vigorously. "And then there was this, uh, science experiment with fermented cabbage? Very… pungent. But crucial for scientific discovery!"

Debbie squinted at them, clearly not entirely convinced, but she just chuckled. "Right. Well, I'm sure a good shower will fix that. Now, about that bunk bed, which one's mine?"

Max beamed. "Top bunk's all yours!"

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max's ability to sleep through anything wasn't just a skill, it was a superpower forged in the fiery crucible of a trailer park, where his dad's snoring could register on the Richter scale. But tonight, a faint creak, then the soft scuff of a shoe, pulled him from the depths of dreamland. He blinked, groggy, into the moonlit room.

He rubbed his eyes and peered over the edge of the top bunk. His heart nearly jumped into his throat. There, silhouetted against the pale glow of the streetlights, was Debbie. She was halfway out the open window, one leg already dangling outside, her duffel bag clutched in one hand.

Max's mind, still half-asleep, struggled to process the image. Debbie? Sneaking out? His cousin, who had just arrived that very afternoon, was now attempting a covert midnight escape from his bedroom window. He stared, frozen, as she carefully lowered herself, then vanished from view. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant chirping of crickets.

Shock coursed through Max. He pushed himself upright, his jaw hanging open. What in the world was Debbie doing?

~*~*~*~*~*~

The secret meeting in the treehouse was in full swing, which mostly involved Max pacing and PJ nervously picking at a splinter.

"So, where do you think she went?" PJ whispered, as if Debbie herself might be hiding under a squirrel.

"I don't know," Max grumbled, running a hand through his hair. "But she came back hours later. Her hair was a mess, and her clothes were torn. Like she'd been in a wrestling match with a badger."

They peered through the dusty treehouse window. Below, in the front yard, Debbie was laughing boisterously with Max's dad, who was happily watering his daisies. She looked normal, not a hair out of place, no visible badger-inflicted wounds.

"PJ," Max declared, turning from the window with newfound determination. "We have to follow her tonight."

PJ's eyes went wide. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Are you insane? What if our dads found out we snuck out in the middle of the night? My dad has a sixth sense for rule-breaking. He can smell disobedience."

"Aren't you curious?" Max challenged, eyebrows raised.

"I am, Alice," PJ retorted, crossing his arms, "But I'm not as curious about what kind of creative, soul-crushing punishment my dad will have in store for me if I get caught. Last time, he made me alphabetize his entire spice rack. In metric."

"PJ, you're overreacting," Max scoffed.

"Says the boy who's never been grounded," PJ shot back. "You have nothing to worry about. Your dad's about as scary as a fluffy bunny. Mine, on the other hand, makes actual bunnies tremble."

"Fine," Max huffed, throwing his hands up. "I'll go alone then." He made a show of stomping towards the ladder, but before he could even reach it, PJ grabbed his arm.

"Wait!" PJ practically squeaked. "You can't go alone! What if she's secretly a ninja? Or worse, what if she needs backup against said badger? Fine! But if I end up grounded until college, you owe me a lifetime supply of your grandma's chocolate chip cookies."

Max smirked, a triumphant glint in his eye. "That's my boy."

~*~*~*~*~

The moon seemed to mock Max and PJ as they crouched behind a particularly prickly rose bush. Ahead of them, a shadowy figure moved with surprising stealth for an eighteen-year-old girl.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" PJ whispered, his voice barely audible over the frantic thump-thump of his own heart. "It smells like… old socks and regret."

"It's a shortcut to the cemetery, PJ," Max hissed back, peering through a gap in the fence. "And yes, I'm sure. Why else would she be going to a cemetery at midnight unless she's a secret graveyard-robbing goblin?"

They slipped through a squeaky iron gate, the chill night air raising goosebumps on their arms. Gravestones stretched out before them like a silent, stony army. Max shivered, not just from the cold.

They crept from behind a large mausoleum, finally spotting Debbie. To their absolute bewilderment, she was perched casually on top of a large, ornate tombstone, her legs swinging idly. And she was… playing yo-yo. The string whizzed, the plastic spun, catching the faint moonlight in hypnotic arcs.

"She's… she's playing yo-yo on a dead person's house," PJ breathed, his jaw practically on the ground.

"What kind of secret life is this?" Max muttered, his eyes wide. “Is she part of a Goth yo-yo club? Is this how teenagers mourn now?"

Suddenly, a patch of earth near a crumbling headstone began to churn. Dirt shifted, a skeletal hand burst through the soil, followed by another, clawing at the air. A gaunt, pale figure slowly, agonizingly, pulled itself from the grave, its eyes glowing with an unholy red light.

"Oh, sweet mother of all that is holy!" PJ squeaked, nearly tumbling backward into a fresh grave.

Max, equally terrified, grabbed PJ's arm. "It's… it's a zombie! Or a ghoul! Or a very rude late-night gardener!"

The figure, now fully upright, was undeniably not a gardener. It was tall, clad in tattered, ancient clothes, with sharp fangs glinting in its mouth. A vampire.

But before Max and PJ could scream, Debbie sprang into action. She didn't shriek, she didn't run. She merely looked annoyed.

"Oh, for crying out loud," she sighed, exasperated, as the vampire lunged. With surprising agility, Debbie ducked under its grasping claws, then delivered a swift, powerful kick to its knee. The vampire staggered.

"She just roundhoused a vampire!" Max whispered, flabbergasted.

"I think she just complained about it first!" PJ added, his voice a high-pitched squeak.

The vampire roared, lunging again. Debbie, with a practiced flick of her wrist, unwound the yo-yo string, transforming it into a makeshift whip. She cracked it, and the vampire recoiled, momentarily stunned. Then, with a practiced movement, she reached into her duffel bag and pulled out… a finely carved wooden stake.

"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," PJ whimpered, burying his face in Max's shoulder. "She carries a stake?"

Debbie didn't hesitate. As the vampire roared and charged one last time, she met it head-on. With a grunt, she plunged the stake deep into its chest. There was a sickening thud, a final, guttural scream, and then, with a shimmering, whooshing sound, the vampire erupted into a cloud of sparkling dust, dissolving into nothingness before their eyes.

Debbie brushed her hands off, a small cloud of grey dust puffing from her clothes. She picked up her yo-yo, still intact, and gave it a test spin.

Max and PJ remained frozen, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, staring at the spot where the vampire had been. The air still tingled with dust motes.

"Well," PJ finally managed, his voice barely a croak, "that explains the torn clothes and messy hair."

Max slowly turned to PJ, his face pale. "You know how yesterday we said we wished we could get some respect?"

PJ nodded, still trembling slightly.

"I think," Max said, his voice flat, "I'm good with just not being eaten by a vampire."

"I just saw a grown man turn into glitter," PJ whispered, his eyes still wide.

Before they could fully process what happened, the air shimmered, not with dust, but with a crackling, sickly green energy. A woman materialized as if stepping out of a ripple in reality. She was impossibly tall, with skin like polished obsidian, eyes that glowed with malevolent amber, and a truly magnificent set of curling ram-like horns sprouting from her temples. Her dress seemed woven from shadow itself.

Debbie, however, merely sighed, a look of resigned annoyance on her face. "Finally, you showed up. Took you long enough. What do you want with a small town like Spoonerville? Are you here to audition for the local bake-off? Because I hear Mrs. Henderson's lemon meringue is literally to die for."

The demon woman's glowing eyes narrowed slightly. "Always with the quips, Slayer. And for your information, I was just popping by to visit my Great Aunt Mildred. She makes the most divine demon-soul stew."

Debbie's eyebrow arched, a dangerous glint in her eye. "Hope you said your final goodbyes, then. Because this is your last visit."

With that, Debbie lunged. The fight was a blur of incredible speed and power. Debbie moved like a whirlwind, her attacks precise and fierce. The demon, however, was clearly in a different league. She parried Debbie's blows with casual disdain, her shadowy form flickering in and out of focus. She laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the ground, as she swatted Debbie away like a persistent fly.

Debbie slammed into a particularly sturdy headstone, groaning as she slid to the ground. The demon advanced, a cruel smile twisting her lips, raising a hand that crackled with dark energy.

"This is it, Slayer," the demon purred, "the end of the line for your little legacy."

Max, seeing his cousin in genuine peril, didn't think. He didn't process the fact that this was a literal demon. All he knew was that Debbie was about to be killed. With a primal yell, he launched himself forward, a tiny, furious projectile aiming for the demon's leg.

The demon didn't even break stride. She merely flicked her wrist, and Max flew backward with surprising force, landing with an undignified oof near a statue of a weeping angel. He lay there, dazed, staring up at the stars.

Debbie's eyes widened in horror when she saw Max. "Max! No! Get back!" She struggled to push herself up, her gaze darting frantically. Then she spotted PJ, peeking out from behind a particularly large, conveniently placed bush, his face a mask of sheer terror.

A glint, cold and calculating, appeared in the demon's glowing eyes as she spotted PJ. "What have we here?" she murmured, her gaze sweeping over all three of them. A wider, more malicious smile spread across her face. "A new twist to an old tale. This will be far more entertaining."

Before Debbie could even form a protest, the demon woman raised both hands. A blinding, searing beam of pure, malevolent energy shot forth, engulfing Debbie, Max, and PJ in a brilliant, painful flash.

When the light subsided, the demon woman chuckled. Debbie stumbled, suddenly feeling as if she'd run a marathon while wearing lead boots. Her limbs felt heavy, sluggish. She tried to summon the familiar surge of power, the Slayer strength that always answered her call, but there was nothing. A hollow, terrifying emptiness.

"What… what did you do?" Debbie gasped, collapsing to her knees.

The demon woman surveyed them with an amused smirk. "Oh, nothing much. Just a little cosmic realignment. You see, this whole 'one Slayer' thing is rather… boring. So, I've simply transferred your little 'gift' to your male companions. Divided it, actually. Half for the little Hairball here," she gestured to Max, who was still rubbing his head, "and half for the wonderfully anxious Worrywart over there." She pointed a clawed finger at PJ, who promptly fainted behind the bush.

Debbie stared, horrified. "You… you transferred my Slayer powers? To them? But… but that's impossible! Slayer powers are meant for the girls! There's never been a boy Slayer! It's an ancient, sacred lineage!"

The demon woman threw back her head and laughed, a loud, booming sound that echoed through the silent graveyard. "Well, there is now, isn't there? Enjoy the patriarchy, boys. And try not to get yourselves killed. Though I don't really care."

With another shimmer, she vanished, leaving behind only the scent of ozone and the bewildered, terrified, and now surprisingly powerful boys, and one very shocked, very powerless Slayer.

Chapter Text

"We have powers, PJ! Actual, bonafide, demon-given powers!" Max was practically vibrating, crouched low behind a surprisingly sturdy tombstone.

PJ, on the other hand, looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. "Powers or a curse? My hands feel tingly, and I'm pretty sure I just accidentally crushed a stone when I picked it up! What if we turn into vampire dust ourselves?"

Still visibly drained and leaning against a weathered angel statue, Debbie sighed. "Boys, calm down. It's not a curse, it's…"

"Are we like superheroes now?" Max interrupted, eyes wide. "Do we get cool costumes? Capes? I call dibs on the red and gold!"

"No capes, Max!" PJ hissed. "This is serious! What just happened? Who was that horn-headed lady? And why did she zap us with... whatever that was?"

Debbie pushed herself upright, a flicker of her usual resolve returning, despite her evident exhaustion. "Okay, listen carefully, because I'm only saying this once. I'm the Slayer. The Chosen One."

Max blinked. "As in 'The One who will bring balance to the Force'?"

"More like 'The One who stakes things that go bump in the night'," Debbie corrected dryly. "Each generation sees the birth of a Slayer, uniquely chosen to confront vampires, demons, and the forces of evil."

PJ's jaw dropped. "So, you're like, a secret monster hunter?"

"Pretty much," Debbie confirmed with a shrug.

"Wait, so, does Aunt Carol know about this?" Max piped up, a new urgency in his voice. He hadn't seen his mother's side of the family in years, not since he and his dad lived in that trailer in Mouseton. Before the fire took their house, his aunt and Debbie used to visit sometimes. Debbie would babysit him while his dad and aunt went to visit his mother's grave. But they stopped visiting altogether after the fire. He and his dad had lost everything and lived years in a trailer before finally moving to Spoonerville six months ago. "Do your mom and dad know you go out every night to kill vampires?"

Debbie winced. "No! No one knows. This is a highly classified, top-secret, keep-it-under-your-hat kind of deal. Only I know, and my Watcher."

PJ slowly added, "And now… us."

Debbie's gaze sharpened. "Exactly. And that means you absolutely, under no circumstances, can not tell anyone. Not your parents, not your teachers, not even your goldfish. The Slayer's identity must remain a secret."

Max leaned in conspiratorially. "So, this Watcher guy. Is he like, your sidekick?”

Debbie rolled her eyes. "He's not a sidekick, Max. He's this stuffy English guy, who showed up at my house a few months ago, told me about my destiny, and started training me. He's also the one who points me to where the demons and vampires are hiding, usually with a lot of dusty old books and a dramatic sigh."

She gestured to the empty space where the demon had been. "He told me that Bayanka, that's the demon with the horns, was coming to Spoonerville. I was supposed to kill her. But," Debbie's voice trailed off, a hint of shame in her eyes, "as you clearly saw, I... I failed."

Fright and concern colored Max and PJ's shared gaze.

"I have to go back and tell my watcher what happened," Debbie said, her voice tight with urgency. "We need to figure out how to get my powers back. In the meantime..." She looked at Max and PJ, a mixture of worry and determination in her eyes. "You two are going to have to patrol. Every night. Stake any vampires you find until I get back."

PJ's eyes widened, his face paling even further in the moonlight. "Every night? Sneak out of the house? My dad would actually kill me! He'd turn me into a human spice rack!"

Max, however, was already flexing his fingers, a strange thrill coursing through him. "Are you sure I can't tell anyone, though? I wish I could tell Marty. Maybe I could finally fight him after school. Show him who's boss."

Debbie's expression hardened. "No! You can't use these powers on other humans. They are meant to defeat evil, not settle playground squabbles. And both of you, listen carefully. You each only have half of my powers. You're not as strong as I was. You need to be incredibly careful. Slayers are known to die young."

She paused, a shadow passing over her face. "The last Slayer died a month after being called. And the one before her died after a week. I'm considered too old for this. Slayers are usually called at fifteen. But those girls... they were killed so quickly. I was supposed to remain a potential Slayer all my life, but because of the circumstances, I was called at eighteen."

Debbie looked at them both, her gaze intense. "This is dangerous, boys. Don't underestimate this. Don't be stupid. And for the love of everything holy, try not to get yourselves killed."

"If we get killed, what then?" PJ asked, a full-body shudder rippling through him. "Does some other random kid just get zapped with our half-powers?"

Debbie's face was grim. "I don't know, PJ. Usually, when a Slayer dies, another one is called somewhere in the world. But you two aren't part of the Slayer line. There's no precedent for this. I'm afraid if you died, it would end the Slayer line for good. The power would just… dissipate. No more Slayers, ever."

Max stared at his cousin, really seeing her now. The lines of exhaustion around her eyes, the subtle tension in her jaw. Just a few months ago, when Debbie last visited, she was all perk and bounce. This "slaying gig" had aged her, not physically, but emotionally. He couldn't begin to imagine the horrors she must have faced alone, night after night. At least he had PJ by his side for this temporary, insane journey. His cousin's journey, though, was for life. Until something eventually killed her.

A surge of protective feeling, surprisingly fierce, welled up in Max. He reached out and clutched Debbie's hand, squeezing it reassuringly. He looked up at her, offering the most confident smile he could muster. "Don't worry, Deb. We'll fill in until you get back. And when you get your powers back, we'll still help. If you ever need someone to vent to, or talk through strategies, or map out fighting plans. I'll always be your guy."

Debbie's tense expression softened. A genuine, tired smile touched her lips as she squeezed his hand back.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max sat on the floor of his bedroom the next morning, his old clothes chest open before him. Beneath a stack of forgotten t-shirts and worn-out comic books, lay a truly bizarre arsenal: a handful of crudely whittled wooden stakes, a small bottle labeled "Holy Water", which looked suspiciously like tap water, a couple of flimsy-looking crosses, and two compact, almost toy-like crossbows with surprisingly sharp bolts. He'd painstakingly hidden them under layers of flannel, praying his dad wouldn't decide to do a spontaneous laundry inspection.

He picked up one of the stakes, its point feeling less deadly and more like a potential splinter hazard. Just yesterday, Debbie had crammed an entire monster-hunting curriculum into a frantic, hour-long session. "Okay, so, pointy end goes into the vampire's chest, right here," she'd said, jabbing a finger at an imaginary target. "And the holy water? Just splash it. Crossbows are for range, but honestly, your best bet is usually getting in close. Don't rely on these too much yet, you haven't mastered the… oomph factor." Max and PJ had mostly just looked at each other, wide-eyed, trying to process "oomph factor" while Debbie explained the finer points of demon anatomy. They hadn't really "mastered" anything, but Debbie had been adamant she needed to get back to her Watcher instantly.

"A-hyuck! What's goin' on here, Maxie-boy?"

Max yelped, startled, dropping the stake with a clatter. He whipped around to see his dad, Goofy, leaning against the doorframe, his signature grin plastered on his face. Max scrambled to cover the chest, nearly tripping over his own feet.

"Dad! Uh, nothing! Just... organizing my socks! Yeah, super important sock organization!" Max stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I'm, uh, I'm ready for school now! Yep, all set for school!"

Goofy tilted his head, his ears flopping comically. "Gawrsh, you seem mighty eager, son! Say, about Debbie, did she say why she had to leave so sudden-like this mornin'? I barely even got to say 'howdy' before she was out the door!"

Max's mind raced, desperate for a plausible lie. "Oh, yeah! Uh, well, Aunt Carol! Yeah! Aunt Carol wasn't feeling so good! Got a bit of a, uh, sniffle! A really bad sniffle! So Debbie just had to rush home to, you know, bring her some chicken soup!"

Goofy's expression shifted from cheerful curiosity to deep concern. "Aunt Carol's got the sniffles? Oh, that's just terrible! Well, no time like the present to cheer her up! I'll just give her a quick ring and see how she's feelin'!" Goofy was already heading down the stairs, making a beeline for the landline phone in the kitchen.

"No, Dad, wait!" Max yelled, practically leaping over the banister, his hand flailing desperately to grab the receiver before Goofy could. "You can't! She... she just needs her rest! She specifically said no calls! Doctor's orders! Very contagious sniffle!"

"Well, shouldn't I just..." Goofy started, his finger hovering over the dial pad.

"Besides!" Max cut him off, his voice shooting up an octave. "She's got her husband waiting on her hand and foot! You don't want to rob them of this significant, romantic alone time, do you?"

Goofy eyed Max suspiciously. "Then why did Debbie leave if her father wanted alone time with her mother?"

Max's jaw dropped. Uh oh. He hadn't thought that far ahead. "She's... she's her mom! Of course, she'll go!" Max hated playing the next card, something he'd never resorted to in his entire life, but he was desperate. His face crumpled. "I wouldn't understand that," he mumbled, lowering his head and letting his lower lip stick out. "I don't have a mom." Sorry, Dad, he thought, a wave of guilt washing over him.

He heard a soft, sad sigh from his father, and didn't dare look up to see the inevitable pain in Goofy's eyes. If this made him scared, how was he going to face actual vampires tonight? "Must hurry up to school!" Max yelled, bolting past his father and out the door, the fresh morning air hitting him like a blast.

~*~*~*~*~

The school cafeteria was a chaotic symphony of clanking trays, muffled conversations, and the occasional high-pitched shriek. Max poked glumly at his mystery meat, while PJ meticulously rearranged his tater tots into a tiny, defensive wall.

"This is impossible, Max," PJ muttered, nudging a tot. "You saw how I almost ripped the cover off my history textbook when I tried to open it this morning. And then, during math, when Mr. Harrison asked me to pass the chalk… I shattered it. Just disintegrated in my hand!"

Max groaned. "Tell me about it. I tried to open my locker, and the door practically flew off its hinges and bounced off Brenda Jenkins's head. She thought it was Marty, naturally. And the whole fiasco in art class."

PJ stifled a laugh. "Oh, yeah."

"It wasn't funny." Max glared at him. "I just wanted to sharpen my pencil, and the sharpener just… imploded."

PJ sighed, resting his chin in his hand. "And now, to top it all off, I'm grounded tonight. Big time."

"Grounded? What happened?" Max asked, surprised.

"Pistol," PJ began, his voice a dramatic lament. "I was trying to be nice, handing her her new princess doll, right? Just a gentle pass. But apparently, 'gentle' for me now is 'catapult-force, doll-arm-ripping-off' force." He shuddered. "Dad came in, took one look at the decapitated doll, and his face turned that shade of purple he usually reserves for when someone questions the mileage on a 'gently used' minivan. He said I have to spend my entire evening arranging all his work files. Alphabetically. By car model. And year. And color."

Max whistled low. "Ouch."

"Ouch doesn't even cover it," PJ groaned. "And then Mom got involved, because apparently, even she thinks breaking Pistol's doll is a capital offense. So now, how are we supposed to 'patrol and stake vampires' when I'm basically chained to a filing cabinet full of '89 Fords?"

"Arranging files?" Max scoffed. "Please. PJ, I'll help you. We'll get through those Fords and minivans in no time. I'll just tell my dad I'm sleeping over at your place tonight. He won't mind." Max leaned forward, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "We'll be like a well-oiled, monster-hunting, file-organizing machine!"

PJ's face brightened. "You would? Max, you're a lifesaver! With two of us, maybe we can actually finish before midnight!"

Just then, a shadow fell over their table. "Well, well, if it isn't the dynamic duo of dorkdom," a familiar, sneering voice drawled. Marty stood over them, a half-eaten hotdog dangling from his hand. Without a word, he snatched a handful of Max's soggy tater tots and popped them into his mouth, chewing loudly. "Still eating baby food, I see."

Max's fists clenched instinctively, a jolt of unfamiliar strength coursing through his arms. He imagined the satisfying thwack of his fist connecting with Marty's smug nose, perhaps sending him flying across the cafeteria.

"Hey!" Max started, pushing himself up, his eyes narrowing.

PJ, however, caught his gaze across the table. His eyes were wide, practically screaming, 'Remember what Debbie said! No powers on normal humans!'

The reminder hit Max like a splash of holy water. Defeat evil. Not settle playground squabbles. His shoulders slumped, the fiery surge in his limbs receding, leaving him feeling deflated and pathetic. He grudgingly sank back onto the bench, glaring at his tray.

Marty chuckled, grabbing a bite of PJ's mystery meat. "That's right, little pipsqueak. Know your place." He sauntered off, leaving Max fuming, the phantom urge to launch Marty into orbit still tingling in his fists. It was going to be a very long day.

~*~*~*~*~

The air in PJ's garage, thick with the scent of stale air freshener and forgotten car parts, was doing little to improve Max and PJ's mood. They were elbow-deep in filing, surrounded by towering stacks of manila folders. Max, surprisingly, was a natural at alphabetical order, while PJ muttered about the existential dread of used car warranties.

"Alright, '87 Chevy Astro Van, green... ah, here we go!" Max announced, triumphantly sliding a folder into a precisely organized drawer. "See, PJ? We're almost there! Just three more boxes of 'Customer Complaints - Unspecified Noises' and we're golden."

PJ sighed, wiping a smudge of what might have been old grease from his brow. "My dad's idea of a punishment is basically making us his unpaid administrative assistants."

Just then, the garage door creaked open, and Pete filled the doorway. A smile that didn't quite reach hi eyes spreading across his face. "Look at you two busy bees. Almost done, eh? That's what I like to see. Initiative. An improvement over some folks, who couldn't even hand a toy to their own sister without causing a national crisis." He chuckled, but the sound was devoid of warmth. PJ visibly flinched, shrinking a little under his father's gaze. Max felt a familiar knot tighten in his stomach. He hated how Pete always managed to make PJ feel small without ever raising his voice.

"Speaking of initiative," Pete continued, rubbing his hands together, "I've had a brilliant idea. You've done such a bang-up job here, boys, I need you to take these. All of them." He gestured grandly at the remaining boxes, then to the massive stack they'd already organized. "Take them all down to the office. Right now. They need to be filed there, properly."

Peg's voice, sharp with disbelief, cut in from behind Pete. "Pete! That's impossible! It's the middle of the night! You can't send them out now!" She stood just behind her husband, her arms crossed, a worried frown on her face.

Max and PJ, however, exchanged a sudden, excited glance. Vampire patrol!

"No, Mom, it's fine!" PJ practically shouted, his earlier terror forgotten.

"Yeah, Mrs. P!" Max chimed in, equally enthusiastic. "It's, uh, it's a great idea! Fresh air! Good exercise! We'll get them there safe and sound!"

Pete raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise in his eyes at their unexpected eagerness. "Well, alright then. Just make sure they're secure. And don't scuff up the floorboards, you hear?" He watched, arms crossed, as the two boys practically tripped over themselves in their haste to gather the boxes, an eager, almost manic energy replacing their earlier dread.

~*~*~*~*~

The old wheelbarrow groaned under the weight of Pete's meticulously organized, yet still incredibly heavy, files. Max and PJ pushed and pulled, grunting with effort as they navigated the dimly lit sidewalk of Spoonerville's quiet main street. The streetlights cast long, flickering shadows, making every rustling leaf sound like a monster.

"I can't believe your dad made us do this," Max wheezed, adjusting his grip. "This is worse than getting tossed in the recycling bin. At least that was fast."

"Tell me about it," PJ gasped, his brow furrowed with strain. "My arms feel like they're going to fall off. And if I hear one more crinkly folder sound, I swear I'm going to turn into a paper shredder."

"Shouldn't this be easier now that we have powers?" Max asked.

"Imagine if we didn't," PJ said, grunting as he pushed. "We'd be here all night, and probably still wouldn't have moved it an inch."

Suddenly, a voice, smooth and genial, cut through the night. "Hey there, what are you two doing out with a wheelbarrow at this hour?"

Max and PJ froze, squinting into the gloom. A man was standing casually by a darkened storefront, hands in his pockets. He looked perfectly normal, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. He offered a friendly, if slightly too wide, smile. “Shouldn't you boys be tucked in bed, dreaming of... well, whatever young kids dream of these days?"

PJ nudged Max sharply, his eyes wide with a silent, urgent warning. Max gave him a confused look, so PJ whispered, "He's a vampire."

Max's blood ran cold. "How did you know?" he whispered back. "The guy from last night was all ancient clothes and dusty. This guy's just... normal."

PJ subtly pointed to the large, reflective glass window of the closed bakery beside them. Max glanced over. He could see his own reflection, blurry in the dim light, and PJ's beside him. But the man... there was nothing. Just the reflection of the street behind him.

"Smart boy," the man purred, his earlier genial smile twisting into something far more sinister. His eyes, moments ago a placid brown, flared to a fiery red, and his skin seemed to stretch, becoming impossibly pale and veiny. With a sickening pop, his canines extended, gleaming white and needle-sharp in the faint light. He took a slow, deliberate step towards them, a predatory hunger in his gaze. 

Max and PJ screamed, a unified, terrified shriek that echoed down the empty street. They scrambled backward, letting go of the wheelbarrow, which promptly tipped over, sending a cascade of Pete's organized files scattering across the sidewalk. With a unified shriek, they abandoned the toppled wheelbarrow and the scattered '89 Fords, sprinting down the sidewalk as fast as their legs could carry them. The vampire, now a blur of pale skin and glowing red eyes, was right on their heels, his laughter echoing eerily through the empty streets.

They ducked behind a formidable-looking dumpster overflowing with last week's pizzeria boxes, its greasy scent a strange comfort compared to the impending doom. They pressed themselves against the cold metal, their breaths coming in ragged gasps.

"You can run, little boys," the vampire's voice slithered from the darkness, impossibly close. "But you can't hide. I can hear your scared breaths, the frantic thumping of your little hearts. So much fear. Delicious, delicious fear."

Max's sudden hiccups shattered the tense silence, each "hic!" a jarring exclamation point. PJ's eyes widened, a silent plea for him to just stop. Max clamped his hands over his mouth, willing the spasms away, but it was like trying to un-ring a bell. He'd thought he'd finally outgrown his inconvenient "fear-brings-hiccups" reflex, but apparently, some childhood quirks clung on tighter than a vampire bat to a belfry. From the encroaching darkness, a chilling laugh echoed, sealing their fate with a cackle.

His thoughts spiraled into a grim certainty: they were goners, each fatalistic prediction punctuated by an uncontrollable hiccup. Then, a sharp memory of Debbie cut through his fear. His promise to destroy every vampire until her return echoed in his mind. He couldn't fail her. She'd battled these creatures for months, alone, and she'd survived. If Debbie could do it, so could he.

Max's hand instinctively went to his chest, feeling the hard, smooth wood of the stake tucked into his shirt. "PJ," he hic! whispered, his voice hoarse, "we're the Slayers. We have to fight him. We have to stake him!"

PJ's head snapped up. "We're half-Slayers, remember? This guy is way bigger than the last one, and he knows we're here! He can smell our fear!"

"Together, we're a whole Slayer," Max insisted, a bravado he hoped masked the hiccups that kept escaping.

PJ's eyes suddenly went wide, fixed on something behind Max. Max knew instantly it was the vampire. Before he could react, strong hands clamped onto his arms, lifting him clean off the ground. PJ flung his stake, aiming for the vampire's head. The force of the throw sent Max tumbling back to the sidewalk.

They sprinted, a blur against the dim streetlights, until Max abruptly skidded to a halt, yanking PJ behind a massive dumpster. "We can't keep running!" he yelled, his voice raw. His eyes, frantic but determined, darted to the scattered files. "Okay, new plan."

A desperate, almost insane idea sparked in his mind. "We'll split up. When I say 'now,' you kick over this dumpster by the alley. Create a diversion, okay? I'll grab a handful of your dad's files, throw them like confetti in his face, and then we both go for him. Aim for the chest. It won't be easy, but we can do it!"

PJ swallowed hard, the sheer absurdity of the plan warring with Max's newfound, hiccup-free ferocity. "Confetti? You want to blind a vampire with Dad's tax returns?"

"It's all we've got!" Max hissed, already crouching. "Ready? One... two... NOW!"

PJ, with a grunt, kicked the overflowing dumpster with the force of his half-Slayer powers. It clanged loudly, toppling with a crash. The vampire, momentarily distracted by the noise, turned his head. That was Max's cue. He burst from behind the dumpster, a cloud of Pete's meticulously organized paperwork soaring through the air like a blizzard. "Surprise!" Max yelled, even as the vampire reeled back, batting at the useless papers.

"You little pests!" the vampire roared, shaking off the file confetti.

PJ, stake clutched in a white-knuckled grip, lunged from the opposite side. Max, with his own stake, charged the other. The vampire was fast, impossibly fast. He spun, his clawed hand swiping out, catching Max on the shoulder and sending him sprawling back into a pile of files. PJ managed a wild lunge, but the vampire easily sidestepped him, grabbing PJ's arm and twisting. PJ cried out, the stake clattering to the ground.

"Playing at being Slayers, are we? You're nothing compared to the real deal," the vampire sneered, lifting PJ by his shirt collar.

Dazed but furious, Max scrambled back to his feet. His half-powers surged, a raw, uncontrolled burst of adrenaline. He snatched up his stake and charged again, aiming for the vampire's side. The vampire saw him coming, dropping PJ to meet the attack. Max thrusted forward, but the vampire caught his wrist, his grip like iron. Max struggled, gritting his teeth, feeling the immense, unnatural strength of the creature. He tried to pivot, to twist the stake, but the vampire was too powerful.

"PJ! The stake! Get the stake!" Max yelled, straining against the vampire's hold.

PJ, rubbing his arm, scrambled on his hands and knees, grabbing his dropped stake. He launched himself at the vampire's legs, tackling them clumsily. The vampire stumbled, momentarily losing his balance, and that was all the opening Max needed. With a desperate heave, he twisted his wrist, bringing the point of his stake against the vampire's chest.

It wasn't a clean thrust. The vampire roared, his fangs bared, twisting and bucking. Max pushed with all his might, grunting, muscles screaming. PJ, now up, was desperately pushing on Max's back, adding his own half-Slayer strength to the effort. It was a slow, agonizing push, inches feeling like miles. The vampire thrashed, his eyes burning with fury, trying to throw them off. His cold, veiny hands clamped onto Max's arms, trying to wrench the stake free. Max felt a sudden, sharp pain as a claw raked his arm, but he held on, gritting his teeth, picturing Marty's smug face, picturing Debbie's exhausted smile.

Finally, with a last, combined grunt of effort from both boys, the stake sank deeper. The vampire let out a horrific, gurgling scream, his body arching violently. Its red eyes dimmed, then flared one last time before it began to shimmer, its form dissolving, crackling, and then, with a final, whooshing sound, it exploded into a cascade of glittering dust, scattering over Pete's now very unorganized files.

Max and PJ collapsed onto the sidewalk amidst the dust and paperwork, panting, their hearts still pounding like drum solos. They stared at the empty space where the vampire had been, then at each other, covered in a fine layer of sparkling vampire residue.

"We… we actually did it," PJ whispered, exhausted, a mixture of disbelief and awe in his voice.

Max nodded, wiping a streak of dust from his face. His arm stung where the vampire had scratched him, but it was nothing compared to the wild exhilaration thrumming through his veins. "Told you we could. Even with just half a Slayer." He looked at the chaos of files around them. "Now, about these 'Customer Complaints - Unspecified Noises'..."

~*~*~*~*~

They finally stumbled back into PJ's garage, the empty wheelbarrow clattering behind them. The first rays of dawn were just beginning to paint the sky, thankfully, it was a Saturday. No school. Inside, though, the air was thick with the scent of looming dread. Pete was standing in the middle of the garage, surrounded by the remaining file boxes they should have came back for hours ago. 

"Where have you two been?!" Pete roared."These boxes still need to be delivered and arranged at the office! Tell me you at least got the previous ones right!"

PJ swallowed hard, his hand instinctively clutching his injured arm. "Actually, Dad…"

Pete's terrifying gaze bored into PJ's downcast face. "Actually what, boy?"

Max saw his friend's body trembling with fear. He stepped forward, deciding to draw Pete's fury onto himself. "I'm sorry, Mr. P. We couldn't get the files into the office."

Pete loomed over Max's small frame. "Where. Are. The. Files?"

Max's unwelcome hiccups returned. "Hic! Scattered… hic! On the sidewalk. Hic!"

Pete's pupils literally combusted into flames. "Do you have any idea how important these documents are?! You've probably cost me a sale on a perfectly good '91 Cavalier!" 

Max and PJ stood there, a study in disarray. Max punctuated the tense silence with hiccups, while PJ panted, both covered in vampire dust and grime. Max's arm stung where the vampire had scratched him, while PJ's right arm throbbed, a dull ache radiating from his shoulder.

The garage door rumbled open, revealing Peg, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe. Her eyes widened. "You boys just got back?"

"And get this," Pete interjected, "these two idiots lost my files!"

"Pete! What is wrong with you?" Peg took one look at the boys, her eyes widening in alarm. "Never mind the files! Look at their bruises! Their clothes! Told you, we shouldn't have sent them out alone?!"

"It was the wheelbarrow, Mom!" PJ chimed in. "We were going along, and then it hit a crack in the sidewalk, and it just... it just toppled backward! And it ran right over us! We were both trying to hold onto it, but it was just too much!"

Peg rushed forward, her concern overriding her anger. She gently grasped PJ's arm, her fingers probing. PJ winced. "Oh, PJ, honey, your arm! That looks more than just bruised! It looks... broken! We're going to the hospital right now, both of you. We need to get those arms checked out!"

Pete, for once, was silent, his bluster deflating slightly as he actually registered the extent of their injuries. Max and PJ exchanged a glance, a silent, knowing look that spoke volumes. Hospital? That would complicate their newfound Slayer duties. But for now, they were just two ordinary boys who had a very unfortunate run-in with a rogue wheelbarrow.

Chapter Text

"Deb?" Max whispered into the receiver, even though he knew his dad was still asleep. "We staked a vampire last night.”

”Good for you, boys. Your first vampire.” Debbie sounded amused.

"And the vampire scratched me, and PJ's arm looked broken. We were in so much pain. But then, when we got to the hospital, it was… weird. The bruises looked less bad, and PJ's arm was still sore, but the swelling went down, and it wasn't even broken!"

Debbie chuckled. "Ah, the healing factor. Slayers heal faster than regular humans. It's so we can fight the next night. Convenient, right?"

Max paused. "So, you're saying we're basically Wolverine now, but without the claws and the cool hair?"

"Something like that," Debbie confirmed.

"So, any news on the horned she-demon?" Max asked, hopeful.

Debbie's tone grew serious. "We're still working on it. It's complicated. We're trying to figure out how to get my powers back. That's the priority."

Just then, the distinctive sound of shuffling feet approached, followed by a familiar "A-hyuck!" Goofy ambled into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Following closely behind was Waffles who immediately weaved figure-eights around Goofy's ankles.

Max’s eyes widened in panic. "So, uh, any word on… the weather out there, Deb?" he blurted out, trying to sound casual. "Is it, uh, clear skies? Good for… outdoor activities?"

Goofy reached for the phone. "Oh, is that Debbie? Let me just ask her how Carol's feelin'!"

"Aunt Carol!" Max shrieked into the phone, yanking it away. "Deb, is Aunt Carol all right now?"

Debbie, bless her, caught on instantly. "Oh! Yes, Max! Mom is... miraculously better!"

"She's fine, Dad!" Max exclaimed.

Goofy's brow furrowed slightly as he took the phone from Max's hand. "Well, that's just grand! Tell me, Debbie, how's your mother really doing?" He paused, listening intently. His brow furrowed further, then his face slowly shifted into a confused frown. "But… I thought she just had the sniffles?"

Max silently tiptoed backward, slipping out of the kitchen. He then bolted for the stairs, leaving Goofy and the perplexed Waffles to ponder just how many different ailments Aunt Carol apparently had.

~*~*~*~*~

The moon cast long, eerie shadows across PJ's bedroom as Max expertly unlatched the window. He slipped inside, the familiar scent of stale pizza and something vaguely metallic akin to a broken robot filling his nostrils. He carefully placed the duffel bag, weighty with stakes, crosses, bottle of holy water, and the compact crossbows, beside PJ's rocket ship bed.

"Psst! PJ! You awake?" Max whispered, nudging a lump under a space-themed comforter.

A muffled groan emerged. "Five more minutes, Captain. We're just entering the asteroid field…"

"Asteroid field, schmasteroid field, we've got vampires, Commander!" Max hissed, pulling back the comforter. PJ blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering past the solar system models hanging from the ceiling. A faint glow emanated from the computer on his desk.

"Max! What time is it?" PJ rubbed his eyes, then noticed the duffel bag. His face fell. "Oh, no. It's time, isn't it?"

Max nodded, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. "Time to patrol! Got the gear. We're gonna hit the streets, find some fangers, and show them what half-Slayers can do!"

PJ sighed, a dramatic, deflated sound. "I can't."

Max froze. "Can't? What do you mean, 'can't'? Is it your arm?"

"No, it's not my arm," PJ lamented, pushing himself up. "Tonight's date night. My parents are going out. I'm stuck babysitting Pistol." He threw a desperate glance toward the hallway, where Max could clearly see Pistol's closed door taunting them from across the room.

Max threw his hands up in exasperation, nearly knocking PJ's nearby globe off its stand. "Are you serious?! Every single night we're supposed to go out, you have an obstacle! Last night it was your dad's files, tonight it's babysitting your kid sister! Meanwhile, I'm over here, lying to my dad two nights in a row that I'm sleeping over at your house!"

"You say it like it's my fault!" PJ snapped.

"Tomorrow night, you're sleeping over at my house," Max declared. "No excuses. We'll just patrol from my place."

PJ huffed. "My mom won't let me. Tomorrow night's a school night."

Max groaned, pulling at his hair. "Ugh! You know, sneaking out to stake vampires is harder than actually staking them!"

"Says the boy who only staked one vampire," PJ said dryly, adjusting the solar system models hanging precariously near his head. "And barely."

Max stared at PJ, his jaw dropping. "I was the one pushing the stake! You were just... providing moral support and maybe a little bit of extra leverage!"

PJ shrugged, unapologetic. "Hey, leverage counts! Besides, I was the one who actually identified the vampire. You were still thinking he was just a friendly neighborhood weirdo."

"Oh, you think you're funny, Mr. 'Accidentally-Decapitated-My-Sister's-Doll'?" Max retorted, trying to regain the upper hand. "What do we do now? Just… sit here and wait for the sun to come up? Are we just going to let the night's vampire population run wild?"

PJ's gaze drifted despairingly toward the open doorway at his sister's bedroom door. Max placed a hand on his shoulder. "Can't we just patrol for a bit, then come back?" he suggested. "She'll never know."

PJ looked horrified. "No! I can't leave her here alone! What if she wakes up? What if she needs something? What if she draws on the walls with permanent marker?"

"Dude, she'll be fine," Max argued, waving a dismissive hand. "Vampires can't even go into a house unless invited, right? And she's not exactly going to invite Dracula in for a juice box."

"Still!" PJ insisted, wringing his hands. "I can't leave her. My mom would kill me if she knew I left Pistol by herself, vampire or no vampire."

Max groaned. "Fine! What about my dad? Can't we just ask him to babysit?"

PJ stared at him, a look of profound exasperation on his face. "Are you serious, Max? Didn't you just tell your dad you were sleeping over here? And how are we supposed to sneak out and do our Slayer thing if he's here?"

Max stared at him. "You weren't exactly babysitting tonight. You were sleeping here while your sister was sleeping there."

PJ's eyes narrowed. "What's your point?"

"My point," Max retorted, "is that if Pistol is asleep now, it won't matter if we go out and stake tonight's vampire and then come back. She'll still be sleeping. You weren't babysitting just by being in the house tonight, were you?"

PJ looked unsure. "I guess... But what if she wakes up and looks for me?"

"Fine!" Max huffed, throwing his hands up in defeat. "I'll go solo tonight. I'll take a stake and a crossbow and be back before your parents even finish their appetizers."

PJ grabbed Max's arm, his eyes wide. "Max, no! We barely staked that last vampire together! Imagine going against one tonight on your own. Maybe... maybe we should just sit this one out tonight? Just for one night?"

Max's face hardened. "Tell that to the innocent person who's going to be killed by a vampire tonight, PJ. What if it's your parents? Walking down the street in a romantic stroll, sharing a milkshake, and then bam! Killed by a vampire. Is that worth avoiding a lecture from your mom?"

PJ's eyes darted nervously between Max's determined face and the dark window, then back to the duffel bag full of their weapons. Max watched him, a silent plea in his gaze. PJ gnawed on his lip, his gaze flicking around his room. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh that seemed to deflate his rocket-ship bed. "Alright, fine," he mumbled, his voice full of reluctant surrender. "But if Pistol wakes up and needs a juice box, this is on you, Max."

~*~*~*~*~

Max and PJ slunk back towards PJ's house a couple of hours later. The duffel bag, still full of unused weapons, felt heavier than ever. Their grand patrol had yielded precisely zero vampires, one startled alley cat, and a rather judgmental squirrel.

"Well, that was a bust," Max muttered, kicking a loose pebble. "Not a single fanger. Maybe they all had a late-night meeting about 'How to Avoid Annoying Half-Slayers'."

PJ remained silent, his footsteps quickening with a clear desire to get home as fast as possible. They entered the house in silence, PJ practically bolting up the stairs with Max trailing behind. Max stepped into the hallway leading to the siblings' rooms, their doors on opposite sides at the hall's end. PJ then rushed out of his sister's room, a panicked look on his face. "She's not here!" he exclaimed.

"What?" Max said, a knot forming in his stomach.

"Pistol?" PJ's voice rose in panic. He rushed into his room, checking under his bed and in his closet before racing through the house, his calls of her name becoming increasingly desperate. "Pistol! Where are you?!"

Max joined in, his voice now a desperate cry of "Pistol!" as he frantically searched downstairs: under the stairs, throughout the kitchen, and in the living room.

PJ stormed into the living room, his face pale with a mix of fury and fear. "This is your fault, Max! Your stupid idea to go out! We didn't even find a single vampire, and now Pistol's gone!" He snatched up his stake, its pointy end looking menacing in his trembling hand. "I knew I shouldn't have left her! I knew it! I'm going to find her!" Without another word, PJ yanked open the front door and disappeared into the night.

Max stood frozen for a beat, a cold wave of guilt washing over him. The thought of something horrible happening to Pistol twisted in his gut. He had to help. He had to check his own house.

He slipped into his house through the kitchen door, the familiar scent of leftover ketchup spaghetti doing little to comfort him. The television's low hum filled the room. And there, sprawled on the couch, was Goofy, sound asleep, a half-eaten bag of chips spilling onto his chest. Waffles, curled snugly on Goofy's stomach, purred contentedly. Goofy didn't stir; he hadn't even noticed Max's panicked entrance or exit. No Pistol here.

He bolted out the front door, the night air chilling him to the bone. Max raced down the street, his voice hoarse and desperate as he called Pistol's name, scanning every shadow and darkened porch. "This is my fault," he thought, his chest aching. He should have listened to PJ; they should have sat this one out. But Max had promised Debbie. He'd promised to patrol every night. His heart pounded with a mix of fear for Pistol and the crushing weight of a promise that felt far too big for a kid like him.

Max's frantic search continued, his breath fogging. Every shadow seemed to stretch and writhe, and every distant sound, from the rustle of leaves to a dog's distant bark, made his heart leap. "Pistol! Pistol!" he gasped, his voice cracking. He scanned the street, then darted down a narrow alleyway that smelled vaguely of stale garbage and desperation.

"Look what the cat dragged in," a dry, sarcastic voice with a distinct British accent drawled from the gloom.

Max skidded to a halt, spinning around. The first thing that hit him was the hair, a shocking, almost unnatural platinum blonde, aggressively spiky and completely unlike anything a person would expect on a normal man. It framed a lean face, sharp with high cheekbones and a sneering kind of confidence, but what really drew his eye was the Y-shaped scar carved above his left eyebrow, giving him a perpetually dangerous look. He was clad head-to-toe in black leather, dominated by a long, heavy trench coat that swished around him with every movement, hinting at a casual menace. His overall vibe was pure, unapologetic punk rock, a raw edge of danger and defiance that was impossible to ignore. He took a long drag from a cigarette, the cherry glowing in the darkness, then blew a stream of smoke into the chilly air.

"A little lost lamb, are we?" the man continued, his sharp blue eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "Out all alone at this hour. Not very sensible, now, is it? Especially with… that." His gaze dropped, lingering for a fraction of a second on the stake Max unconsciously clutched in his hand.

That was all Max needed. The way those sharp blue eyes had glinted, the sudden, predatory focus on the wood. He froze, his earlier terror for Pistol momentarily eclipsed by the immediate, personal threat. This wasn't just some random weirdo. This was a vampire.

The platinum-haired vampire took another slow drag from his cigarette. "What a delightful little morsel. You'll make a smashing present for my Drusilla. She just adores little children. Especially the ones who smell of… fear and old paper." He took a step closer, his sharp blue eyes gleaming. "You don't mind a trip to the playground, do you?"

Max swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. He tried to muster a witty retort, something Debbie might say. "Actually, I'm more of a... a dis-present," he managed, but his voice cracked, ending in a tiny, pathetic hiccup.

The vampire's sneer deepened. "Oh, a hiccuping hero, are we? How utterly charming."

Max, fueled by a desperate cocktail of adrenaline and pure fury, surged forward. He gripped the stake, aiming for the vampire's chest, just like Debbie had shown him. "Take that, you… you fanger-punk!"

But the vampire was impossibly fast. One moment, Max was lunging; the next, his wrist was caught in an iron grip. The stake was effortlessly plucked from his hand and tossed aside, clattering uselessly against the brick wall of the alley. Before Max could even blink, a cold, strong hand clamped firmly over his mouth, cutting off any scream before it could begin. The vampire's eyes, burning like twin coals, were inches from his own.

"Now, now," the vampire murmured, his voice a low, chilling purr against Max's ear. "No need for theatrics. Drusilla's waiting, and I do so hate to be late." With a surprising surge of speed, the vampire picked him up, slamming his back against the leather-clad chest and holding him firmly, one hand still muffling any sound. Max struggled, kicking his legs, but it was useless. He was an annoying fly, captured and helpless, being carried relentlessly towards the dark, silent promise of the playground.

Max's gaze darted around, surveying his surroundings in fright. The silent streets stretched before him as he stopped kicking and struggling, hanging still as he was held firmly against the vampire's chest with one arm, the other clamped tight over his mouth. His nose breathed in the lingering whiffs of cigarette smoke that clung to the leather. The playground. The familiar, once-safe place was now bathed in the sickly green glow of a single flickering streetlamp.

And then he saw them.

Perched delicately on one of the swings, her feet barely touching the ground, was a pale woman with long, black hair. She wore a flowing, old-fashioned white dress that seemed to shimmer in the dim light, and on her lap sat a porcelain doll, its vacant eyes staring out into the night. Her presence sent a shiver down Max's spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

But it was the swing next to her that truly made Max's heart seize in terror. Sitting there, happily swinging her legs, a giggling sound barely audible over the thump of his own heart, was Pistol. She too had a doll clutched in her lap, a plastic princess with a missing crown.

"Well, now, look at that," the vampire carrying Max drawled, his voice a low purr. "Looks like you found yourself a little playmate already, love. And here I was, bringing you this one as a special present." He set Max down none too gently, releasing his hand from Max's mouth. Max stumbled, gasping for air, staring wide-eyed at PJ's sister.

The pale woman turned her head, her dark eyes glittering with a chilling delight. A slow, unsettling smile spread across her lips. "Oh, Spike," she cooed, her voice like wind chimes in a graveyard, "you always were the best at finding me the sweetest treats." Her gaze drifted to Max, a hungry amusement in their depths.

Pistol, however, seemed completely oblivious to the malevolent atmosphere. She spotted Max and her face lit up, dropping her doll with a thud next to a teddy bear. "Max! Max! You came! You wanna play dollies?" She blathered, swinging her legs faster. "This is Drusilla! Isn't she pretty? She's a dark princess nice lady. She knocked on my window and asked for you and PJ, but I told her you guys weren't there! So she said we could come to the playground and play with dollies until you came back!"

Max could only stare. Four-year-old Pistol, in her innocent, terrifying logic, couldn't possibly process that he was being held captive, that the "nice lady" was a vampire, or that she herself was likely the main course. To Pistol, this was just a really fun, spontaneous playdate. He wanted to scream, to run, but his feet felt rooted to the spot, his mind reeling from the sheer, horrifying absurdity of it all.

Spike's sharp blue eyes, still glowing with an unnatural light, fixed on Max. He leaned down, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "So, you're the boy with the Slayer powers, eh? " His gaze then flicked past Max. "And where's your little friend?"

Max’s heart hammered. He glanced at Pistol, still happily swinging, then forced himself to look back at Spike. Summoning every ounce of courage he had, he managed to stammer, "What... what do you want with us?"

Spike straightened up, a slow, predatory smile stretching his lips. He ran a gloved finger along his spiky hair. "My Drusilla had a vision. She saw a blonde Slayer causing no end of trouble for us down the line. A real nuisance, she'll be." His eyes flicked from Max back to Drusilla, who was now humming a tuneless, eerie lullaby to her doll. "And since the current Slayer's powers are now inconveniently residing inside two… boys..." Spike let the sentence hang in the air, his smile widening into a terrifying rictus that made Max shiver from his teeth to his toes.

The realization hit Max like a physical blow, cold and hard. It clicked into place, every piece of Debbie's hurried explanation. If you died, it would end the Slayer line for good. The power would just… dissipate. No more Slayers, ever. These creepy vampire-couple wanted to kill him and PJ. To end the Slayer line. Forever.

Max charged Spike, a flurry of untrained fists and wild kicks, fueled by desperation rather than skill. Spike, with effortless grace, simply swayed, dodged, and sidestepped, his movements a blur against Max's brute force. In a fluid motion, he twisted Max's arms behind his back, securing him instantly. "Dru, ropes," Spike drawled, his voice a low purr.

Drusilla yanked the ropes from the swing she was sitting on, tossing them to him with a giggle. Pistol, still oblivious to the true danger, watched with wide-eyed wonder, impressed by Drusilla's unexpected display of power.

"Run, Pistol, run!" Max yelled, straining against Spike's grip. But Drusilla merely tore a strip from her dress, swiftly covering Max's mouth and tying it securely behind his head, silencing his protests. "Bad boy," she tisked playfully, as Spike expertly bound Max's hands and legs with the swing ropes.

Drusilla then turned to Pistol, her eyes sparkling with an unsettling glee. "We're playing a game, little one," she explained, her voice a chilling blend of childlike innocence and sinister intent. "And we'll continue our game in my beautiful house, where I have many dollies." She effortlessly lifted Max, carrying him as if he weighed nothing. "Let's go to my house. Spike will bring your brother to play with us."

Pistol, clutching her teddy bear, piped up, "I'll carry Miss Edith!" She pointed at Drusilla’s doll. 

Drusilla's smile widened. "You are so helpful, Pistol."

~*~*~*~*~

In the chilling silence of the abandoned crypt, a single, ornate Victorian bed stood like a morbid centerpiece, its dark wood veiled in thick layers of dust and cobwebs. Upon it, Max lay bound and gagged, his limbs aching from the tight ropes and the unnatural angle of his body. His frantic gaze darted around the decaying stone room, taking in the crumbling archways and the unsettling shadows cast by the flickering candlelight that Drusilla had somehow conjured. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay, a grim reminder of their location.

His panic surged, a cold wave washing over him, as he watched Drusilla and Pistol at the room's center. Drusilla was arranging a collection of dolls. There must have been dozens, some porcelain, some cloth, all eerily still. A particular doll, with a small piece of faded lace tied tightly over its mouth, caught Pistol’s eye.

"Like Max?" Pistol piped up, her voice echoing a little in the cavernous space as she pointed a curious finger first at the gagged doll, then at Max.

Drusilla turned, her head cocked at an unsettling angle, her dark eyes glittering with an unnerving childlike glee. "Yes, little one. Exactly like Max. Naughty, naughty. That's why he doesn't get to play." She giggled, a light, tinkling sound that grated on Max's raw nerves. He strained against his bonds, a desperate, guttural sound escaping his gagged mouth, his muscles screaming in protest.

His mind raced, thinking about Spike's search for PJ. His breath hitched, a silent, frantic plea echoing in the desolate crypt as he prayed, with every fiber of his being, that Spike hadn't found PJ yet, that his best friend was somehow safe from this living nightmare. The helplessness was crushing, the silence of his own gagged screams deafening in the face of Drusilla’s deranged merriment.

Chapter Text

PJ slumped onto a cold, metal bench on the sidewalk, the kind with peeling green paint that usually hosted gossiping teenagers during the day. Now, in the dead of night, it felt like the loneliest spot in the entire world. The only company was the relentless, mocking silence of Spoonerville's empty streets, stretching out under the weak glow of distant streetlights. Not a single car, not a barking dog, not even a stray cat dared to break the eerie stillness.

The crudely whittled wooden stake dangled from his fingers, its point glinting dully in the faint light. He kept twisting it, letting it spin in slow, useless circles, mimicking the dizzying chaos inside his head. Pistol. Gone. He'd left her. He had left his baby sister alone in the house. The image of her empty bed burned behind his eyelids. It was his fault. All of it.

"Useless," he whispered into the frigid air, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. His not-broken arm still throbbed, reminding him of his inadequacy. He wasn't a Slayer; he was just a kid who couldn't even keep track of his own sister, let alone fight actual creatures of the night. The stake felt like a mockery in his hand, a symbol of a power he clearly wasn't meant to wield.

PJ dragged his feet, the stake now clutched tightly in his fist, as he started the long walk back home. Each step was a lead weight, heavy with the terrifying hope that Pistol would magically reappear, tucked safely back in her bed.

Then, a few blocks from his house, the scene subtly shifted. The oppressive silence gave way to the faint hum of late-night chatter and the distant clink of glasses. He came across a small cluster of people walking home, their voices hushed but warm, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights and shop windows.

He passed by the very restaurant his parents had chosen for their date night, its windows glowing like a beacon. Through the glass, he could see them, laughing, sharing a slice of cheesecake. Soon, too soon, they'd finish their dessert, pay the check, and head home. His stomach tightened, not with the usual dread of his dad's outrage, but with a cold, desperate fear that now completely overshadowed it. Whatever punishment his parents would inflict for sneaking out, for the ruined files, for the bruises, it paled in comparison to the agonizing thought of losing Pistol.

PJ burst into his front yard, fueled by a desperate hope that Pistol would magically be back inside. But his steps faltered, his heart sinking into his stomach. There, perched casually on the top step leading to his front door, was a figure bathed in the sickly glow of the porch light. It was a man, all black leather and aggressively spiky platinum blonde hair, lazily blowing a plume of smoke from a cigarette. The scar above his eyebrow was menacing. PJ could tell right away. This wasn't some late-night visitor. This was a vampire.

He clutched the stake in his hand, the rough wood digging into his palm, ready to fight if necessary.

The man surveyed PJ with a slow, sardonic grin. "Well, look at this. The little sausage-roll has made it home. Bit late for a pudgy boy, isn't it? Thought you might've rolled all the way back to your bed."

PJ's face flushed, but he wasn't about to back down. "And you're a bit old for that fashion, aren't you, grandpa? And smoking? Don't you know that stuff's bad for your health?" He gave what he just said a thought. "Though, I guess it doesn't really matter when you're already dead, huh?"

The vampire's grin didn't falter, but his eyes sharpened. "Feisty. I like that. You must be PJ, then."

PJ's eyebrows shot up. "It's rude not to introduce yourself, you know. My mom taught me that. What, are you scared to tell me your name, Mr. Leather-Trench-Coat?"

The vampire chuckled, a low, gravelly sound. "The name's Spike."

PJ couldn't help himself. "Spike? Like the bulldog? The one that always gets hit with a frying pan?" A tremor of fear ran through him for saying it, but the words were out.

Spike's smile turned cold, devoid of humor. His eyes flashed with a primal menace. "Not exactly, little boy. I got my name for a reason. Used to torture people with railroad spikes. Nail 'em to a cross. Drain 'em slow. The screams? Oh, they were just divine."

PJ gulped, the stake suddenly feeling far too small in his hand.

Spike flicked his cigarette, sending a shower of sparks into the night. "Enough with the chitchat, tubby. Let's lay it all out, shall we? I've got your little sister. And your mate. Snug as bugs in a rug, down at the playground."

PJ's blood ran cold. "Pistol? You… you have Pistol?" His voice was a strangled whisper, the stake trembling in his hand. "Please… please don't hurt her. Or Max. Please."

Spike's smile widened, a cruel, predatory thing. "Now, now, let's not get all emotional. I'm a reasonable chap. I'll let the little niblet go. If you come with me."

PJ's mind raced, a whirlwind of fear and desperation. He noticed Spike's carefully worded offer. He'd said nothing about letting Max go. Which meant… they wanted him and Max. Clearly, it was about the Slayer powers. He remembered Debbie's words, the chilling finality in them. If you died, it would end the Slayer line for good. But Spike… Spike was powerful, radiating a casual, terrifying menace that PJ couldn't even begin to comprehend. He could easily kill him right here, right now. So why not just do it?

He voiced the thought aloud, his voice barely a whisper. "If you're so strong… why not just kill me now? Why the deal?"

Spike's eyes gleamed with a strange, almost admiring light. "You are a smart boy, aren't you?"

PJ just stared at him, heart pounding, his mind racing. He could only pray his parents wouldn't rush back home. Maybe his dad was making a really big deal about the dinner bill tonight.

Spike casually pushed off the front door steps, the cigarette still perched precariously between his fingers. "Well, seeing as I'm considerably stronger, I'm not actually obligated to answer your rather impertinent questions, am I?" He eyed PJ coldly, his gaze cutting through the last vestiges of the boy's defiance. "So, are you coming or not?"

PJ swallowed hard, the stake suddenly feeling like a twig in his hand. He gave a trembling nod, his shoulders slumping in defeat, and followed the vampire into the darkness.

PJ's feet shuffled on the cold pavement, each step a heavy rhythm against the chilling silence of the street. Spike walked beside him, a casual, almost languid stride that belied the terrifying grip he'd just exerted on PJ's future. The vampire hadn't even bothered to look at the stake in PJ's trembling hand; a quick flick of his wrist, and the wood had spun away into the darkness, landing with a faint, mocking clatter somewhere in the bushes.

"What did you think you were going to do with that?" Spike muttered with disdain. "Tickle me to death?"

Now, the only sound was the distant hum of the city and PJ's own ragged breathing. They passed beneath a flickering streetlight, and for a moment, PJ glimpsed their reflection in the darkened window of a closed dry cleaner's. Himself and nothing but the street beyond. An invisible monster, leading him away. A few blocks down, a couple walked past them, arm-in-arm, engrossed in quiet conversation. They didn't even glance twice at the boy being led by the punk-rock stranger. Blissfully unaware that a life, maybe two, hung in the balance, tied to a secret war they couldn't even dream of. The irony was a bitter taste in PJ's mouth.

They continued their walk, the familiar landscape of Spoonerville morphing into a sinister, alien place under the dark sky. Then, they passed his elementary school. The playground, where he’d spent countless recess hours, looked like a skeletal structure. Suddenly, all his childhood troubles - Marty the bully, the crushing pressure of exams, the constant hum of school pressure to get good grades, to fit in, to avoid detention, all of it seemed insignificant and incredibly silly.

He wished, with a desperate ache that twisted his gut, that he could go back. Back to a time when his biggest fear was flunking a pop quiz or Marty stealing his tater tots. Back to when the hardest decision was choosing between chocolate milk and regular. Back to those simpler times, when monsters only existed in comic books and the biggest secret he held was that he still talked to his goldfish. Now, he was walking willingly towards certain doom, to save a sister he'd just accidentally imperiled, led by a vampire who tortured people with railroad spikes. And the worst part? No one would ever know.

The air grew heavy and damp as Spike pushed open a massive, creaking iron door, revealing a gaping maw of darkness. This wasn't the playground. This was a crypt, carved into the side of the cemetery's oldest hill, reeking of ancient dust and something vaguely… metallic. PJ hesitated at the threshold, his stomach churning. Deep down, he knew this was a trap. Every fiber of his being screamed that he couldn't trust a vampire. Spike would never let Pistol go. He'd get what he wanted, Max and PJ, the boys with Slayer powers, and then he'd make good meal out of his little sister.

He tried to think of a plan, his eyes darting around the gloomy entrance, searching for an escape route, a hidden lever, anything. Plans were usually Max's territory. PJ was more of a contingency planner, a cautious observer. But now, it was just him. The darkness pressed in, mirroring the despair in his chest.

As they stepped fully inside, a low, flickering gaslight revealed the crypt's interior. It was surprisingly ornate for a place of the dead, decorated with heavy velvet drapes and dusty, dark wood furniture. And there, draped unceremoniously across an old, fancy Victorian bed in the corner, was Max. His eyes were wide with terror, a rough gag stuffed into his mouth, and his arms and legs were tightly bound. He looked like a very disgruntled, very kidnapped Christmas ham. Max’s eyes shot up, wide with horror, as he saw PJ walking in, his muffled groans echoing around the crypt.

Spike nudged PJ further into the room. Then, PJ’s gaze shifted to the center of the crypt. Near a small, circular table covered with a lace doily, sat a pale woman with long, dark hair. And directly across from her, giggling and clinking miniature teacups, was Pistol.

PJ blinked, twice. Pistol sat there, perfectly unharmed, hosting a tea party in her pink pajamas with the most terrifying woman he'd ever seen. "More crumpets, Drusilla?" Pistol asked, holding up an empty teacup. "My teddy bear, Sir Reginald Fluffybottom, says these are the best invisible ones he's ever had!"

The woman, Drusilla, smiled, her expression disturbingly serene as she mimed sipping from her own tiny teacup. "Sir Reginald is quite right. These phantom pastries are simply topping." Her voice made the hair on PJ's neck stand on end, even as the scene played out like a surreal cartoon. Pistol offered a doll-sized plate to Drusilla. "Would you like another invisible sugar cube?" she chirped. PJ was frozen by the sheer, bizarre absurdity of his four-year-old sister having a polite, undead tea party with a creature of the night.

"You haven't had your dinner yet, pet?" Spike asked Drusilla, leaning against the door frame, his sharp blue eyes, however, fixed on Pistol.

Drusilla let out a pathetic moan. "She reminds me of my little sister. She loved to play tea and dollies. But then Angel nicked her away." Drusilla's wistful voice drifted as her eyes stared into nothing and her head swayed while she whimpered. "Angel loved nicking everything I had. My parents, my sisters, my faith, my sanity." She let out a soft laugh that gradually turned into a maniacal cackle.

"Don't you worry your head about him, love. Angel is lost to the world," Spike said with a grunt, throwing down his cigarette and stomping on it.

Throughout the conversation, PJ stood rooted to the spot, torn between the terrifying realization of Max's predicament and the surreal sight of Pistol's tea party.

His mind, usually a chaotic whirlwind of anxieties, suddenly focused with a desperate clarity. He had to get Pistol out. Now.

He glanced at the crypt's entrance, the massive iron door stood slightly ajar. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The plan was simple, but it was all he had.

"Pistol!" PJ called out, trying to keep his voice steady, his eyes darting towards the door. "Pistol, Mom just called! She said we have to go home right now! It's time for… for super-secret, extra-special, surprise bedtime stories!"

Pistol looked up from her tea set, her brow furrowing in confusion. "But PJ! Drusilla and I are playing! Sir Reginald is just about to tell us about his adventures in the Land of Fuzzy Socks!"

"Oh, goody!" Drusilla cooed, her unnervingly sweet smile fixed on Pistol. "Sir Reginald is quite the storyteller, isn't he?"

PJ knew he had to be quicker. "No, Pistol, it's really important! Mom said you get to pick three stories tonight! And have extra cookies! But only if we go right now!" He took a hesitant step towards her, willing her to understand, to just move.

Pistol's eyes widened at the mention of three stories and extra cookies. Her priorities, thankfully, were very four-year-old. "Three stories AND cookies?!" She scrambled to her feet, leaving Sir Reginald Fluffybottom abandoned on the tiny chair. "Bye, Drusilla! I have to go get my cookies!"

"Run, Pistol, run!" PJ thought, his hand subtly reaching for her arm. He just needed to get her out that door. Just one more step. He took another step, extending his hand, a silent prayer forming in his mind. Please, let her grab my hand. Please, let her just run.

But as Pistol took a wobbly step towards him, a dry, amused chuckle echoed through the crypt. "Planning a grand escape, are we, tubby?" Spike's voice, laced with a chilling amusement, cut through the air.

PJ's head snapped towards the sound. Spike was no longer leaning against the wall. He was standing directly over the Victorian bed where Max lay, bound and gagged. And with one hand, Spike had casually pulled up Max's shirt, exposing his stomach.

Drusilla slowly rose from her seat, her gaze fixed on Max. Her long, slender fingers, tipped with unnaturally long, perfectly manicured nails, drifted towards Max's exposed skin. Her eyes gleamed with pure, malicious delight.

"Oh, my sweet Spike," Drusilla murmured, her voice a seductive whisper that made PJ's skin crawl. "A blank canvas. What a perfect place to carve a little message, wouldn't you agree? Something lovely. Perhaps… my name?"

PJ's blood ran cold. He saw the horror in Max's wide, pleading eyes, the desperate struggle against his bonds. Drusilla's nails, long and sharp as razors, hovered inches above Max's stomach, ready to etch a permanent, grotesque signature.

PJ's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of dread. He couldn't leave Max. But Pistol! To these creatures, she was nothing but a fragile snack, a plaything before the real meal. The conflict tore at him, a physical agony in his chest.

His gaze was fixed on Max, now writhing futilely against his bonds on the bed. Slowly, deliberately, Drusilla dragged a nail across Max's skin. A thin, red line appeared, then another. Max bucked, a choked, guttural cry muffled by the cloth. Drusilla was spelling her name. Blood welled up, a crimson line against his pale skin, forming the elegant, cruel curve of a "D."

PJ couldn't take it anymore! He let go of Pistol's hand and charged towards the bed to rescue Max, but a strong arm got a hold of him, and he found himself pressed against a hard chest. Spike's arms held him captive as he whispered in his ear, "Don't interrupt. Just watch."

Drusilla made another stroke, then another, meticulously etching each letter of "Drusilla" onto Max's stomach. His friend's desperate, pained screams were choked, raw sounds, tearing at PJ's very soul. Blood began to drip, slow, heavy beads falling onto the dusty velvet.

"You're making a mess, love," Spike drawled, addressing Drusilla. PJ glanced at him, watching her artistry with a perverse satisfaction.

Meanwhile, Pistol, moving closer to the bed, tilted her head, her bright eyes fixed on Drusilla. A small smile played on her lips. "Look, PJ!" she piped up, her voice clear and sweet, oblivious to the horror unfolding. "Drusilla's writing on him! Like with our red crayons." Her brow furrowed in a moment of childish concern. "But she's making him wiggle a lot. Is it tickly?"

"Pistol, go back home now!" PJ screamed.

A sudden, blinding pain exploded at the back of his head. The crypt spun, the flickering gaslight blurring into a dizzying vortex. He heard a sharp crack, then felt himself falling, his arms flailing uselessly. He landed with a thud on the cold stone floor, his head throbbing, a high-pitched ringing filling his ears.

Through the haze of pain, he heard Pistol's voice, no longer sweet and bubbly, but trembling with a nascent fear. "I don't like this game," she whimpered, her lower lip trembling as she looked down at PJ wincing on the floor, clutching his throbbing head.

Spike moved with startling speed. He roughly grabbed Pistol by the arm, yanking her away from Drusilla. "Too bad, Princess," he snarled, his voice stripped of its earlier amusement.

PJ pushed himself up on one elbow, his head swimming, fury overriding the pain. "Hey! That wasn't part of the deal! You said you'd let her go!"

Spike chuckled, a cruel, mocking sound that scraped against PJ's raw nerves. With surprising swiftness, he moved to a large, wrought-iron cage set against the far wall. He opened its heavy door, shoved Pistol inside, and then, with a definitive clank, he slammed the door shut and locked it. Pistol stared out through the bars, her eyes wide, tears finally beginning to well.

With a harsh grunt, Spike grabbed PJ by the collar and, with surprising force, hurled him onto the bed next to Max. PJ landed with an "oof," his still-throbbing head bouncing off the dusty pillow. He scrambled to get his bearings, his gaze locking onto Max's tear-streaked face and the grotesque "Drusilla" carved into his stomach.

"Alright, that's enough, love," Spike said to Drusilla, who was still admiring her handiwork. "No need to drain all the fun out of him. We need the boys' blood for the ritual, not all over the antique bedding."

PJ mumbled, his head swimming, "Ritual? What… what ritual?"

"No harm in telling you our plans, is there? Not like you'll be around to ruin them, eh? You see, we want you two alive. As part of a… transfer. We're going to take your little Slayer powers, the ones that are currently mucking up your human physiology, and give them to someone who can truly appreciate them. Drusilla." Spike gestured to his pale companion, who offered a dreamy, satisfied smile. "Imagine. A vampire with Slayer powers. She'd be unstoppable."

PJ's mind, despite the pain and fear, latched onto a small detail. "But… why Drusilla? Why not you?"

Spike scoffed, a look of mild disgust crossing his features. "Please. Slayer powers are always meant for females, you idiot. Always have been. Always will be. It's an inconvenient little rule, but even us demons have to occasionally play by the established cosmic guidelines."

"Is that why… is that why our powers aren't as effective?" PJ whispered, his gaze flicking to his own still-bruised arm. "Because we're boys?"

Spike merely grinned, a flash of fangs. "You're finally catching on." He gave a satisfied nod, a dark glint in his eyes. "Right then, love. Let's go sort out the finer details. This ritual isn't going to set itself up, is it?" He sauntered towards a heavy curtained archway at the back of the crypt, beckoning Drusilla with a dismissive flick of his hand.

Drusilla, still admiring her "artwork" on Max's stomach, sighed dramatically. "Such a mess. Humans are so terribly inefficient with their insides." But she eventually drifted after Spike, her white dress rustling like dry leaves. The heavy curtains swished shut behind them, plunging that part of the crypt into deeper shadow, though their voices could still be faintly heard, discussing strange ingredients and "blood moon alignment."

With his head still pounding with a dull, insistent ache, PJ struggled to sit upright. His vision swam for a moment, the gaslight wavering like a drunk firefly. He turned his attention to Pistol, who was still silently crying in the wrought-iron cage, her small face pressed against the bars. His heart twisted with guilt and a fierce protectiveness.

Then, he focused on Max. With a trembling hand, PJ reached out and fumbled with the cloth gag tied tightly around Max's mouth. He tugged it free, Max coughing and sputtering, gulping in air.

"Max… are you alright?" PJ whispered. He immediately regretted the question, looking down at Max's stomach. The name "Drusilla" stood out in stark, angry red, fresh blood still slowly welling from the carved skin and dripping onto the dusty bedsheets. Max whimpered, obviously not alright.

"Look," PJ breathed into Max's ear. "I know this sounds crazy, but I have a plan. It's not great, but it's all I've got. The door to the crypt, it's still unlocked. If we can just get you untied, then maybe… maybe we can make a run for it. While they're busy with whatever they're doing."

A dry, amused voice, impossibly clear despite the distance and the thick curtains, cut through the crypt. "Oh, you two can whisper all you want. We can still hear you. Comes with the territory, you see. Super hearing. Perks of being dead. So, no need to be shy about your brilliant little escape plan, alright? I'm quite curious to see what you come up with." Spike's laugh, a low, cruel rumble, echoed from beyond the curtain.

PJ's mind sharpened with a desperate clarity. Super hearing, huh? Fine. They could hear words, but could they hear thoughts? Or subtle movements? A risky, half-baked idea sparked, the kind Max usually cooked up, but PJ was desperate. He had to be Max for a minute.

Ignoring Spike's taunt, PJ began to painstakingly work at the ropes binding Max's hands. His head still throbbed from Spike's earlier blow, and his fingers fumbled, yet he persevered. As he untied the first knot, he met Max's wide, questioning eyes. PJ subtly tilted his head towards the slightly ajar iron door, then flicked his gaze towards Pistol in her cage, then back to the door. Finally, his eyes settled on Max, trying to convey a silent command: When I get Pistol, you create a distraction. A loud one. Even if it's just a struggle. Then, we run. Max blinked, a flicker of understanding dawning in his terror-stricken gaze.

Once Max's wrists were free enough for him to work on the rest, PJ silently crawled off the bed. He moved on hands and knees towards Pistol's cage, the clinking of his jeans against the cold floor barely audible over Pistol's muffled sobs.

"Pistol," he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear through her tears. "Keep crying, okay?" He began to work furiously on the cage's archaic lock, his fingers fumbling with the cold, rusty metal. Thankfully, it wasn't very complex. With a soft click, the latch gave way. PJ carefully, slowly, pulled the heavy door open, then gently, silently tugged Pistol out. She crawled out, still whimpering softly and clutching her doll. PJ motioned for her to continue making crying sounds, and she seemed to understand, intensifying her whimpers.

Just as PJ was about to grab Pistol's hand and make a break for the door, Drusilla's voice, sickly sweet and dangerously close, cut through the crypt. "Naughty, naughty boy."

PJ spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. Drusilla was standing in the archway, a delicate frown on her pale face. "You shouldn't be wandering, little mouse. And certainly not letting out the other little mouse."

Max, seeing Drusilla, tried to do his part. He let out a weak, guttural groan, straining against his leg bonds, attempting to create the promised distraction. But the movement was sluggish, pained. PJ's stomach twisted. He could see it clearly now: the pallor beneath Max's grime, the shallow, rapid breaths, the way his muscles trembled with effort that yielded little result. The blood dripping from the "Drusilla" carved on his stomach wasn't just a few drops anymore; it was a slow, steady seep, already forming a crimson stain on the bed. Max was weak. Far too weak.

"Naughty little mice." Drusilla's voice, though soft, cut through the crypt, her gaze fixed on PJ and the now-open cage door. PJ's heart leaped into his throat. Drusilla was on to them. But he didn't see Spike with her. That was their only advantage. PJ had to make this work. He immediately snapped into action, putting on his sternest "older brother" voice, loud enough for Drusilla to hear. "Pistol! What do you think you're doing?! You know the rules! You have to stay in your… uh… designated play zone until I say so! We were playing 'hide-and-seek,' not 'escape-the-playpen'!" He hoped Drusilla's twisted mind would interpret this as some bizarre human disciplinary ritual, not a desperate escape attempt.

Pistol stopped sniffling and looked confused. "Hide-and-seek? But I was just crying!"

"That was part of it!" PJ hissed, making a 'sad face' gesture towards her. "You have to be really good at crying to fool the Seeker! Now, quick, go play the 'poor, sad dolly' right next to Max! Don't let her see you move!"

As Pistol, still clutching her doll, dutifully waddled towards the bed, PJ darted to Max's side. Drusilla watched, a faint, unsettling smile playing on her lips, her head tilted as if enjoying a new, morbid game. Max, despite his pain, understood. His eyes, though hazy, locked onto PJ's.

"So predictable, these little mice," Drusilla mused, drifting slowly towards them, her white dress trailing like mist. "Always trying to run. But where would you go? The night is so vast, and Drusilla's house is so… cozy."

PJ's fingers fumbled with the intricate knots on Max's ankles. "Uh, where is Spike? Shouldn't you get him so we can all play?" he asked, trying to distract her. As he spoke, he gave a furious tug, and one of the last ropes finally gave way.

"Spike went to fetch the tears of a newborn star," Drusilla announced, her voice almost dreamy. "So hard to find in this mundane world. But necessary for the binding." She chuckled, her eyes gleaming. "You're trying to untie him, aren't you, kitten? How sweet. Like a spider trying to free a fly from my web. But the web is quite strong, don't you think?"

Max, now partially free, let out a desperate, muffled sound. PJ could see the effort he was putting into wriggling, trying to loosen the remaining binds with his Slayer strength, but the blood loss had truly taken its toll. He was struggling, panting, barely able to move.

"Pistol!" PJ suddenly whispered, spotting a small, ornate dagger lying on a dusty side table, clearly part of Drusilla's macabre decor. "Pistol, can you play 'treasure hunter'? There's a shiny knife over there, go get it for Max! It's a special sword for his stomach wound!"

Pistol wobbled towards the table, her tiny fingers reaching for the glinting blade. Drusilla giggled. "Oh, a little warrior! How charming! But the blade is sharp, little one. It bites." She made no move to stop her, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

As Pistol innocently distracted Drusilla, PJ used the momentary diversion to wrench the last knot on Max's legs. "Okay, now!" PJ hissed, pulling Max into a semi-upright position. "Run!"

Max stumbled, groaning, his legs practically collapsing under him. PJ had to throw Max's arm over his shoulder, half-carrying, half-dragging him towards the iron crypt door.

Drusilla let out a high-pitched, almost playful shriek. "Oh, no, no, no! The game is not over yet, kittens!" She moved with a frightening speed, her flowing dress swirling around her. She didn't lunge to kill, but rather danced around them, blocking their path to the door, her movements graceful and taunting. "Bad kittens! Spike will be so cross if his ingredients are not fresh!"

PJ, with Max leaning heavily on him, dodged Drusilla's playful swipes, each one edged with the terrifying potential of razor-sharp nails. Pistol, now holding the small dagger, toddled behind them. "Are we playing chase now?" she chirped.

"Yes, Pistol! It's super chase!" PJ gasped, trying to steer Max around Drusilla. The crypt seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with tension. Drusilla was having fun, making it difficult, relishing their struggle, rather than ending it quickly. This was her twisted form of entertainment.

Finally, spotting a slight opening in Drusilla's playful dance, PJ shoved Max forward with all the Slayer strenth he possessed. Max stumbled, catching himself on the door frame. PJ pushed Pistol through, then squeezed himself through the narrow gap. The fresh, cool air of the cemetery hit them like a lifeline.

"Run! Run!" PJ screamed, no longer bothering to whisper. He dragged Max with him as Pistol scampered ahead, her tiny dagger clutched in hand. Behind them, Drusilla's high-pitched wail echoed from the crypt. A gust of wind swept past them, and then Drusilla was standing right before them, her long black hair streaming in the moonlight.

Drained of all energy and coherent thought, PJ's head throbbed like a relentless drum. He sank to the ground in defeat, his grip on Max loosening. Max's body slid away from him, slumping onto the cold earth. Pistol popped up beside PJ. "Did Drusilla win this game?" she asked, her voice a stark contrast to the grim reality.

Max looked at PJ, his face half-obscured by the cemetery grass. "PJ, take Pistol and go. I'm holding you back."

Drusilla knelt in front of Max, a low "Shh" escaping her lips as she whispered into his face. "No one is leaving, love. We're all going back home before Spike comes back. He's got a rotten temper."

"I don't like Spike," Pistol mumbled, her lower lip jutting out in a pout.

A numb chill settled inside PJ as he glanced from Drusilla's predatory gleam to Pistol's innocent pout, then to Max's resigned face. He knew he was the only one of the three who could possibly get them out of this. But escape was impossible with Max in his current state, and Drusilla wouldn't simply let them walk away. He needed a distraction, something significant enough to divert her attention, even for just a moment, so they could make a break for it.

A desperate idea sparked in PJ's mind. "Drusilla!" he blurted, his voice hoarse but firm. "Spike's not just got a rotten temper, he's got a secret."

Drusilla's eyes flickered to PJ, a chillingly wicked smile playing on her lips. "Oh, does he now, love?" she purred, a slow grin spreading. "And what secret would that be?"

"A big one," PJ pressed, pushing himself partially upright and feigning a conspiratorial air. "One he told me, just me, about a place. A place he keeps... Angel." He watched her carefully, the earlier conversation he'd overheard with Spike echoing in his mind.

Her smile widened, but her eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion mingling with intense interest. "Angel? My Angel?"

He nodded, a fragile glimpse of hope blossoming within him. "Yes. Your Angel. Spike knows where he is."

"Now why would my Spike tell you about that?" she asked, her cold hand cupping his cheek. What seemed like a gentle touch felt like razors against his temple as her long nails, which had just scarred Max, pressed against his skin.

"Because," PJ stuttered, trembling from her icy touch, "because Angel killed your family, right?" He assumed that was what 'nicked' meant. He wasn't fluent in the nuances of their accents, but he could tell that whoever this Angel 'dude' was, and he was sure it was a dude despite the 'girly' name, he was responsible for harming Drusilla and her family. He could even bet his life that Angel was the vampire who had killed and turned Drusilla.

"Angel was a bad man," Drusilla whispered, then a devilish grin curled her lips. "That's what I love about him."

PJ knew he was playing a dangerous game, banking on her twisted obsession with this Angel, but it was their only chance. "I'll take you to him."

Drusilla gazed into PJ's eyes, her hand sliding from his cheek to cup the back of his head. She leaned closer, her fingers tangling in his hair, her eyes glistening. "You're lying," she whispered.

In a desperate surge, PJ launched himself at Drusilla, his fists connecting with her face. "Run!" he snapped at Max and Pistol, continuing to punch her relentlessly. But her loud growl made him hesitate for a split second, and she returned his blow with a devastating punch that sent him careening into a tombstone. Through his hazy vision, he saw Pistol helping Max stumble away.

Gathering every last ounce of his remaining strength, he continued attacking Drusilla, desperately trying to buy time for Max and Pistol to escape.

PJ lunged again, a primal roar torn from his throat, his fists connecting with Drusilla's shoulders. It was like punching stone. She barely flinched, her wicked grin never wavering. With effortless grace, she sidestepped his next wild swing, her hand snaking out to grab his wrist. Her grip was iron, crushing, and PJ felt a searing pain shoot up his arm as she twisted, effortlessly spinning him around and slamming him into a crumbling headstone. The impact rattled his teeth, sending fresh stars across his vision, but he pushed through the agony, refusing to yield.

Drusilla stalked towards him, her movements fluid and deadly, a predator toying with its prey. PJ scrambled back, dirt and loose pebbles digging into his palms. He knew he couldn't win, not against her unnatural strength. His every punch felt like a child's tap, while her casual shoves sent him sprawling. He could hear Max's ragged gasps and Pistol's soft whimpers fading into the distance, a desperate comfort that meant they were getting away. PJ just needed to keep her occupied, a bloody, battered distraction, until they were truly safe.

With a desperate lunge, his hand closed around a thick, gnarled branch torn from a nearby withered tree. He spun, wielding it like a crude weapon, its jagged end aimed squarely at her chest. "Stay back! I'll stake you!" he roared, adrenaline coursing through him.

Drusilla merely threw her head back, a chilling, maniacal cackle echoing through the graveyard. "Oh, you brave little fella, aren't you?" She effortlessly caught the branch mid-swing with a single hand. Her grip was unyielding; with a sickening crack, the branch snapped clean in two, the splintered wood falling harmlessly to the ground. She tossed the larger piece aside, her eyes gleaming with contempt. "Did you really think that would stop me, love?"

Drusilla advanced, her smile chilling. PJ, beaten and bruised, knew a direct fight was suicide. His eyes darted wildly, past her triumphant face, past the broken branch, to the uneven sprawl of tombstones and monuments. One particularly large, weathered sarcophagus stood partially toppled just behind Drusilla, its rough stone edge jutting out. He saw his chance.

As Drusilla prepared to deliver another casual, bone-jarring blow, PJ feigned collapse, letting his body go limp and then, with a sudden, explosive burst of his remaining adrenaline, he twisted. He shoved himself off the ground, not at her, but past her, aiming his shoulder low. He didn't connect solidly, but the unexpected lurch threw her off balance for a split second, just enough. PJ scrambled, throwing himself over a low grave marker and into the deeper shadows cast by a large mausoleum. He disappeared into the maze of headstones and crypts. The cemetery's ancient trees provided a patchy, desperate cover as he wove through the darkness, relying on the uneven ground and countless stone obstacles to break her line of pursuit. He was thankful for his superhuman speed, a gift he was sure came with being a Slayer.

PJ burst from the cemetery gates, gasping for breath, the night air a cold shock against his burning lungs. He glanced wildly down the deserted road and his heart lurched: Pistol was there, bravely trying to half-drag, half-carry a severely weakened Max. Max's legs buckled with every step, his face pale and drawn. Without a second thought, PJ closed the distance in a flash, effortlessly flinging Max over his shoulder. He grabbed Pistol's small, clammy hand in his other, and with a renewed surge of desperate energy, he kept running, leaving the dark, menacing silence of the graveyard behind them.

~*~*~*~*~

As they neared their house, PJ slowed, now stumbling through the streets, Max's dead weight a terrible burden on his shoulder. Pistol walked silently beside him, a somber look on her face. "What happened tonight, PJ?" she asked, no longer seeming oblivious. "Who were Drusilla and Spike?"

PJ let out a hoarse sigh. "They were... oh, they were just very silly clowns. You see, they were practicing for a new circus act where they pretend to be scary, but they got a bit carried away with the 'booing' and 'hissing' for the show. And Max, well, he's just really, really tired from all the excitement of being a pretend-audience member!"

Pistol frowned. "PJ, I'm not stupid."

"Look, Pistol," he said, too exhausted to conjure a more convincing lie. "They're bad people, okay? Just don't tell Mom and Dad about them. Don't tell them anything about tonight, alright? It's the sibling super secret."

If Pistol had answered, PJ didn't hear her. His gaze fell upon the familiar car parked neatly in front of his house. His parents' car. They were back. A fresh wave of panic, cold and immediate, washed over him, momentarily eclipsing even the horror of the crypt.

"Oh, no, no, no," he groaned, quickening his pace with an unconscious Max still draped over his shoulder.

Pistol peered through the living room window, her head tilted. "They just got here, PJ," she whispered to him. "They still have their coats on. Mom's taking hers off!"

"Perfect," PJ muttered sarcastically, eyeing the window to his bedroom. Getting Max, a boy heavier than he looked, through that narrow opening was going to be a nightmare. But there was no other choice.

Relying on whatever Slayer strength he had left, and an effort born of sheer desperation, PJ managed to heave Max up. Max, barely conscious, groaned in protest as PJ pushed his legs through the doorway first, then struggled to maneuver his torso. Pistol pushed on Max's feet from the outside, her tiny hands surprisingly strong. It was a grunting, clumsy ballet of limbs and fabric, but somehow, they managed to wrestle Max's limp form into the room and gently lower him onto PJ's rocket-ship bed.

Through his ragged breaths, PJ could hear his parents arguing downstairs. Apparently, it was something about his dad being a cheapskate. Then suddenly, his mother's voice was getting closer.

Pistol zipped out of PJ's room like a startled rabbit, slamming the door shut behind her. PJ heard a small gasp from the hallway, followed by his mother's voice. "Pistol-kens, what are you doing out of bed? And sneaking into your brother's room?"

"Mommy! I was scared!" Pistol's voice was high-pitched and earnest. "I went to PJ's room so he could tell me a story! About Sir Reginald and the fuzzy socks!"

PJ didn't wait. He scrambled over to Max, pulling the extra comforter over him, trying to hide the stain on his stomach. Then he dove into the bed beside him, pulling the covers up to his chin. His throbbing head screamed in protest, but he snatched a baseball cap from his nightstand and jammed it onto his head, covering the bump. He forced himself to mimic deep, even breaths, even as his heart hammered. PJ had just managed to get his feet properly tucked into the rocket-bed's foot-shaped indentations when his door softly opened.

His mother poked her head in, her expression softening as she saw him. "Oh, PJ. You're such a good big brother. I heard Pistol was scared, and you let her in to tell her a story. I'm so proud of you."

PJ gave a tight, half-forced smile, then made a shushing motion with his finger to his lips, subtly nodding his head towards Max, whose pale face was just visible on the other side of the bed. Sleeping, PJ mouthed silently.

Peg's smile grew, mistaking his gesture for brotherly concern. "Aw, did Max sleepover? I bet you three had a wonderful time together?"

You can say that again, PJ thought, but instead of saying anything, he just offered her an uneasy smile.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she noticed the cap. "Why are you wearing a cap, honey?"

PJ just mouthed "Tomorrow," again gesturing subtly towards the "sleeping" Max, implying he'd explain later so as not to disturb his friend. His mother, with a final, fond look, quietly closed the door, leaving PJ and Max alone in the silent, strangely safe darkness of the rocket-ship bed. PJ finally allowed himself to breathe, collapsing back onto the mattress, completely spent.

The silence in his room felt heavier than usual, broken only by Max's shallow, ragged breathing. PJ, still slumped in the bed beside him, stared at the dark, glistening "Drusilla" etched onto Max's stomach. It was bleeding, not gushing, but a slow, steady seep that stained the white sheets a sickening crimson. He knew, deep down, that Max needed a hospital, needed stitches, probably a blood transfusion and a therapist. But the thought of explaining a "vampire tattoo" to his mom, let alone a doctor, was as terrifying as facing Spike and Drusilla again. His only hope rested on Debbie's casual mention of Slayer healing powers. Faster than regular humans, she'd said. So they can fight the next night. Tonight was the next night, and they needed Max in fighting shape, not bleeding out on his space-themed comforter.

Carefully, PJ slid out of bed. His head still throbbed, but the urgency of Max's condition pushed the pain to the background. He moved like a ninja, tiptoeing across the carpet, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the door. He knew exactly where his mom kept the first-aid kit: under the kitchen sink, nestled between the dish soap and a bottle of industrial-strength cleaner.

The kitchen was dark and quiet, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator. PJ fumbled under the sink, his fingers brushing against sponges and spray bottles before they found the familiar plastic box. He grabbed it and scurried back to his room, locking the door softly behind him.

Back on the bed, under the dim glow of the gaslight filtering in from the street, PJ opened the kit. He pulled out rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, and a roll of gauze. He knew his way around a first-aid kit. He'd used it on himself plenty of times after each "accidental" injury his father would inflict on him, always followed by an admonishment to "don't tell your mom about this." Yep, PJ was well-versed in everything first-aid related.

Ironically, the last injury had been a true accident. He remembered when his dad had swung the front office door open too hard and caught PJ in the forehead. It had been a nasty gash, and Dad, as usual, had sworn PJ to secrecy. "Don't tell your mom, son," he'd said. "Just… let's keep this little secret between us men, okay?" It had been PJ himself, huddled in the bathroom with the very same first-aid kit, who'd cleaned the wound, applied the butterfly bandages, and practiced his poker face. He’d had years of experience tending to cuts and bruises, and even more about keeping secrets.

Now, with a grim determination, he gently lifted Max's shirt. The sight of the deep, crimson letters made his stomach churn, but he forced himself to focus. "This is gonna sting, Max," he whispered, soaking a cotton ball in alcohol. Max whimpered, but didn't pull away. PJ dabbed carefully around the edges of the wound, then, bracing himself, directly onto the letters. Max convulsed, a strangled cry escaping his throat, his body tensing in agony.

"I know, I know," PJ murmured, his own eyes watering in sympathy. "Just a little more. Gotta get it clean." He worked slowly, methodically, wiping away the blood, trying to assess the depth of the cuts. They were deep, definitely not just scratches. But as he cleaned, he thought he could almost, almost, see the edges of the skin beginning to pull together, ever so slightly. Please, let Debbie be right about the healing thing, he silently pleaded. Please, let my best friend not bleed to death on my rocket bed. He carefully applied fresh gauze and taped it securely, hoping it would hold until the mysterious Slayer magic kicked in.

Max's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and dazed, his gaze finding PJ. A soft, pained whimper escaped him. "PJ… I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice raspy. "It's all my fault."

PJ gently pushed Max's damp hair from his forehead. "Hey, none of that, Max. This isn't your fault. This is… this is our job now." He tried to sound more confident than he felt, remembering Debbie's words about patrolling, about being Slayers until she got her powers back. "We're in this together, remember? Team Slayer. And we got Pistol out. That's what matters."

He stroked Max's arm, trying to soothe him. "You just need to rest, okay? Let those Slayer powers do their thing." Max's eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion and blood loss. PJ continued to pat his arm softly until Max's breathing evened out, slipping back into a fitful, much-needed sleep.

PJ then looked towards the window. The sky was no longer pitch black; a faint, bruised purple bled into the darkness, promising the early signs of dawn. He let out a long, weary sigh. Thankfully, it was Sunday, so they didn't have school. A small mercy. Though he knew his father wouldn't let him sleep in. The moment the sun was fully up, there'd be a loud knock, followed by a bellow about "wasted daylight" and his "awaiting chores." But for now, silence.

He carefully slid off the bed, leaving Max to the relative comfort of the rocket ship. PJ then reached for the duffel bag he’d brought earlier, the one still holding the unused stakes and crossbows. He laid it flat on the floor beside the bed, kicked off his shoes, and curled up on top of it, pulling a stray blanket from Max's bed over himself. His head still throbbed, his muscles ached, and his mind was a whirlwind of vampires, missing sisters, and cruel British accents. But for now, Max was safe, Pistol was safe, and for a few precious hours, he could finally close his eyes.

Chapter Text

Max and PJ were perched on Goofy's kitchen counter, knees almost knocking the ceiling, like two very serious gargoyles guarding the landline. The speakerphone was on, buzzing faintly, projecting Debbie’s voice into the brightly lit room. Max still felt a dull, insistent ache in his stomach, a phantom sensation of Drusilla's name carved into his skin even through the layers of gauze PJ had meticulously wrapped around him. PJ, on the other hand, looked surprisingly alert, despite the lack of sleep.

"What can Mr. W tell us on The Psycho-Pathics?" Max asked, wincing slightly as he shifted.

A muffled British voice rumbled from Debbie's end of the line; it was clearly her watcher, Henry Williams, objecting to Max's nickname for him.

"Williams doesn't want you calling him Mr. W," Debbie relayed the message.

"Copy that," Max replied, sharing a quick, conspiratorial glance with PJ.

"Right," Debbie's voice came through, crisp and focused. "Spike and Drusilla. We've read about them, never had the pleasure of a face-to-fang meeting. Williams apparently moonlights as a supernatural paparazzi, tracking the vampire world's most flamboyant bloodsuckers."

"I bet Spike and Drusilla are the Madonna and Sean Penn of the undead," PJ muttered.

"That they are," Debbie confirmed with a dry chuckle, a hint of steel entering her voice. "And I'm convinced Williams is just a massive groupie."

A protesting groan from Williams, sounding remarkably put-upon, punctuated her assessment.

"So, if Drusilla and Spike are the equivalent of the hottest pop-star couple in the '80s," PJ mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully, "what does that make Angel?"

The name seemed to electrify the connection. "Angel? You mean Angelus?" Williams' voice, no longer muffled, came through the speakerphone with startling clarity and a distinct edge of contempt. "He's Drusilla's sire. The one who made her. Drove her completely mad with psychological games and torture after systematically killing off her entire family."

Max felt a faint flicker of something akin to sympathy for Drusilla, a small prickle of understanding for the roots of her madness. But it was quickly overshadowed by the sharp, insistent sting in his stomach.

"Angelus himself suddenly disappeared a few decades ago," Williams continued, a professional detachment returning to his tone. "There's nothing in the Watcher records about his whereabouts. Some presume he's been killed, but there's nothing to confirm it." He cleared his throat. "I think for now, our priority should remain Spike and Drusilla, who represent an immediate and very tangible danger to the safety of Spoonerville."

"What'd I tell ya, boys?" Debbie's voice broke in, a teasing lilt replacing her earlier seriousness. "Williams can't get enough of talking about Pop and Rage. He's just upset because he can't get their autographs for his 'Most Notorious Vampires' scrapbook."

"Debbie, if I may, this is no laughing matter," Williams interjected, his voice sharp with professional disapproval. "Spike and Drusilla are not to be joked about."

"He's right, Deb," Max mumbled, his hand instinctively going to his stomach. "And I have the marks to prove it."

"I know, Max," Debbie said, her tone softening immediately. "And look, what happened to you guys yesterday? That was nothing. Spike and Drusilla are not exactly small fries. It's better not to risk it tonight, boys."

More muffled objections could be heard from Debbie's end of the line. Max could just make out snippets: "…duty, Debbie… two active Slayers… unprecedented opportunity…"

Then he heard Debbie's firmer tone. "No, Williams, I can't risk sending two children directly into the path of the most dangerous duo we've ever encountered."

"We'll form a plan," Max insisted, straightening up as much as his protesting stomach allowed. "We'll stake them."

"Exactly!" PJ chimed in, leaning closer to the phone. "But we need information, Debbie. All of it."

There was a beat of silence on Debbie's end, a hesitation that sent a cold prickle down Max's spine. "Debbie?" Max urged, his voice tight. "What is it? What's so scary that Spike and Drusilla have done?"

Debbie's voice dropped, hushed and serious. "Drusilla is not just a seer. She can lull people into a trance, make them see things that aren't there. Project false imagery into their minds. Hypnotize people. The visions and future events, that's just a bonus."

Max and PJ exchanged a wide-eyed look. Hypnotism? False images? That explained how Pistol had been so calmly playing tea party in a crypt.

"But that's not all," Debbie continued, her voice grim. "Spike…" she paused, a noticeable tremor in her tone.

"What about Spike?" PJ urged, almost shouting into the speakerphone.

Debbie's next words dropped like stones. "Spike… is the only vampire known to have killed two Slayers single-handedly."

The air went out of the kitchen. Max and PJ stared at the phone, then at each other, their faces pale. The playful sarcasm, the bravado, all drained away, replaced by a chilling, stark terror. Two Slayers. Single-handedly.

~*~*~*~*~

Max carefully peeled back the gauze from his stomach, wincing as the adhesive pulled at the tender skin. The afternoon light, filtering through his window, cruelly illuminated Drusilla's handiwork. There it was: "Drusilla," etched in angry, red scars that marred his stomach. Each raised letter was a horrifying reminder of the crypt, of the chilling pain, and of how close they'd come to becoming ingredients in some demonic smoothie.

He glanced over at PJ, who was still deeply asleep on his bunk bed, snoring softly. His best bud looked exhausted. PJ's dad had been true to form that morning, waking PJ up at the crack of dawn, oblivious to the night's horrors. "Rise and shine, PJ! Time to earn your keep! The lawn's practically a jungle out there, and those gutters look like they're growing moss!" So, while PJ had been forced to mow the lawn and clean out gutters, Max had been allowed to sleep in, curled up peacefully on PJ's rocket bed.

They still hadn't come up with a good plan. The revelation about Drusilla's mind-bending powers and Spike's Slayer-killing track record had left them reeling, turning their earlier bravado into cold dread. In a couple of hours, when PJ finally woke up, they’d have to try again. Spike and Drusilla weren't going to wait around.

Max sighed, his gaze drifting to the open Math textbook on his desk. Equations and variables blurred into an unreadable mess. He was supposed to be studying for the quiz their teacher, Mr. Carlson, would undoubtedly spring on them tomorrow, Monday. But the impending doom of a pop quiz suddenly felt laughably insignificant compared to the danger that was looming. How was he supposed to focus on fractions when two powerful vampires wanted to drain his powers?

All of a sudden, the door creaked open. His dad ambled in, a cheerful, if somewhat disheveled, presence. Max instinctively clapped a hand over his exposed stomach, pulling his shirt down over the angry red scars. He tried not to wince as the fabric brushed against the tender, bruised skin, but a sharp hiss of pain escaped him.

Goofy paused, his brow furrowing slightly, looking at Max with a suspicious tilt of his head. Max forced a smile, trying to look casual.

His dad's eyes, however, were fixed on Max's rumpled shirt. Then, he beamed. "Maxie, I'm doin' a load of laundry, and I didn't see your favorite ensemble in the basket, your snazzy red shirt and comfy blue pants! Did ya forget to put 'em in there, son?"

Max's blood ran cold. He had worn his red shirt and blue pants last night, and they'd gotten torn with thick blood stains on them. He'd already bundled them up and stuffed them into the first public garbage bin he could find after he'd changed his clothes this morning, desperate to erase any trace of the night's events.

"Oh! Uh, no, Dad," Max stammered, trying to sound nonchalant. "I, uh… I actually donated them to the homeless. Yeah! I outgrew them, you know? Good deed for the day, right?"

Goofy's smile wavered. His eyes narrowed slightly, lingering on Max's face, then on the way Max kept subtly shifting, a faint hiss escaping him each time the fabric grazed his stomach. The suspicious look returned, mixed with a hint of concern. "Outgrew 'em, huh? Right. Well, okay, son. Just making sure." He gave Max one last, lingering glance before turning to leave, leaving Max to slump back against his pillow, silently counting the hours until PJ woke up and they could actually come up with a plan that didn't involve accidental laundry questions.

~*~*~*~*~

Hours later, Max and PJ were perched on the top bunk of Max's bed, the air thick with the weight of their new, terrifying reality.

"Okay," Max began, his voice low, "so, Drusilla can mess with our heads, right? Hallucinations, hypnotism, like a really evil magic show."

"And Spike's killed two Slayers," PJ added, his voice grim, tapping a nervous rhythm on the metal bed frame. "Two. That's, like, double the usual Slayer-killing record, I bet."

"Exactly," Max continued. "So, a frontal assault? Bad idea. We're not exactly Slayer of the Year material yet."

PJ snorted. "You got that right. Especially with your… tummy art." He gestured vaguely at Max's middle, where the gauze bandage was visible through his shirt. "Maybe I should do all the heavy lifting? You know, given your condition."

"Hey!" Max retorted, wincing slightly as he adjusted his position. "Don't forget you got conked on the head by Spike, too."

"It stings, but it's nothing a Panadol can't fix," PJ insisted, though he rubbed the back of his head instinctively. "Barely a scratch. Yours is a permanent tattoo from a psycho vampire."

"Here's hoping it won't be permanent, given the Slayer's healing powers," Max waved a dismissive hand, then got serious. "Look, here's the plan. It's crazy, but it might just work. First, we need something to ground us, a 'reality anchor.' Something familiar that we know isn't a hallucination."

"Like… your dad's horrible singing?" PJ offered, a glimmer of his usual wit returning.

"Too unpredictable," Max said. "What if he actually sounds good in the hallucination? No, we need something we can physically verify. And we need a clear objective for each other."

"My solar system models?" PJ suggested. "I know how many planets there are, even if she tries to make me see ten."

"Better," Max agreed. "So, when Drusilla tries her mind tricks, we focus on our anchors. This keeps us sane and allows us to distinguish reality from illusion. And how about we use her own powers against her? She makes us see things that aren't there, right? What if we make her see things that aren't there?"

PJ frowned. "How? We don't have magic powers. And you just said we can barely fight a single vampire."

"Not us directly," Max clarified. "We confuse her with what she thinks she's seeing. We create so much chaos and misdirection using the environment that her powers short-circuit. Think of it like a massive overload for her senses."

"So, like, a really complicated game of hide-and-seek in the crypt?" PJ ventured.

"Exactly! But with more smashing things, screaming, and making her second-guess everything she sees and hears. While she's distracted and confused by her own powers getting tangled up, that's our window. When Drusilla is disoriented, that's when we go for Spike," Max explained, his voice firm. "He's the brawn. If we take him out first, she's vulnerable."

"Okay?" PJ nodded.

"And when he comes in," Max added, "we hit him with everything we've got: all the stakes, all the holy water, the crossbow. No holding back."

"So I'm the distraction and the heavy hitter for Spike, and you're… the bleeding guy?" PJ deadpanned.

Max glared at him. "I'm the tactical genius and the bait! Plus, I'll be confirming our reality anchors and coordinating your fantastic, albeit clumsy, maneuvers. Besides, if we can actually make her hallucinate, that's a Slayer power in itself, right? Maybe we're just learning how to use it differently."

PJ looked unconvinced, then sighed. "Alright. So, the plan is: go back to the crypt, make Drusilla's head explode with confusion, stake Spike while he's busy watching her implode, and then... deal with Drusilla." He rubbed his head again. "Sounds easy enough. For two half-Slayers who can barely take a punch."

Just then, a booming voice echoed from downstairs. "A-hyuck! Maxie! Din-dins! Come and get it before it gets cold!"

"Crud," Max whispered, scrambling off the top bunk. "That's our cue. My dad's on a schedule, and 'din-dins' are sacred."

PJ nodded, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "So, the usual drill? I'll head home for dinner, then we both pretend to be model citizens, tucked away sound asleep. Once everyone's definitely out cold, we sneak out?"

"Exactly," Max confirmed, already halfway to his door. "Your place first, then mine. We'll give it about an hour after lights out, just to be safe. Don't be late."

PJ gave a solemn nod, adjusting his imaginary Panadol-proof cap with a determined look. "Got it. Operation Mind-Melt. Tonight." The grim reality of facing two powerful vampires was still heavy, but now, at least, they had a plan, a risky, desperate, but perhaps their only plan. They just had to make it through dinner and the long wait until everyone was truly asleep.

~*~*~*~*~

The aroma of ketchup spaghetti with meatballs, Max's absolute favorite, usually filled him with unadulterated joy. Tonight, as Goofy placed a steaming plate in front of him, it only deepened the knot of dread in his stomach that awaited him tonight.

"Dad," Max started, poking a meatball with his fork, "didn't we just have this last night?"

Goofy chuckled, settling into his chair opposite Max. "Yep, we sure did, Maxie. But I just had a feelin' you needed it again tonight, son."

A wave of unexpected tenderness washed over Max, quickly followed by a sharper pang of guilt. His dad's simple kindness always managed to cut through Max's defenses. They ate in silence for a few minutes, the gentle clinking of forks against plates the only sound. Max could feel his father's gaze on him, a soft, probing weight.

Then, Goofy put down his fork. "Max," he began, his voice surprisingly serious, "is anything troublin' you, son? You know you can always tell me, right? Whatever it is."

Max's head shot up. He quickly shoveled a ridiculously large forkful of spaghetti into his mouth, hoping to buy himself time, to avoid answering. He chewed slowly, frantically trying to come up with something.

Goofy's eyes narrowed, seeing right through his stalling tactic. "I mean it, son. Whatever it is, big or small, I'm here. I'll be there for ya." He leaned forward slightly, his earnest gaze unwavering.

Max felt a desperate wish to spill everything: to tell his dad about the vampires, the demons, the Slayer powers, the crypt, Drusilla's chilling "artwork," Spike's terrifying history, and the fact that little Pistol had hosted a tea party with a monster last night. But Debbie's voice, firm and clear, echoed in his mind: "The Slayer's identity must remain a secret." They'd even managed to convince Pistol, with a carefully crafted, wildly plausible lie, that the mean British man and lady were part of the British mafia. How could he possibly explain this to his dad without sounding completely unhinged?

Goofy reached across the table, placing his large, warm hand over Max's and giving it a gentle squeeze. Max looked into his father's kind, searching eyes, and for a moment, the words almost tumbled out, the relief of just telling someone. But he didn't. He couldn't.

Instead, he managed a strained smile. "I promise, Dad," Max said, his voice a little hoarse, "when there's something… I'll tell you. But right now? There's nothing."

Goofy's hand lingered for another second, then he sighed, a small ripple of disappointment crossing his face. He nodded slowly, resuming his eating, looking down at his plate. Max watched him, a sad ache in his chest. Sorry, Dad.

~*~*~*~*~

The night air was a cool, velvet cloak, thick with the scent of damp earth and distant, blooming jasmine. Max and PJ moved like shadows, each burdened with their chosen arsenal. PJ clutched a small, sturdy crossbow in one hand, a quiver of neatly sharpened wooden bolts slung across his back. Max, favoring mobility over bulk due to his still-tender stomach, had tucked a holy water squirt gun into his waistband and carried a backpack filled with an assortment of smaller wooden stakes: sharpened pencils, broken broom handles, even a particularly pointy piece of a discarded picket fence.

Inside Max's backpack, nestled carefully between a mini-cross and a vial of garlic powder, were the special items for their "Operation Mind-Melt." He had PJ's meticulously crafted model of the solar system, a tiny, fragile orb for each planet, strung together with fishing line, their designated "reality anchor." For Drusilla, PJ had insisted on something "shiny and annoying," so they had a handful of small mirrors pilfered from compacts and a baggie of glitter they'd found in Pistol's art supplies, along with a couple of noisemakers, party poppers, specifically, from Goofy's last birthday. The first-aid kit was in there too, just in case.

They stuck to the deepest shadows, weaving through backyards and alleyways, avoiding the illuminated streets like plague. Each rustle of leaves, each distant dog bark, sent a jolt of adrenaline through Max. He couldn't shake the feeling. "You feel that?" Max whispered, his voice barely audible above the crunch of their sneakers on gravel.

PJ paused, his head cocked. "Feel what? The overwhelming sense of impending doom? Yeah, that's pretty standard for every night now."

"No, not that," Max insisted, glancing over his shoulder. The alley behind them was empty, just overflowing garbage cans and a lone, wary cat. "Like… someone's watching us. Someone's following us."

PJ strained his eyes, peering into the gloom. "Dude, it's just us. And maybe that cat. We're in the middle of nowhere, practically. Who'd be out here at... what time is it anyway? Like, 2 AM?"

Despite PJ's logic, the feeling persisted, a prickling sensation on Max's neck. He spun around again, scanning the dark houses, the silent, sleeping windows. Nothing. The only sounds were their own hushed footsteps and PJ's slightly heavy breathing. The silence itself felt vast and empty, like a void that could swallow them whole. Yet, the unease gnawed at him. He was sure they weren't alone. But there was no one but them in the middle of the night, heading towards a crypt and two very dangerous vampires.

He felt PJ sling his arm around his shoulders, a familiar weight of clumsy comfort. "Don't worry, man," PJ said, his voice a low, teasing murmur against the night. "Things may get ugly and really, really bad for a few minutes. That is, until I swoop in and save your ass for the millionth time."

Max scoffed, rolling his eyes as much as the grim situation allowed. "Hey, that was just last night!"

PJ snorted, squeezing Max's shoulder. "Just last night? Oh, you've got a short memory, my friend. What about before the whole Slayer/Vampire apocalypse-lite came crashing into our lives? I was the one who saved you when you got kidnapped with the RV, remember? I was the one who practically pushed you out of the way before you got splattered by that subway train! Don't even get me started on the magic hat that turned you into its creepy little puppet! And who saved your allowance money from that bully, Tooth? I was the one…"

"Okay, PJ, I think you've made yourself loud and clear," Max interrupted, a reluctant grin touching his lips. "You're my personal guardian angel, alright?"

"And don't you forget it," PJ declared, giving Max one last, firm pat before pulling his arm away. The playful banter, however brief, was a flimsy shield against the very real danger that awaited them.

The crypt loomed before them, a gaping maw of ancient stone swallowing the meager light of their flashlights. It was a squat, solid structure, half-buried in the hillside, its entrance a heavy, arched doorway that seemed to exhale the chill of centuries. The air hung thick and heavy here, a stark contrast to the relative freshness of the open fields. A musty, earthy smell, laced with something metallic and faintly sweet, the scent of old blood, possibly, clung to the damp stones.

Max's hand trembled slightly as he adjusted the strap of his backpack, the weight of the solar system model pressing against his spine. PJ hefted the crossbow, its dark wood gleaming in the dim light. They exchanged a nervous glance, a silent question passing between them: Ready?

Taking a deep breath, Max reached out and pushed against the heavy stone door. It groaned in protest, a sound that echoed unnervingly in the stillness, before grudgingly swinging inward. The darkness within was absolute, a void that seemed to press against them, daring them to enter.

They stepped inside, their flashlights cutting twin swaths through the gloom. The crypt was surprisingly large, a single, high-ceilinged chamber. Stone sarcophagi lined the walls, their surfaces worn smooth by time, their lids sealed shut like secrets. Cobwebs draped every corner, thick and ghostly. The air was colder here, biting at their exposed skin. A faint draft whispered through the room, carrying with it the scent of dust and decay. It was a silent, solemn place, a testament to the finality of death.

"Okay," PJ said, his voice a low rumble that seemed too loud in the oppressive silence. "Plan time. Glitter first, right? Blind 'em, confuse 'em."

Max nodded, his stomach twisting into knots. He carefully opened his backpack, retrieving the small mirrors and the baggie of glitter. The solar system model, their "reality anchor," he kept close, its fragile orbs cool against his palm. PJ checked the crossbow, ensuring a bolt was ready. He looked like a warrior, but Max knew he was just as scared.

With a final, shared look of trepidation, they moved deeper into the crypt, ready to spring their trap. PJ raised his crossbow, Max held the glitter and mirrors ready, and they braced themselves.

"Now!" Max hissed, and they both moved.

But their shouts died in their throats. The glitter fell, shimmering uselessly in the flashlight beams. The mirrors reflected only their own stunned faces.

The crypt was empty.

No Spike. No Drusilla. Just the cold, silent stones and the heavy weight of their own mounting dread.

PJ lowered his crossbow, his face a mask of disbelief. "What?" he breathed. "Where... where are they?"

Max stared, his mind racing. "This... this can't be right. They were supposed to be here." His gaze, frantic and disbelieving, swept across the crypt. His eyes landed on the wrought-iron cage, still standing empty, a chilling reminder of Pistol's terror. Then, they snapped to the Victorian bed, its dusty sheets still bearing the faint, dark stain where he had bled. The image slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. The metallic tang of fear, the dull throb in his stomach, Pistol's whimpers, Drusilla's sickly sweet smile, it all crashed down on him. His breath hitched, his vision blurred, and the crypt walls seemed to close in, suffocating him. He clutched his stomach, suddenly feeling the phantom burning of the vampire's touch, the overwhelming helplessness. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and he felt a desperate, irrational need to escape, to run, to scream.

"Max? Max, hey!" PJ's voice cut through the rising panic, sharp and insistent. He was suddenly right there, gripping Max's shoulders, his face etched with concern. "Breathe, man, just breathe! It's okay. We're here. They're not. They're not here."

Max instinctively hunched over, pressing his hands against his stomach, trying to push away the phantom pain. He shook his head, unable to speak, trapped in the terrifying loop of memory. His eyes darted wildly, seeing the crypt not as it was now, empty, but as it had been: a cage, a torture chamber.

"Look at me, Max!" PJ commanded, his grip firm. "Focus on my voice. They're gone. Remember the plan? The glitter? The stupid party poppers? We brought 'em, right? Because they're not here to use them on!" He reached into Max's backpack, pulling out the solar system model, pushing it into Max's shaking hands. "Remember this? Your anchor. Real. Not a trick. Feel it."

Max's fingers closed around the tiny, cool orbs of the planets. He squeezed, the solid plastic a tiny pinprick of reality in the swirling chaos of his mind. He took a ragged, gasping breath, then another, forcing air into his burning lungs. He stared at the model, then up at PJ's face, his eyes slowly starting to focus.

"That's it," PJ murmured, his voice softer now, but still firm. "You're okay. We're okay. We're safe. For now. This place... it's just a place. They're gone." He kept a hand on Max's shoulder, a reassuring anchor in the unsettling emptiness of the crypt. "Now, come on. We need to figure out where they are."

Max leaned against a cold stone sarcophagus, the solar system model still clutched tightly in his hand, his breathing gradually evening out. "What... what just happened?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. His eyes darted around the empty crypt, the shadowy corners no longer quite as menacing.

PJ gave him a sympathetic but firm look. "You just panicked, man. Can't blame you. This place is pretty much the poster child for 'traumatic childhood memories.'" He knelt, picking up the fallen party poppers and the baggie of glitter. "You good now? Can we still do this? Stick to the plan?"

Max pushed himself off the sarcophagus, rubbing his stomach, which still ached with a dull throb. The air in the crypt felt heavy, suffocating, even without vampires. "I'll be better," he muttered, "if we get out of here first. This place is giving me the creeps."

Max and PJ emerged from the crypt, blinking in the pre-dawn gloom of the cemetery. The unsettling silence stretched around them. They scoured the grounds, flashlights cutting arcs through the mist-shrouded tombstones, but there was no sign of movement, no tell-tale shimmer of vampiric speed. The fresh earth where graves had been disturbed remained undisturbed. The air was still, save for the faint whisper of the wind through the ancient oak trees. Spike and Drusilla were gone.

Eventually, with no monsters to be found and the chill of the morning seeping into their bones, they began the long walk down the empty streets towards their homes. The weight of their unused gear felt heavier with each step. PJ glanced at Max, whose shoulders were still hunched, a residual tension clinging to him.

"You feeling better now, man?" PJ asked, his voice softer than usual.

Max sighed, running a hand over his face. The cold air felt good against his skin, clearing some of the lingering fog from his mind. "Yeah," he muttered, "as long as I don't look at that bed again, I'll be fine." A shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. "Of all the crazy, horrifying things I've seen since this Slayer stuff started... the sight of that bed. That was the most terrifying thing I've ever seen."

Max stared straight ahead, his thoughts heavy with the crypt's lingering chill and the vampires' unsettling absence. One step, then another. The rhythm of their sneakers on the pavement was the only sound for a moment, a steady beat in the quiet night.

Then, Max froze.

His eyes, wide and unblinking, fixed on a spot in the middle of the street ahead. A figure. Lying impossibly still.

"What's wrong?" PJ asked, stopping beside him, following Max's horrified gaze.

Max couldn't speak. He could only stare, completely frozen, at the sight of his father. Goofy, lying in the middle of the empty street, his normally cheerful face pale and distorted. A dark, glistening stain spread rapidly beneath his head, and blood seeped from a wound on his neck, stark against the pale skin. His eyes were open, wide, and vacant, reflecting the streetlights like shattered glass.

Time seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl. Max watched with numb dread as PJ rushed towards Goofy's body. PJ dropped to his knees, frantically shaking Goofy's shoulder, calling his name. Then, he pressed his ear to Max's father's chest.

PJ's head snapped up. His horrified eyes met Max's across the pavement.

Max took shaky, disjointed steps forward, each one an immense effort, his gaze locked on his father's wide, terrified eyes. The world narrowed to that single, unbearable point. He dropped to his knees in front of the lifeless form, shaking uncontrollably, every nerve ending screaming. Then, unable to bear the sight, he buried his face in his father's chest, and let out the most heartbreaking scream he had ever heard, a sound ripped from the deepest, most shattered part of his soul.

Chapter Text

PJ peered from the relative safety of the kitchen, his mind a jumbled mess. In the living room, his parents, Pete and Peg, sat stiffly on the couch, their faces drawn and pale, speaking in hushed, somber tones with the funeral director. PJ could hear the low murmur of voices, punctuated by the rustle of papers, as arrangements were being made for Goofy. It was a surreal, sickening sound.

The past day had been an overwhelming blur. First, the flashing lights, the wail of the ambulance, and the grim-faced police officers. They'd asked so many questions: "Where were you?" "What did you see?" "Did you hear anything?" For once, they didn't have to lie about finding the body. Goofy had truly been lying there, in the middle of the street, with no suspects around. PJ remembered the detached way the officers had moved, marking the scene and talking in low, professional voices. Max was a silent, shattered statue beside him until the paramedics gently guided him away. The ambulance had taken Goofy's body, then the coroner's van. It was like watching a bad movie unfold in real life.

Pistol tugged at PJ's blue jacket, her small face creased with a child's confused worry. "PJ? What's happening in there? Why are Mom and Dad talking to that man in the black suit?" she whispered, also peering into the living room.

PJ knelt, trying to match her eye level, his gaze still fixed on the grim tableau in the next room. "They're talking about Mr. G's funeral," he explained in a whisper.

Pistol's eyes widened. "Do you think it’s the British Mafia? Are they the ones who killed Mr. G?"

Clearly, it was the work of damn Spike and Drusilla. Unless there were other vampires in town. Maybe that was why they hadn't found them in their crypt; they were out for a bite, and unfortunately, Goofy was either the main course or the dessert. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

A few moments later, Pistol tugged his jacket again, her voice hushed, tinged with a concern that was too mature for her years. "How's Max?"

PJ's mind clouded, painting a vivid picture of Max in PJ's bedroom. He was sitting silently on the floor, clutching his father's pet cat, Waffles, to his chest, not letting go. He hadn't spoken a word, nor eaten a thing, since his father's body had been taken to the hospital.

His conversation with Pistol was suddenly interrupted by the rising voices from the living room. "We can't just rush this, Peter!" Peg argued. "We shouldn't have the funeral until Goofy's family and friends can make it to Spoonerville!"

"It's best to bury the body soon, Peggums," Pete countered, his voice gruff. It was painfully obvious that the fallout of Goofy's death was nothing more than an irritating commercial break in the grand saga of Dad's uninterrupted screen time.

The funeral director cleared his throat. "With all due respect, Mr. and Mrs. Pete, it's not entirely up to you to decide the timing for the service. The final decision, legally speaking, goes to the deceased's next of kin. His immediate family."

Peg threw her hands up in frustration. "I've tried contacting his mother, but I haven't had any luck. And I've tried reaching his other family members from the last time they had their family reunion here in Spoonerville, but I... I lost their phone numbers." Her gaze, sharp and accusatory, snapped to Pete. PJ knew that his father must have deliberately gotten rid of those phone numbers. He had never been fond of Goofy's eccentric relatives. Or Goofy himself.

"Well," Pete mumbled, running a hand through his hair, "Maybe Max knows their phone numbers? Goofy probably had them written down somewhere in his house."

Peg's shoulders slumped. "I don't have the heart to ask Max yet. The poor thing's still in shock. He's clutching his dad's pet like his life depends on it." Her voice hitched slightly.

The funeral director interjected smoothly, "Have you heard anything from social services, by chance?"

"We'll have a visit from the social worker tomorrow at noon," Peg answered.

"Tomorrow at noon?" The director's eyebrows rose slightly. "That's quite unusual. A child who has lost both parents is considered a high-priority situation. They're typically contacted much sooner, as the boy is immediately left without primary caregivers."

"Max is in our care!" Peg insisted, her voice sharp with indignation. "He's safe with us!"

"Lucky us," Pete mumbled under his breath.

"Did you say something, Petey?" Peg said in a sweet tone that masked untamable anger.

"Nothing, Sweetums."

The director, already gathering his papers and placing them neatly into his briefcase, offered a practiced, regretful smile. "Legally, Mrs. Pete, a child in such circumstances is deemed to be at immediate risk of neglect or lack of supervision, even if he is with well-meaning neighbors."

Peg straightened, her eyes flashing. "We're more than just neighbors! We've been friends with his father for years. We're more like family! Isn't that right, sweetie?" She glared at Pete, who just mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, avoiding her gaze.

PJ, still peering from the kitchen, felt a profound unease churn in his gut, a feeling he'd never known. Max's dad's death had shattered their world, leaving a gaping void no comfort could fill. Now, the looming visit from the social worker threatened even more upheaval. PJ's biggest fear was terrifyingly clear: the social worker might decide Max had to live with some distant relative, far from Spoonerville, their treehouse, and all the familiar routines and shared secrets that defined their lives. He pictured Max, lost and alone in a new city, navigating unfamiliar streets without PJ by his side. They'd tried the big city experience before, and it hadn't worked out. Max might even make new friends there, ones who wouldn't understand their inside jokes, facing a future where their adventures were just faded memories. The thought twisted in PJ's gut, a cold, hard knot of dread. How could their lives unravel so completely, so suddenly?

~*~*~*~*~*~

The door creaked open, spilling a sliver of hallway light into PJ's bedroom, but it did little to dispel the gloom that clung to the corners like a shroud. PJ stepped inside, the posters on the walls now just shadowy shapes, the clutter of comics and games swallowed by the oppressive darkness. And there, in the far corner, still huddled against the wall, was Max. He hadn't moved an inch since PJ last saw him hours ago.

Max was a small, still lump, his knees drawn up to his chest, arms locked around Waffles, who looked thoroughly miserable, his ears flattened, a strained expression on his whiskered face as he struggled subtly against Max's vice-like grip. It was clear the poor cat wanted to be anywhere but there, yet Max held him with a desperate, unyielding strength that kept him pinned.

PJ cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. He shuffled forward, kneeling awkwardly a few feet from Max, trying to keep his voice steady. "Uh, Max? Dinner's ready. Mom, uh... Mom said to come get you." He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.

Max didn't even flinch. He just slowly shook his head, his face still buried in Waffles' fur.

"C'mon, Max," PJ tried again, a little louder this time, his discomfort mounting. "You haven't eaten anything all day. You gotta eat something."

Slowly, agonizingly, Max lifted his head. His eyes were hollow and vacant, like windows to a deserted house. They looked straight through PJ, seeing nothing. "Not hungry," he mumbled, his voice flat, a chillingly numb whisper that barely stirred the air.

PJ didn't know what to do. He'd never seen Max like this, never imagined he could be this way. How do you comfort someone who's lost everything? How do you even begin to understand the crushing weight of being in Max's shoes, losing both immediate parents, feeling alone in a world that just kept spinning? PJ's gaze drifted from Max's face to the struggling cat, and he understood that Max wasn't just holding Waffles because he was there. He was holding onto the only piece of home he had left, the only living, breathing connection to a life that had suddenly, cruelly, been ripped away.

~*~*~*~*~

The moon cast long, distorted shadows as PJ padded silently down the deserted street. The crossbow's weight felt alien, heavy and cold against his clammy palms. He'd never used it before, not on a real target, and definitely not on a vampire. The thought alone sent a shiver crawling up his spine, but a promise was a promise. He'd vowed to Debbie they'd patrol every night, a secret pact made in hushed tones about protecting Spoonerville from the unseen terrors lurking in the dark. Tonight, though, he knew better than to ask Max to tag along.

He'd waited until the rhythmic breathing from the duffle bed on the floor confirmed Max had finally drifted into a fitful sleep. Then PJ had slipped from his own rocketship bed, each creak of the springs a thunderclap in the quiet room. He'd tiptoed to the dresser, his fingers fumbling beneath the stack of video games until they closed around the smooth, polished wood of the crossbow. With his heart hammering against his ribs, he'd then eased open the window, the cool night air a sudden, sharp shock, and slipped out into the vast, intimidating darkness. Now, alone in the silence, the distant hum of the town seemed to mock his solitary vigil. He adjusted his grip on the crossbow, its purpose a chilling reminder of the very real, very terrifying threat he was out here to face, all by himself.

The wrought-iron gates of the Spoonerville Cemetery stood ahead, silhouetted against the dim moonlight. PJ pushed one open, the hinges groaning like an old monster, and slipped inside. The air grew colder, thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. Every shadow seemed to stretch and twist, becoming something else in his peripheral vision. He remembered the first time he and Max had come here at night, following Debbie’s mysterious trail. They'd found her then, sitting casually on a tombstone, her yo-yo a blur of motion, completely unfazed by the eerie surroundings. Their lives had been simpler before that night, before vampires were more than just spooky stories, before the weight of protecting Spoonerville had settled onto their shoulders, heavy as the crossbow in his hands.

He crept deeper among the silent sentinels of stone, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path. Each rustle of leaves, each distant hoot of an owl, made him flinch. He gripped the crossbow tighter, his thumb fumbling for the trigger he hadn’t been properly taught to use. This was nothing like target practice.

Suddenly, the earth itself disturbed. A patch of ground near a weathered obelisk began to tremble, then crack. Dirt and rocks shifted, and a hand burst forth, clawing at the night air. PJ gasped, stumbling back, the crossbow nearly slipping from his grasp. The grave truly gave birth as a gaunt, unnervingly quick figure hauled itself free. This was just like the night he'd seen his first vampire, except this time, the vampire was a female dressed in formal wear. Her eyes glowed with a malevolent, hungry light, and her tattered dress clung to an impossibly thin frame.

"Wha—wha...?" PJ stammered, his throat tight with terror. He lifted the crossbow, aiming shakily. The vampire, however, was already moving, a blur of motion darting between the tombstones. PJ squeezed the trigger, but the bolt flew wide, embedding itself harmlessly into a marble angel.

The vampire hissed and lunged. PJ dropped the crossbow, scrambling backward, only to trip over a low headstone. He hit the ground hard, sending a jolt of pain up his spine. In an instant, the vampire was on him, her cold breath a foul cloud over his face. Her strong hands clamped around his wrists, pinning him down. Her face, with visible ridges on her forehead and sharper cheekbones that gave her a more menacing silhouette, drew closer, revealing sharp, gleaming fangs.

Panic surged through PJ. He thrashed, kicking wildly, trying to dislodge the creature. His hand flailed, searching for anything, and closed around a rough, splintered piece of wood. It was a sturdy branch, broken off from a nearby oak, thick as his arm. With a desperate surge of adrenaline, PJ swung the branch blindly, connecting with something solid. The vampire let out a shriek, a sound that grated on PJ's ears, and recoiled, her grip loosening.

PJ didn't wait. He scrambled to his feet, clutching the branch like a lifeline. The vampire, momentarily stunned, hissed again, her eyes burning with renewed fury. She lunged once more, faster this time, aiming for his neck. But PJ was ready. He held the branch out, pointing it forward with all his might. The vampire, blinded by her own rage, impaled herself on the sharpened end.

A sickening crunch echoed through the silent cemetery. The vampire froze, a guttural gasp escaping her lips. Her body stiffened, then began to crumble, turning to dust that scattered on the breeze. PJ stood there, panting, the branch still clutched in his trembling hands, watching the last vestiges of the monster dissolve into nothingness. The moonlight now seemed to fall gently on the empty space where the vampire had been. He'd done it. He'd actually done it.

The sound of slow, deliberate clapping made PJ spin around, the branch still clutched in his hand. Perched atop a weathered tombstone, Spike emerged from the shadows, his leather jacket gleaming faintly in the moonlight, a sardonic smirk playing on his lips.

"Well now, look at you," Spike drawled. "Slaying a vamp all by your lonesome. Bit of a shock, really. Thought you were just the sidekick." His eyes, cold and blue, swept over PJ, then past him. "Where's your little mate, then? Figured he'd be trailing along."

PJ's jaw tightened. "Stay away from Max," he retorted, his voice trembling slightly. "Isn't it enough what you and your psycho girlfriend did to him?"

Spike’s smirk vanished, replaced by a predatory glint. He hopped off the tombstone with unsettling grace, sauntering slowly towards PJ, each step deliberate, menacing. "So, you two received Drusilla's present, then, did you?" His voice was low, a dangerous purr.

A cold, heavy feeling settled in PJ's chest, tightening around his lungs. "Drusilla killed Max's dad?"

Spike let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "That boy is Drusilla's plaything." He stopped just feet from PJ, his gaze piercing. "She keeps talking about missing her kitten. She's already marked him as hers, right?"

PJ swallowed, realizing Spike must be referring to the scars on Max's stomach where Drusilla carved her name.

"The whelp is her project," Spike went on. "She wants to drive him mad, just like Angel did to her."

Fear, cold and sharp, spiked through PJ. "What about you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice from cracking.

Spike stared down at him, his expression hardening. "I'm more of a kill 'em right now bloke."

Before PJ could react, Spike's fist connected with his face. A blinding explosion of pain erupted in PJ's right eye and cheekbone as he flew backward, his head slamming against a cold, unforgiving tombstone. Stars burst behind his eyes, and a wave of nausea washed over him.

Spike was on him instantly, grabbing him by the collar, hauling him up to eye level. His face was inches away, his eyes glinting with a chilling intensity. "You're lucky I need you alive, or else you'd be a bloody stain on the grass right now." He shoved PJ away and then simply turned his back and sauntered off into the cemetery shadows, leaving PJ bruised and bewildered on the cold ground.

~*~*~*~*~

PJ landed softly on his bedroom floor, a muted thud that still managed to echo in the pre-dawn quiet. He moved with practiced stealth, the adrenaline from his cemetery encounter still thrumming beneath his skin, but his exhausted body wasn't as agile as he'd hoped. His elbow clipped the edge of his overflowing bookshelf, sending a stack of comic books tumbling to the floor with a muffled thwack.

A rustle came from the duffle bed. "PJ?" Max's voice was groggy with sleep and confusion.

PJ froze, his heart leaping into his throat. He turned to see Max propped on an elbow, eyes wide, staring at him. "Sh," PJ whispered, already moving towards his bed. "It's okay, Max, go back to sleep."

Max's gaze was fixed on PJ's face, his brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine concern replacing his sleepy haze. "Were you out patrolling?" he asked, his voice low.

PJ sighed, a mix of exhaustion and a strange, prideful relief. "Someone had to," he muttered, then managed a weak grin. "Guess what? I staked my first vampire solo."

Max's eyes didn't widen in excitement. Instead, they dropped to PJ's bruised face. "Your eye, Peej," he said, the concern in his voice deepening.

PJ waved a dismissive hand, already reaching for the newly designated "first aid" drawer beneath his bed. "Nah, I got it. Just a little bump." He pulled out the kit, fumbling with the latch. "I'll take care of it."

"Let me help," Max insisted, starting to sit up fully.

"Nah, I'm a pro, Max," PJ said, forcing a casual lightness into his voice. "Been doing it since I was a baby."

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy, suffocating the fragile moment. A chilling silence descended between them. PJ's stomach plummeted as he saw the dawning realization in Max's eyes, a silent understanding of something PJ had never consciously revealed. Max had undoubtedly seen PJ's dad's short temper, the loud words, the occasional rough shove, but had he truly grasped the underlying physical abuse until this slip? PJ cursed himself.

"Does it happen a lot?" Max's voice was barely a whisper, devoid of judgment, only a heartbreaking vulnerability.

PJ swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "No. Not a lot," he mumbled, refusing to meet Max's gaze. "And most of them are by accident." He felt a searing shame, exposed and vulnerable in a way he never had been before.

Max reached out, gently taking the first aid kit from PJ's numb fingers. Without another word, he began to tend to the blossoming bruise around PJ's eye. Then, with quiet determination, he helped PJ lift his shirt, carefully dabbing antiseptic onto the scrapes and tender spots on his back where he'd hit the tombstone. In the hushed room, under the dim pre-dawn light, a new, unspoken bond was forged, born of shared pain and the quiet understanding that some battles were fought in the darkness, both inside and out.

~*~*~*~*~

PJ tugged at the stiff collar of his suit jacket, the unfamiliar fabric itching against his neck. He felt like a penguin in a tuxedo, completely out of place in their usually chaotic, comfy living room. His mom, Peg, had decreed a formal dress code for everyone. "We need to make a good impression!" she'd insisted, her voice tight with nerves.

When her eyes landed on PJ, specifically on the blossoming bruise around his right eye, a horrified gasp escaped her lips. "PJ! What happened to your eye?!"

He mumbled some flimsy excuse about walking into a doorframe in the dark. It was a terrible lie, but his mom was too preoccupied to scrutinize it. Her face paled. "Oh, no, no, no! What if the social worker sees that? She'll think this house isn't suitable for Max! Or even," she whispered, her voice laced with genuine terror, "for my own children!" She began to frantically smooth imaginary wrinkles on the sofa cushions, adjust a slightly crooked picture frame, and wipe down an already gleaming tabletop.

Meanwhile, his dad was sprawled on the armchair, remote firmly in hand, engrossed in a football match. The roar of the crowd from the TV filled the room entwined with Peg's escalating panic.

"Peter!" Peg shrieked, whirling around to face him, hands on her hips. "Are you even listening to me? The social worker could be here any minute! Do you think that," she gestured wildly at the television, "is going to make us look like a responsible, capable household?"

Pete barely flicked an eye from the screen. "Relax, Sugar-plum. It's just a game. What's she gonna do, judge our parenting skills by the score of the Spoonerville High vs. Goofville Grinders match?"

"Oh, I don't know, Pete, maybe she'll think we're irresponsible cretins who prioritize televised sports over the well-being of a traumatized orphan!" Peg’s voice climbed an octave, her arms flailing for emphasis. "Maybe she'll see the crumbs under the coffee table and assume we live in squalor!"

Pete finally tore his gaze from the screen, turning to her with a look of mock astonishment. "If she's judging us on cleanliness, you're the one who let that perfectly good half-eaten donut sit on the counter since breakfast."

"That 'perfectly good half-eaten donut' was an emergency stress carb, Pete, and it's gone now! Unlike your laziness!" Peg snapped back, pointing a furious finger at him. "Do you want them to take Max away?"

Pete gave her a look. "Do you want me to answer that honestly?"

Peg's glare could burn a house. "Put on a decent shirt and pretend to care for five minutes."

"But, Sugar Muffin, I am always caring." Pete let out an exaggerated sigh. "Look at me. I'm wearing a shirt, aren't I? What more does a man need to do to impress a government operative besides exist in their general vicinity?" He grinned, then quickly ducked as Peg lunged for a throw pillow.

PJ watched the familiar, absurd dance between his parents as Pistol emerged from the kitchen, dressed in a blue dress that shimmered slightly as she walked. Her bright eyes fixed on PJ's face. She didn't miss a beat.

"British mafia?" she asked.

"Uh-huh," PJ mumbled back.

They both then turned their gaze to their parents, who were now engaged in a heated debate over whether a faint smudge on the wall was "artistic patina" or "evidence of a catastrophic snack explosion." Peg was gesticulating wildly, while Pete had resorted to dramatically clutching his chest as if mortally wounded by her accusations.

A small sound broke through the cacophony of Peg and Pete's marital theatrics. Max stood at the top of the stairs in a suit Peg had brought over from next door. The dark fabric seemed to hang a little loose on his slender frame, emphasizing the quiet gravity that now surrounded him. He cleared his throat again, drawing all eyes.

Peg's face softened. "Oh, Max, sweetie, there you are!" she said, hurrying towards the foot of the stairs. "You look wonderful! Come on down, honey. Are you feeling a little bit better? After the social worker leaves, I'll make us macaroni and cheese. I know you love it!" Her voice was higher than usual, with an almost desperate cheerfulness that didn't quite reach her worried eyes.

Max descended the stairs slowly. He didn't make eye contact, his focus seeming to be somewhere distant. He reached the bottom step, his shoulders slightly slumped, and offered only a faint "Thanks, Mrs. P." before retreating into the familiar, comforting silence that had become his constant companion. PJ watched him, a pang in his chest. Max was there physically, but a part of him was still lost somewhere far away, in the quiet chambers of his grief.

A firm knock echoed through the house. Peg practically leaped to the door, smoothing down her dress with frantic hands. Standing on the porch was a woman who exuded an air of crisp efficiency. Her suit was perfectly tailored, and her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Her most striking features were her sharp eyes that missed nothing, magnified by equally sharp, rectangular glasses perched on her nose. She took in the house's slightly askew charm with a critical, almost clinical gaze.

"Good afternoon!" Peg chirped, her voice dripping with an almost painful sweetness. "You must be Ms. Jenkins! Come right in, come right in! I'm Peg, and this is my wonderful husband, Pete, our son, PJ, and our little girl, Pistol. And that's sweet Max, standing next to PJ." She gestured grandly, attempting to present a picture of domestic bliss that felt increasingly precarious.

Ms. Jenkins offered a curt, unsmiling nod. Her eyes, however, lingered on PJ's bruised eye for a fraction of a second too long, then flicked over to Max, who stood quietly beside PJ in his oversized suit. "Thank you, Mrs. Pete," she stated, her voice calm but firm, immediately cutting through Peg's effusive welcome. "Perhaps we can dispense with the pleasantries for now and get straight to the matter at hand."

She walked into the living room, her gaze sweeping over the polished surfaces and the slightly nervous family. "My primary concern is Max's immediate and long-term well-being," she began, pulling a small notebook and pen from her briefcase. Her tone shifted into a formal, almost detached cadence.

"Max, I understand this is an incredibly difficult time for you," she addressed him directly, though her eyes remained keen and assessing. "I need to ask some questions to ensure we can make the best arrangements for your care."

She then turned her sharp gaze to Peg and Pete. "Firstly, Mr. and Mrs. Pete, can you confirm the exact date and circumstances of Max's father's passing?" She paused, her pen poised. "Can you state precisely when and how he passed? My records indicate Monday at 3 AM. Can you elaborate on the circumstances leading to that discovery?"

PJ's mind reeled with the barrage of questions, but his parents' attempts to answer were repeatedly cut short as Ms. Jenkins turned her inquiries to Max instead. PJ's eyes stayed fixed on his friend, who offered only the briefest of responses, trying to convey everything with as few words as possible.

"Mr. and Mrs. Pete, what is your understanding of Max's emotional state since his father's death? Has he expressed his feelings, or are there any notable changes in his behavior?"

"What support systems do you have in place for Max here in your home? For example, access to counseling or grief support?"

"What are your current living arrangements, and how would Max's presence impact the household dynamics and resources, both financially and spatially?"

"Have either of you considered what guardianship would entail, legally and practically, if Max were to remain in your care long-term?"

"Max, is there anything you would like to tell me, or anything you feel I should know?"

All eyes were directed at Max with this final question. He looked between their faces, then lowered his gaze to his lap and shook his head no. Peg placed a comforting hand on Max's shoulder.

Ms. Jenkins’ sharp gaze fell on Peg as she turned another page in her notebook. "Max, do you have any other immediate family members we should be aware of? Grandparents, aunts, uncles, or adult siblings who might be able to provide care?"

Peg quickly jumped in. "Oh, yes! Max has his grandparents, his father's parents. They live in another city, and I've tried to contact them, but I just haven't been able to reach them." She wrung her hands slightly, a nervous habit.

Max finally spoke, his voice a quiet mumble, almost lost in the room. "My grandma's... she's in the first stages of Alzheimer's. Grandpa takes her to all her check-ups. He's her sole carer."

Peg looked at him sympathetically. "Oh, Max, your father never mentioned that."

Max shrugged. "He didn't know. Or maybe he didn't wanna know. Grandma keeps forgetting things, and that's why my grandparents didn't make it to the last family reunion."

Ms. Jenkins' pen stopped mid-air. Her expression, already unyielding, tightened slightly. "I see," she stated. "That would indeed be a difficult placement for a child, requiring substantial support." Her eyes swept over Max, then back to Peg. "Are there any other relatives on his father's side who might be able to offer a suitable home?"

Max shook his head slowly. "Dad never really saw them. Only at big family reunions... every ten years or so." He paused. "There's my Aunt Carol. My mom's older sister."

Ms. Jenkins' pen, which had been still, now moved to make a note. "Aunt Carol," she repeated, her voice betraying a hint of renewed interest. She looked directly at Max. "Can you tell me anything about your aunt, Max? Where does she live? What does she do? Are you close with her?"

Max hesitated, thinking. "She lives in, uh... New Jersey, I think. I'm not sure what she does. I haven't seen her in years, but her daughter, my cousin Debbie visited twice."

"So, you're not close?"

Max shook his head. "No."

Ms. Jenkins nodded, her gaze shifting to Peg. "Mrs. Pete, do you have contact information for his aunt?"

"I don't…" Peg said, unsure. "I'm not familiar with Penny's family. That's Max's mother."

PJ did have Aunt Carol's phone number. He and Max had phoned them more than once this week for vampire-related conversations. But he wasn't about to say anything, not knowing if Max wanted his aunt to be contacted. Besides, maybe this way Max could stay with them. His parents could adopt him. Well, maybe not his dad. But his mom wouldn't mind taking Max in.

"I do," Max said in a faint voice, shattering all hope that had built up inside PJ for his stay with them.

Ms. Jenkins nodded. "Mrs. Pete, it would be better if you contacted her. I'll need her full contact details and a brief summary of what you discuss with her. I'll be following up directly, of course, to conduct my own assessment." Her eyes flicked back to Max, then to PJ, a silent calculation passing behind her sharp glasses.

Brimming with forced cheerfulness, Peg escorted Ms. Jenkins towards the front door. PJ's gaze, however, remained fixed on Max. With the social worker's critical eyes finally off him, a subtle tension seemed to seep from Max's shoulders. He didn't look at his parents, or even at PJ, but stared fixedly at the floor, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his suit pants. PJ could almost feel the profound discomfort radiating from him, a deep-seated unease with the entire intrusive process of being assessed and discussed. It was clear that, for Max, this meeting wasn't about finding a new home; it was a brutal, public dissection of his shattered world.

~*~*~*~*~

"Alright, Pete! Get your keys. We need to go get Aunt Carol," Peg announced, putting down the phone.

Pete, who'd been blissfully engrossed in the game during that short phone call, stiffened in his armchair. "Get who? Peg, what are you talking about? She lives in New Jersey! Why doesn't she come to us? This is her nephew! We've got enough on our plate without turning into a cross-country taxi service!"

"Pete, don't be ridiculous!" Peg retorted, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "I just spoke to her! Her husband is out of town on some business trip…"

"How convenient," Pete muttered under his breath.

"… and her daughter apparently took their only car. Something about a 'homework-related journey for school,'" Peg said, making air quotes with a skeptical sniff. "So unless you want Ms. Jenkins to think we're completely uncooperative, you are going to drive up to New Jersey and bring Max's aunt back here."

"A homework-related journey?" Pete scoffed. "What kind of homework requires a cross-state road trip?"

PJ, eavesdropping with Pistol from their usual spot in the kitchen doorway, knew exactly what "homework-related journey" meant. It was no doubt Debbie's lame cover story for hurtling down a highway in the family car with Williams by her side. They must have found some lead for the demon Bayanka, who had ripped Debbie’s powers away and transferred them to him and Max.

"Just get the keys, Pete!" Peg practically shrieked, her patience completely gone. "Unless you want Max living with some government-appointed stranger and us facing a stern lecture about family responsibility!"

The argument escalated, dissolving into a familiar symphony of accusations and sarcastic jabs. PJ just leaned against the doorframe, the phantom ache in his eye a dull throb that intensified with every sharp remark.

"Peggums, you can't be serious!" Pete bellowed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I've got tax forms! They're due Friday! And then there's the… the lawn! It's practically a jungle out there, a dangerous, untamed wilderness! And my back, Peg, my back's been acting up something fierce since I tried to lift that… that suspiciously heavy box of old bowling trophies!" He rattled off excuses, each more outlandish than the last, desperately trying to avoid the cross-state drive.

Peg, however, was past the point of negotiation. Her eyes narrowed into slits. "Pete, for the last time, you are not fooling anyone! The only 'thing' you have due Friday is another episode of 'Pro Wrestling Mayhem,' and your back only 'acts up' when there's actual work involved!" She snatched her car keys from the hook by the door. "And we all know it’s PJ who mows the lawn!"

PJ's heart sank as he watched his mother march to the car. "Mom, no, wait!" he pleaded, stepping out of the house. "Let Dad go! He can drive, right? You should stay here."

Peg just shook her head, a grim set to her jaw. "Oh, honey," she sighed, a memory clearly surfacing, "I wouldn't trust your father to pick up a free donut for me after the colossal fumble he made with Goofy's dating service application. Remember that?"

PJ winced, recalling the hilarious disaster when the plump, red-faced plumber had arrived at Goofy's house, and everyone, including Goofy himself, had mistakenly assumed she was his blind date.

"He'd probably get to New Jersey and accidentally sign Aunt Carol up for a timeshare instead of bringing her back," Peg muttered, more to herself than to him. With a final, exasperated huff, she got into the car and drove away, leaving PJ with a fresh wave of anxiety.

~*~*~*~*~

"PeeeJaaay!" His father roared from the living room. With Mom en route to New Jersey to fetch Aunt Carol, his dad had clearly decided to exploit the situation, ready to work PJ like a donkey. "Get in here and help me with this... this situation!"

The "situation" turned out to be Pete attempting to assemble a flat-pack bookcase, a task Peg had been hounding him about for weeks. From there, it had spiraled. PJ spent the day running errands, hauling boxes, fixing a leaky faucet Pete had inexplicably decided to "improve," and generally serving as his father's less-than-enthusiastic personal assistant.

As dusk finally settled, painting the living room windows in shades of bruised purple, Pete rose from his armchair, stretching elaborately. "Alright, PJ-my-boy," he grunted, clapping his hands together. "Time to whip up some dinner. What's on the menu tonight?"

PJ, who was vacuuming the crumbs of potato chips his dad had just eaten, glared up at him. "Dinner? Oh, I don't know, Dad, maybe a five-star meal prepared by the personal butler you clearly don't have, considering I'm still busy cleaning up your last culinary masterpiece."

Pete fell silent. PJ didn't know if he'd gone too far with that remark. Was his dad considering belting him? He could feel his dad’s gaze, heavy and calculating. He knew that look. It meant his dad was thinking, and that usually led to something bad. A cold dread began to coil in PJ’s stomach, tightening with each passing second of silence.

Then, Pete's eyes narrowed, a cruel glint appearing. "Maaaax!" he yelled, the sound sharp and sudden, cutting through the quiet.

PJ's eyes widened, dropping the vacuum onto the floor. "What do you want with Max, Dad?" he demanded, his voice tight with alarm.

Pete merely folded his arms, a grim, determined set to his jaw. "If that orphan is going to stay with us, under our roof, breathing our air, he's going to earn his keep. Starting now."

"Dad, no!" PJ pleaded, stepping forward. "Max just lost his dad! He can barely…" He stopped, a sudden thought sparking. "Remember, Dad? Remember what you promised Mr. G when he was taken to prison? You told him you'd treat Max like your own son." PJ’s voice dropped, quoting his father's exact words from a few months ago, words that now felt like a desperate plea. "'Only better.'" He remembered how those two last words had stung him back then, a tiny barb of jealousy that his dad might love someone else's kid more. But now, PJ desperately hoped that this time, his dad would actually hold on to that promise and treat Max better than he treated his own flesh and blood.

A quiet creak of the stairs. Max appeared in the living room, his face still pale, his eyes red-rimmed. "You called for me, Mr. P?" he asked, still holding Waffles to his chest like a lifeline.

Pete immediately pushed PJ aside, sending him stumbling back against the couch. A fake, unctuous smile spread across Pete’s face as he draped an arm around Max’s shoulders. His words were laced with a patronizing condescension that made PJ’s skin crawl.

"Look, son," Pete began, squeezing Max's shoulder. "Now that you're your own man, all on your own, it's better for you to learn a little responsibility, don't you think?" He puffed out his chest. "You see, I am a virtuous man. I have the kindness of a saint. But as you can see, I already have two children under my roof. And adding a third mouth to feed, that's gotta come with a price, doesn't it?"

PJ watched as Max's face went even paler, a flicker of raw realization in his eyes. He slowly seemed to grasp how different his life would be now, alone, without a parent of his own.

"What do you want me to do?" Max asked, his voice small and defeated.

Pete maintained his gentle, almost sugary tone. "Just make dinner for tonight, wash the dishes. Maybe a good massage. My shoulders and feet could really use it since I'll be the sole provider for a family of three children." He winked conspiratorially at Max, as if they were sharing a joke.

At that moment, PJ couldn't take it anymore. He launched himself forward, stepping between Max and his father. "Dad, you can't!" PJ demanded, his voice raw with anger. "You can't turn Max into your houseboy!"

Pete's face contorted, the false amiability dropping away like a mask. His hand flashed out, quick and brutal, connecting with the injured side of PJ's face, the same spot Spike had hit last night. The force of the blow sent PJ sprawling to the floor, his head hitting the linoleum with a sickening thud. "Pipe down, boy!" Pete yelled, his voice laced with venom.

PJ rubbed his aching eye and cheek, the fresh pain mingling with the old. He looked back up, his vision blurry, noticing the horrified, wide-eyed expression on Max's face. Max quickly turned to Pete, his voice desperate. "Okay! Okay, I'll do anything. I'll do what you want."

Pete smirked, a chilling triumph in his eyes. "Good boy." He patted Max's shoulder, his hand lingering for a moment, before giving a soft push towards the kitchen. "Now, make us dinner, and lose the cat! I don't want cat fur on my meat."

~*~*~*~*~

PJ stumbled into the kitchen, having finished vacuuming up every last crumb of potato chip in the living room. Max was standing stiffly in front of the stove, staring blankly at a saucepan, a package of spaghetti, and a jar of tomato sauce. He looked bewildered, like an alien trying to decipher human culinary rituals.

"You have no clue what you're doing, do you?" PJ asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Max shook his head, a faint flush creeping up his pale cheeks. "I've never cooked in my life. Dad always made everything." His voice was flat, devoid of its usual energy.

"Don't worry," PJ said, walking towards the stove. "I'll help you out."

Max looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Do you know how to cook?"

PJ smirked, grabbing a pot. "Never had to. My mom's a gourmet chef. But hey, if we can stake a vampire together, we can definitely make a meal. It's just... food, right? Okay, so step one: water," he declared, filling the large pot. "Then... boil it, obviously. How hard can that be?"

Max squinted at the spaghetti package. "It says to add salt. A pinch, or a handful?"

"A pinch is like, two fingers, right?" PJ guessed, demonstrating with an awkward gesture. Max proceeded to dump a small cloud of salt into the pot, making the water look faintly murky.

As the water began its slow, reluctant bubble, they turned their attention to the meatballs and sauce. PJ, armed with a spoon, bravely prodded a meatball. "These look... suspiciously round. Are they supposed to be this perfectly spherical? Mom's were always kind of lumpy."

"Maybe they're factory-made perfection," Max offered, trying to pry the lid off the jar of tomato sauce with a butter knife. It slipped, sending a spray of red onto the pristine white counter. "Oops!"

"Nice aim, Max. You just fed the countertop." PJ tried to wipe it with a paper towel that promptly turned into a soggy red mess. "You know, for a guy who just faced down vampires, you're remarkably clumsy with basic kitchen utensils."

"Says the guy who tried to stir the boiling water with a fork and almost electrocuted himself," Max retorted, nudging PJ away from the stove.

They worked in a strange, synchronized chaos. Spaghetti strands flew when Max tried to put them into the pot, resembling a rogue Medusa's hair. PJ managed to burn the bottom of the meatballs slightly, creating a smoky haze that set off the smoke detector for a glorious, ear-splitting ten seconds.

"See?" PJ yelled over the alarm, fanning frantically. "Teamwork! You distract the alarm, I salvage the protein!"

By the time the spaghetti was al dente, mostly, the meatballs were browned, mostly, and the sauce was simmering, mostly without lumps, the kitchen was a war zone. Flour dusted the floor, red splatters adorned the cabinets, and a general air of culinary devastation hung heavy in the air.

As they sat down, surveying their questionable feast, Max took a cautious bite. "It's... edible," he admitted, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Edible!" PJ exclaimed. "My finest work yet."

They grinned at each other.

"What's taking you boys so long?" Pete's booming voice startled them as he strode into the kitchen.

PJ, heart pounding, frantically spooned some spaghetti and meatballs onto a plate for his father. He set it on the kitchen table, his dad's glare shifting from the mess in the kitchen to the meal. He eyed it with suspicion for a moment before hesitantly taking a bite. A moment passed, then he gave a surprising nod. "Not bad," he grunted, a rare, almost begrudging compliment. He settled into a chair, already digging in. "Go get your sister, son. Let's have dinner."

~*~*~*~*~*~

After what felt like an eternity of scrubbing burnt sauce from pots and trying to apply just the right amount of pressure to his father's surprisingly bony shoulders and ridiculously ticklish feet, PJ and Max were finally allowed to retreat.

PJ lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the phantom ache of his father's slap still throbbing on his cheek. He glanced over at Max, curled up on the duffel bag on the floor, seemingly fast asleep. Quietly, PJ slipped out of bed. His bare feet made no sound on the cool floor. He moved to the hiding place under his video game console and, this time, pulled out a sturdy, wooden stake instead of the useless crossbow.

He was just easing open the window, the cool night air brushing his face, when a quiet voice stopped him cold.

"You're going without me?"

PJ froze, slowly turning. Max was sitting up on the duffel bag, looking directly at him, his eyes wide and weary but surprisingly steady.

"Max, no," PJ whispered, shaking his head. "You're in no shape to patrol. You're still hurt. And after everything, you need to rest."

"If you're talking about the scars on my stomach, I barely feel them anymore." Max pulled up his pajama shirt, revealing the scars, still red and stark, glaring at PJ.

"I still think I should go solo," PJ argued.

Max pushed himself to his feet, a flicker of his old stubbornness in his gaze. "PJ," he insisted, his voice low and firm, "I'm going with you."

PJ was about to object again, a protest already forming on his lips, when Max walked to the drawer where PJ hid his weapons and grabbed a stake for himself. There was a fierce, desperate resolve in Max's gaze, something that went beyond simple stubbornness. It was a raw, burning need for action, for anything to numb the unbearable pain of his father's death. Maybe a night of slayage wasn't the smartest move, but for Max, it could be a grimly effective distraction.

~*~*~*~*~

The night had been a blur of chaotic adrenaline and searing pain. They had found two vampires, not Spike and Drusilla, lurking near the edge of Spoonerville. PJ remembered a flash of white hair, a guttural growl, and then a searing agony as the blond vampire slammed into him. He'd gone flying, landing hard, his shoulder screaming in protest as it popped out of its socket with a sickening crunch. The stake had spun away, useless. Max had hit the pavement hard, bruising his knees through his pants and tearing them open. The impact had also driven jagged stones deep into his palms, leaving deep, stinging cuts.

They'd spent the rest of the pre-dawn hours scrambling, dodging, and retreating. A desperate, clumsy dance of survival against two far superior predators. After a long fight, they'd managed to stake both vampires by luring them into a perpetually unfinished furniture store and impaling them on rogue IKEA Allen wrenches.

They'd spent the entire morning playing nurse to each other. Max, with his Slayer strength, had popped PJ's dislocated shoulder back into place, and then PJ sterilized and bandaged the cuts on Max's palms. They didn't even get a minute of sleep before PJ's dad swung their door open and demanded breakfast.

"PeeeJaaay! Maaax!" Pete's booming voice echoed through the house before the sun had even fully cleared the horizon. "Rise and shine, boys! There's a whole day's worth of elbow grease waitin'!"

Their list of chores was endless, a seemingly deliberate attempt by Pete to keep them occupied and exhausted. They started by scrubbing the kitchen from top to bottom, wiping away every lingering trace of their disastrous omelet experiment, which had arguably set back the culinary arts by a decade. Then it was washing his dad's boat, inside and out, until it gleamed. Next, they were dispatched to the yard to weed every flowerbed, a back-breaking task that left their hands caked in dirt. After that, they had to clean out the garage, dusting cobwebs and organizing forgotten tools. Then, it was back inside to vacuum every room, mop all the hard floors, and even dust the blinds in the living room, a chore PJ was sure had never been assigned in the history of the house.

PJ grumbled under his breath as he wrestled the vacuum cleaner hose. He was used to doing his share of chores, but his father had never, ever, piled this much on him in a single day. He couldn't help but wonder if it was because his mother wasn't around to temper Pete's demands, or if Pete simply saw Max as an extra, unpaid set of hands, a bonus houseboy to share the burden PJ usually carried alone.

An hour after sunset, the living room glowed with the vibrant, absurd colors of a sitcom playing on Pete’s giant TV, the most expensive model money could buy in 1992. Pete was sprawled on the couch, chuckling periodically, a bag of chips balanced on his ample belly. Max, meanwhile, was meticulously polishing the coffee table, his movements slow and sluggish from exhaustion. He hadn't slept a wink the night before, and the relentless chores of the day had left him drained.

His eyelids felt like lead weights. The rhythmic motion of his cloth, the droning laughter from the TV, it all combined into a hypnotic lull. His head drooped, his eyes fluttered, and the cloth slipped from his fingers. His hand, still holding the polishing spray, jerked. The can clattered against a prized porcelain figurine on the table, sending it toppling. It hit the floor with a sickening crack, shattering into a dozen pieces.

"Hey!" Pete yelled, jolting upright, his face contorting from amusement to fury in an instant. His eyes landed on the broken figurine, then on Max, who stood frozen, mortified. "What in the blazes, boy?!"

Pete was off the couch in a flash, his bulk suddenly menacing. He grabbed Max by the collar, hauling him forward. "You useless, stupid kid! Just like your dad, always breaking things, always causing trouble!"

The words hit Max like a physical blow, igniting a spark of fury that cut through his exhaustion. "My dad wasn't useless!" Max yelled back, his voice cracking with grief and indignation. "Don't talk about my dad that way!"

Pete's face turned a dangerous shade of purple. His grip tightened on Max's collar, shaking him. "Don't you dare talk back to me in my own house, boy! I don't need this kind of backtalk under my roof!" He shoved Max away, pointing a furious finger at the door. "Get out! You want to talk back? You can do it in your house! Go on, go back to that decrepit, overgrown shack you call home!"

"Dad, no!" PJ rushed forward, trying to step between them, but Pete's arm was like a stone wall.

Even Pistol, who had been quietly playing with a doll in the corner, looked up, her eyes wide. "You're gonna let him sleep in his house all by himself?" she piped up, her voice small and bewildered.

Max just stared up at Pete, his chest heaving, his eyes burning. Then, a strange calm settled over him. He gave a single, resolute nod. "Okay, sir." He turned, his voice surprisingly steady, "Waffles? Come on, boy." The cat padded over and rubbed against Max's leg.

Max took a step towards the door, but PJ grabbed his arm. "Max, wait! Don't go! You can't stay in an empty house all by yourself!"

"Let him go, PJ!" Pete roared, his face still a dangerous shade of red.

"Okay, but I'm going with him," PJ stated, a stubborn resolve setting in as he met Max's surprised gaze.

"If you walk out of this house," Pete said, his voice dropping to a low, menacing tone that promised dire consequences, "don't even think about coming back!

PJ's gaze shifted from Max to his father, and he simply stared. He'd heard it countless times: whenever PJ asked to sleep over at Max's, his dad would jokingly suggest they adopt him. This time, however, his dad wasn't joking. His gaze was furious, his mouth curled with disgust, and his chest heaved with anger.

A silent battle raged within PJ as he remained locked in a stare with his father. He met Pete's furious gaze not with his usual submission, but with a newfound defiance that solidified with each passing second. The air crackled with unspoken words, a line drawn in the sand between son and father. Eventually, PJ's grip on Max's arm softened. With a decisive turn, PJ led Max outside, stepping out himself, and firmly closing the door behind them, the click echoing the finality of their departure.

Chapter Text

Max stared at PJ in shock, his mind reeling. He couldn't believe PJ was actually doing this, standing up to his dad, risking his own place for Max. The harsh words Pete had just flung at Max -useless, stupid, just like your dad- still echoed in his ears, but PJ's devotion cut through the sting.

"PJ, get back inside," Max said, his voice filled with a desperate urgency. He took a step towards his friend, then hesitated, a heavy wave of guilt washing over him. This was all his fault. "You don't have to do this."

PJ shook his head, his expression firm in the dim porch light. "I'm not letting you sleep in an empty house all by yourself, Max. You haven't been in your house since your… since the accident." His voice softened on the last words, clearly acknowledging the gaping wound that was Goofy's death. Max felt a fresh pang of grief, but also a sliver of gratitude for PJ's blunt honesty.

"But I don't want you to get in trouble with your dad because of me," Max insisted, his gaze dropping to his feet. The weight of being the cause of PJ's predicament was almost as heavy as his own sorrow. Pete's anger, Max knew, wasn't just a fleeting outburst. PJ would pay for this later.

PJ clapped a hand on Max's shoulder. "Don't worry about that, man. Once Mom gets back from New Jersey, both of us will be back in the good graces. She'll set him straight." There was a confident certainty in PJ's tone that Max almost believed. "In the meantime, let's go get some shuteye. We both didn't get much sleep." PJ started walking towards Max's house, leaving Max no choice but to follow.

He walked into his front yard, looking at his house with a growing sense of dread. He hadn't dared step inside since his dad passed away; every brick, every window, promised a fresh wave of painful memories. This house now felt like a mausoleum.

PJ pushed the front door open. Inside, the house was clean and tidy, almost eerily so. "I guess Mom did a bit of cleaning when she went in to get your suit," PJ said.

Max reached down to grab Waffles into a hug, a flood of memories assaulted him. He saw himself helping his dad set up those ridiculous yet effective traps to catch the burglars. He saw them sitting on that very sofa, Max confessing lying to the principal about his dad remarrying. He saw his dad patiently fixing the TV, while Max and PJ tried to convince him to watch a horror movie, not knowing then that they were both about to live a real-life horror movie every night, and that it would ultimately cost Max his own father.

"Max," PJ interrupted the torrent of memories, his gaze concerned as he eyed poor Waffles, who looked like he was genuinely choking in Max's lingering, unconscious grip. "Shouldn't we go upstairs? Remember, sleep calls?"

Max nodded numbly, letting PJ place a gentle, guiding hand on his back. Together, they ascended the stairs. They passed Goofy's bedroom door, and Max almost faltered, a tidal wave of grief threatening to pull him under, but PJ's hand pressed firmly, subtly urging him forward and towards his own room.

Max's bedroom looked uncharacteristically tidy, stripped of its usual chaotic charm. Clearly, Mrs. P had been at work; there were no clothes on the floor, no scattered comics, just a pristine order that felt alien and cold.

PJ gestured at the bunk bed. "You want top or bottom?" he asked, his voice low.

"Whatever," Max muttered, his gaze vacant.

"How about you take top," PJ suggested. Max was sure PJ chose the top for him so he could easily keep an eye on him.

They settled into their respective beds, too exhausted and numb to bother changing their clothes. The silence stretched, heavy and profound.

"Shoot, I think I have to go to school tomorrow," PJ said eventually, breaking the quiet.

"You do?" Max asked, surprised. He hadn't even considered what day it was, let alone school.

"Yeah," PJ confirmed. "Mom gave the school a permission slip for me to be absent for three days. Tomorrow is Thursday."

Max didn't know what to say. The thought of going back to school, dealing with lessons, exams, and homework, suddenly felt suffocating.

"You don't have to go, Max," PJ's voice came from below, as if reading his mind. "Mom said you're allowed a week of excused days. You can start going to school next Monday."

Good, 'cause Max didn't feel like leaving his bed. He was content lying there, hugging Waffles close. Apparently, Waffles didn't share his sentiments. He managed to squeeze himself out of Max's loosening grip and disappear into the darkness of the room.

~*~*~*~*~

Max woke to soft, murmuring whispers. Through a half-opened eye, he made out PJ, looking comically oversized in Max's faded red terrycloth bathrobe. It hit well above PJ's knees and barely met in the front. PJ smelled fresh, like he'd just showered. Beside him, Pistol, in a kindergarten uniform and backpack, was handing him things.

"Okay, Commander PJ," Pistol whispered, her voice a dramatic stage whisper that probably carried through three walls. "Operation Secret Stowaway is a go! I've got your school bag right here, see? And this is your duffel bag with all your clothes, neatly folded by me, mostly. Oh! And I even packed your lucky socks, the ones with the little rocket ships, because you know how you get cranky if your socks aren't lucky. And your toothbrush! And your special 'no-bad-dreams' nightlight, just in case it gets too spooky at Max's house. And your favorite dinosaur book, for reading under the covers with your flashlight! And your super-secret candy stash from under my bed, don't tell Mommy! And..."

"Shhh!" PJ hissed, interrupting her rapid-fire inventory. He gestured wildly at the bunk bed where Max lay, quickly shutting his eyes, feigning deep sleep.

"Thanks, sis," Max heard PJ whisper to Pistol. He opened his eyes again. PJ had started to change clothes, while Pistol gave him her back.

Beaming at the wall, Pistol snapped a crisp salute. "Major Pistol at your service! I love this sneaking around bit. It's like spy school, but with more blankets and less actual spying."

Now dressed for school, PJ turned his sister around and asked, "How's Dad?" His gaze flicked to Max, who promptly closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep.

Pistol’s reply came, bright and clear, instantly painting a picture of domestic chaos. "Dad had to order in dinner 'cause there was nobody to cook! He tried to make toast, but it made loud noises and smelled like sad popcorn."

"Yeah, Max and I didn't eat dinner last night," PJ mumbled in return. At the mention of dinner, Max’s stomach rumbled.

"I made you both special 'fuel-up' packs though!" Pistol announced, her voice brimming with pride. "I put them in the kitchen! Yours is a gummy bear and pickle parfait, and Max’s is a marshmallow and sardine skewer! They're super healthy, I promise!"

Max inwardly gagged. A marshmallow and sardine skewer? His initial hunger evaporated.

"I think I'm gonna pass, Pistol," PJ whispered, and Max could almost hear the forced politeness in his voice. "We're already super late for school."

"No carpool today for me," Pistol chirped, seemingly unfazed. "Mommy was supposed to take me, Britney, Christina, and Mandy to school. So I get to stay home and practice my ninja moves!"

"For being such a good sister today," PJ said, a playful tone entering his voice, "you can ride on my back like a horsey, all the way to kindergarten."

"Cool!" Pistol squealed, a delighted giggle following. "Can you whinny like a real horse this time?"

Their voices as they left the room and, judging by the creaks and thumps, headed downstairs. Max didn't dare sit up until he heard the distinct click of the front door closing. He peeled himself off the top bunk and peered cautiously from the window. Down on the street, PJ was indeed carrying Pistol on his back, a human horsey trotting towards school. Max swallowed hard. PJ truly was his guardian angel, risking his dad's wrath and his own exhaustion just to make sure Max wasn't alone.

As Max decided he should probably take a shower himself, he noticed a crumpled pile of clothes tucked under PJ's pillow. They were PJ's clothes from last night: torn and ripped, but thankfully, no fresh blood. PJ must have gone patrolling by himself after Max passed out. Patrolling solo. Again. Max hadn't even heard him leave, or return. He'd been knocked out cold from the lack of sleep and all those grueling chores. But PJ also hadn't slept, and he'd done the same amount of chores. Man, Max was such a wuss. PJ was far stronger than him, in more ways than one.

A surge of conviction hit Max. He couldn't just lie there feeling sorry for himself. He needed to get off his sorry ass and help PJ. PJ shouldn't have to do all the heavy lifting, dealing with vampires and his insane dad, just because Max had lost his dad. Operation Help PJ was officially a go. Well, after that shower, because he really stunk.

Inside the bathroom, as the steam began to fog the mirror, Max noticed the scars on his stomach. They didn't hurt anymore, but the letters, "Drusilla," were still undeniably there, now less red and more white, like a permanent marker etched into his skin. Max hoped his Slayer healing abilities could erase them eventually. He didn't want that tattooed to his stomach for the rest of his life.

Shower done, feeling marginally more human, Operation Help PJ commenced. Max grabbed PJ's torn clothes from last night, planning to mend them. He rummaged around, looking for his dad's sewing needle, and then spotted Pistol's "fuel-up" packs in the kitchen: the gummy bear and pickle parfait, and the marshmallow and sardine skewer. He couldn't help but smile, a small, fond curve of his lips. That kid was something else. He tried to sew PJ's clothes, but a quick inspection revealed they were a lost cause; too many rips, too much stretch. They needed to be replaced. Max then remembered his dad's emergency cash stash. It was usually hidden in a false bottom of an old coffee can in the pantry. He found it, a thick wad of bills. Max was going shopping.

Max stepped out onto the porch, the early morning light had already touched the neighborhood. Pete was already on the lawn, keys jingling, about to climb into his car for work. He spotted Max and paused, a sneer twisting his lips.

"Well, lookie here, the little thief," Pete drawled, his voice cutting through the quiet morning like a rusty saw. He didn't raise his voice, but there was a chilling menace in its low rumble. "So you decided to steal my boy, did you, Max? Turn him into your little slave, too?" His gaze, sharp and cruel, fixed on Max. "Just like your old man, isn't it? Always leeching off others, always dragging good people down with him." Pete chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Thought you were too good for a job, Maxie? Guess that apple didn't fall far from the tree, did it? Lazy and useless... just like your old man."

Max felt a familiar, burning heat rise in his chest. Every instinct screamed at him to yell back, to defend his dad's name, to wipe that sneer off Pete's face. But he bit back the words, clenching his fists at his sides. He swallowed the anger, let it burn, but refused to let it show. He needed to control his temper, not for his own sake, but for PJ. Getting into a fight with Pete now would only make things worse for his friend. He just stood there, taking it all in, waiting for Pete to finish his cruel monologue and finally drive away.

Max watched Pete's car disappear down the street. He didn't know what the future held. Who knew if his Aunt Carol would even come back with Mrs. P? He hadn't seen his aunt in years; maybe she wouldn't want him. And if she did end up adopting him, if he did end up moving to New Jersey, then all the more reason to make things right for PJ now. He wouldn't leave his best friend to suffer under Pete's dictatorship alone.

~*~*~*~*~

"Welcome home, dear!" Max chirped, sweeping forward, and relieved PJ of his backpack, placing it meticulously on the nearby desk. "Rough day at the salt mines? How was school? Did you learn new fractions today?"

PJ blinked, looking genuinely bewildered, then a weary smirk spread across his face. "Did you hit your head, Max?" He sighed dramatically. "And don't even ask about fractions. They're still trying to trick me with numbers. I swear, the teachers are in league with Drusilla." He dropped onto the couch with a groan, immediately sinking into the cushions.

Max wasted no time. He moved behind PJ, and before PJ could protest, strong hands began working on his shoulders. Max kneaded the tense muscles, surprisingly effective. "Oh, you poor boy," Max cooed, mimicking a doting spouse. "All that hard work! Tell me everything. Did anyone dare give you any grief today?"

PJ leaned into the massage, a low groan of contentment escaping him before he caught himself. "Alright, alright, that's enough of the 'Donna Reed' routine, Gold Leader," he grumbled, though he didn't try to stop Max. "And no, nobody gave me grief. Someone was given grief though, now that's a great sto..."

"Hungry?" Max interrupted, trotting to the kitchen. He reappeared, balancing a tray laden with food: burgers, French fries, a bottle of ketchup, and two cans of soda. "Dinner is served!"

PJ's eyes lit up, even as he managed to look suspicious. "Woah. You cooked?"

"A joint effort," Max admitted, pushing a plate towards him. PJ took a bite of the burger, chewed thoughtfully, and then paused. His expression didn't change, but Max could tell something was off.

"So?" Max prompted, leaning forward.

PJ swallowed, then forced a wide, cheesy grin. "It's... unique, Max. Definitely unique. I've never had a burger this... crunchy." He gave Max an exaggerated thumbs-up. "Totally delicious." Max narrowed his eyes, knowing full well he'd probably incinerated the patties.

Next, Max presented a shopping bag. "And for my valiant steed, a token of my eternal gratitude!" He pulled out a pair of black leather pants adorned with chains and a matching, equally edgy t-shirt. PJ held them up, and they looked suspiciously small against his frame.

PJ raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you didn't buy these your size, Max?"

Max snatched them back, a blush creeping up his neck. "Hey! They looked bigger on the hanger! Fine, fine. I'll return them tomorrow and get your actual size, Bigfoot."

"Much appreciated," PJ said, taking a long swig of his soda. "So, what's the plan for tonight? More gourmet cooking?"

"Nah," Max said, feeling a sense of purpose he hadn't had in days. "I figured we'd order pizza tonight. Extra cheese, pepperoni, your choice. And then we go patrolling." He paused, a glint in his eye. "I spent the whole afternoon sharpening our stakes. I'm coming with you tonight. No more hogging all the fun for yourself, pal."

PJ took a long swig of his soda, his eyes thoughtful. "You had quite the productive afternoon, haven't you?"

Max sat down beside him on the couch, grabbing one of the "burgers." He took a bite, immediately regretting it. The meat was indeed hard, and overwhelmingly salty. He forced himself to swallow it. "You can say that again," Max mumbled, setting the burger back on his plate. "So, what happened at school?"

PJ's eyes lit up, the fatigue momentarily forgotten. "Oh, you wouldn't believe it. Marty was trying to bully some poor kid, shoved him into a locker. And I was just like, 'Hey, Marty! Leave him alone, you oversized potato!'" PJ puffed out his chest, demonstrating his heroic stance. "Marty looked like he was gonna pop a gasket, but then..." PJ's voice dropped, taking on a dreamy quality. "Then Rose showed up."

Max braced himself. He knew where this was going.

"Her hair," PJ continued, gazing off into the middle distance, "it was like spun moonlight, just catching the cafeteria lights, short and shimmering, framing her face like a halo. And her eyes... oh, Max, her eyes are like deep pools of thoughtful wisdom." He sighed dramatically. "She just looked at Marty, and then she looked at me, and she said, 'PJ, that was truly... courageous.'"

"Make me gag," Max interrupted, barely suppressing a snort. "You sure she didn't say 'snuggly' or 'precious'?"  

PJ glared at him. "It was 'courageous'! And then she recited a poem she wrote! About the bravery of standing up to tyranny!" He put a hand over his heart. "It was about me, Max. I just know it. Her words... they just wrap around your soul like a warm, fuzzy blanket made of truth and justice."

"So, what, she's gonna write an epic ode to your dislocated shoulder next?" Max jabbed, a smirk playing on his lips. "Or maybe an acrostic poem about your new tiny leather pants?"

PJ's dreamy expression broke, replaced by a defensive scowl. "Hey! Don't you dare mock Rose's poetic genius, or my heroic deeds! Besides, those pants are going back tomorrow. You still owe me normal-sized cool clothes." He picked up a French fry, dipped it liberally in ketchup, and munched on it thoughtfully.

~*~*~*~*~

Night fell, cloaking the quiet street in shadows. It was time for pizza, then patrolling. Max, however, realized with a sinking feeling that his earlier shopping spree had depleted their funds. All the money he'd found that morning was gone, spent on beef burger boxes, buns, frozen fries, and PJ's unfortunately ill-fitting, but undeniably "cool," new clothes. There was only one place left to look: his dad’s room, the forbidden room.

Max walked in, every step heavy with dread. The room felt colder, emptier. He tried not to dwell on being there, on the absence that screamed louder than any presence. He scanned the familiar space, searching for his dad’s hidden cash spots. His gaze fell upon a dusty shoebox tucked beneath the bed. Inside, among old trinkets, he found an old, faded photograph. It was a picture of him and his dad, younger, grinning widely in front of their previous home, the small, crummy trailer from before they'd moved to Spoonerville six or seven months ago. It had just been the two of them back then, a tiny, self-contained world. His eyes stung with unshed tears, and he furiously tried to blink them back. Stop acting like a wuss, he silently chastised himself, pushing down the tidal wave of grief. He shoved the photo back, blocked those overwhelming emotions, and forced his hands to search for the money.

He finally found some cash in a dusty teacup tucked inside a cowboy boot. He emerged from the room just as PJ was walking by.

"Are you okay?" PJ asked, his voice concerned.

Crap. Max knew his eyes must be red, betraying the raw emotion he was desperate to hide. He harshly wiped them with his sleeve, trying to compose himself. "Yeah, yeah, fine," he mumbled, forcing a strained laugh. "Just... Dad did a really good job hiding his emergency stash. Almost too good, you know?"

PJ still looked at him with that same sympathetic gaze, a look that Max absolutely hated. It made a lump form in his throat, threatening to unravel his carefully constructed composure. He couldn't stand it. "Right! Pizza!" he blurted out, rushing down the stairs, the retrieved money clutched in his hand.

He grabbed the phone, taking deep, shaky breaths, trying to banish any hint of crying from his voice. He had to sound normal. He had to be strong. The Pizza Palace operator answered with a chipper greeting. Max managed, through a voice that still trembled with unshed tears, to stammer out their order: "We'd like one large pepperoni and extra cheese, please."

Max gripped the phone, his knuckles white. He could feel PJ's silent gaze on him, a quiet, sympathetic weight. Stop crying, you baby, Max chastised himself, trying to shove the grief back down. He harshly wiped his eyes again, then, desperate to appear composed, quickly busied himself with the wooden stakes he'd been sharpening earlier. Now that they were alone, with no grown-up to hide their "weapons" from, he had them all displayed on the couch, an arsenal laid out for inspection.

He managed to make his voice stronger, forcing a casual bravado. "Come on, PJ. Maybe we should have a training session before patrolling. Sharpen our skills, literally."

PJ nodded. "We do need to work on those crossbows. I think once we get the hang of them, we'll be unstoppable."

Their "training session" quickly became a lesson in controlled chaos. With the pizza ordered and a brief, tense silence filled by the distant wail of a siren, or maybe just a particularly sad dog, they set up their impromptu firing range in the living room. PJ’s small crossbow was surprisingly powerful, but neither of them had any real experience.

"Alright, Max," PJ declared, holding the crossbow aloft like a seasoned hunter. "First lesson: aim for the heart. Or, failing that, something breakable." He gestured vaguely towards a hideous ceramic clown lamp on a side table. He let loose with a resounding thwack! The bolt, instead of hitting the clown, embedded itself firmly in the wall just above it, leaving a small, splintered hole. "Nailed it!" PJ announced proudly. "Right near the... uh... head."

"You almost nailed the wallpaper, you mean," Max retorted, taking his turn. He released the string, and his bolt arced wildly, ricocheting off the ceiling fan with a startling CLANG! before narrowly missing a framed photo of Waffles. "Whoa! See? Unstoppable. Almost stopped Waffles from existing in picture form."

"Careful, or the cat will call animal protective services on your aiming skills," PJ warned, nocking another bolt. "Okay, new target: that suspiciously dusty vase. It looks like it's seen better centuries."

They spent the next half-hour firing their bolts with varying degrees of accuracy. The walls acquired a few new, small ventilation holes. A lampshade spun precariously after a near miss. The ceramic clown lamp, miraculously, remained intact, though it now sported a tiny, nervous chip on its nose.

"You know," Max said, panting slightly, "for two guys who are supposed to be saving the world, we're surprisingly good at home demolition."

PJ grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. "Hey, it's cross-training. We're developing our spatial awareness. And our ability to cause property damage without getting caught." He retrieved a bolt that had landed in a potted plant. "Besides, practice makes... slightly less terrible."

A knock echoed through the house. "Pizza!" Max exclaimed, grabbing the money and practically tripping over himself in his haste to answer the door.

He pulled it open, money held aloft. The pizza box was enormous, held by a tall figure whose face was obscured. Max squinted, trying to make out the delivery person. Then the box shifted, and a familiar face came into view.

Max froze, the money slipping from his fingers. His jaw went slack. "Dad?" he whispered, his voice barely a breath.

A wide, familiar grin stretched across the man's face, and he gave a characteristic chuckle. "A-hyuck! Hi-ya, Maxie!"

"Dad," Max gasped, tears springing to his eyes. "You're... you're alive?" The words were choked, disbelieving.

"Of course, son!" Goofy said, tilting his head. "Got myself in a bit of a pickle, though. Went to use the little fellas' room, and the door sorta jammed shut, tight as a drum! Had me stuck in there at the hospital for ages, they almost didn't find me! But here I am, good as new!"

"Oh, God, Peej, Dad is alive!" Max yelled, practically vibrating with a sudden, overwhelming surge of relief and joy. He surged forward, throwing his arms around his father, almost knocking the stack of pizza boxes from Goofy's hands. "Dad, I just... I thought... you were..." He couldn't even complete the sentence. There were no words to describe the dizzying whiplash of emotions, the terror and grief that had consumed him, now replaced by this impossible, miraculous return.

"Max, get in the house!" PJ's voice, sharp and urgent, cut through the moment. PJ was suddenly there, grabbing Max's shoulder and forcibly pulling him back, shoving him through the doorway.

Max stumbled inside, bewildered. "But, PJ, Dad's back! He's here!" He gestured wildly towards Goofy, who stood on the porch, balancing the pizzas.

"Max," PJ whispered, his gaze grave and filled with enormous, heartbreaking sympathy. "That's not your dad."

Max turned, confused. "What are you talking about? Look at him! It's him, PJ! It's Dad!"

"Max," PJ repeated, his voice low and firm, glancing at Goofy, then back to Max, "He's a vampire."

"What?" Max whispered, shaking his head, a desperate denial rising in his throat. "No, no, you're wrong." His gaze darted back to the doorway, to the familiar figure of his father.

"Then why is he just standing there?" PJ's voice was low, strained, pulling Max's attention back. "Why doesn't he just come in?"

Max looked at Goofy. His father stood on the threshold, a warm, slightly confused smile on his face, balancing the stack of pizza boxes. He seemed perfectly normal, perfectly Goofy.

"He can't come in unless invited, Max," PJ continued, his voice heavy with grim certainty. "Because he's a vampire."

The words hit Max like a physical blow. The dam broke. All the carefully suppressed emotions, the grief, the terror, the rage, boiled over. Tears welled in his eyes, hot and unstoppable, blurring his vision. PJ reached for him, pulling him into a comforting hug, but Max shoved him away.

It all came back, every raw, painful moment: his extended family not showing up, the humiliating discussion with the social worker where he felt like a charity case, Pete taking advantage of his vulnerability to work him like a dog. Even Peg, PJ, and Pistol, trying to be sensitive, treating him like he'd shatter at the slightest touch. None of it, none of it, would have happened if his dad was around. And there he was, standing in the doorway, whole and smiling. Everything would go back to normal. Everything would be okay, once his dad was back in his life.

A surge of desperate hope, mixed with a profound, aching need, propelled Max forward. He rushed towards his father, grabbed his hand, pulling him inside with frantic urgency. "Dad, don't you ever leave me again!" Max cried, his voice thick with tears. "Come in! Please, come in!"

Goofy chuckled, stepping over the threshold. "A-hyuck! Who says I'm a-leavin' ya, Maxie? Just found the pizza boy outside, paid him and got the pizza. Smells mighty good, too!"

"Paid him or fed on him?" PJ's voice cut through the air, sharp and accusatory. He stood a few feet away, a wooden stake clutched in his hand, its sharpened tip glinting menacingly.

"PJ, stop!" Max yelled, whirling on his friend, his voice filled with a desperate plea. "That's my dad!"

Goofy smiled at PJ, a wide, innocent grin that seemed to hold no malice. "PJ, why don't you lend me a hand in the kitchen with these fine pizzas? Max, you go on and put one of them funny movies we both like so much."

"You got it, Dad!" Max's relief was palpable. He quickly snatched The Addams Family VHS tape, a movie he and his dad had always loved, and practically threw it into the VCR. Everything was going to be okay. His dad was back.

A few moments later, Goofy returned, balancing a stack of pizza boxes. "Where's PJ?" Max asked, noticing his friend's absence.

"Went to get Pistol," his dad answered, his cheerful tone unchanged. "Start the movie."

"Shouldn't we wait for them?" Max asked.

"I'm mighty hungry; we'll catch them up," Goofy replied, taking a slice of pizza for Max and another for himself.

As the familiar, macabre antics of the Addams family filled the screen, Max snuggled close to his dad on the couch, feeling a security he hadn't realized he'd been missing so desperately. Goofy wrapped a comforting arm around him. Max grabbed another slice of pizza, feeling a sense of normalcy he craved. "Gomez is my favorite," Max mused, a small smile playing on his lips. "He's so funny, just like you, Dad."

Goofy chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "A-hyuck! Gomez is a lucky fella, ain't he? Got himself a nice wife, nice kids, and still managed to achieve his dream of becoming a lawyer." Goofy's voice took on a wistful, almost melancholic tone. "I could've been a lawyer if I wanted to, you know. Could've done a lot of things. But then... well, then you came along."

Max felt a subtle jolt. The warmth in his chest cooled. "What?" he asked, turning to look at his father.

Goofy's eyes stayed on the TV screen, his expression calm, almost passive, but his words were sharp, each one a piercing sting. "Yeah. Your mother died giving birth to you. I could've gone back to college and finished my degree, but with a baby in the house, that had to be dropped, right? I had big dreams. Could've been a lawyer like Gomez, a pilot, or a politician if I wanted. Could've lived in a big house. But then there was you, a tiny little tyke needing everything." He continued, his voice calm, steady, and devoid of emotion, yet each word landed like a cruel blow. "Had to live in that tiny trailer for years, just trying to make ends meet. Took me twice the time it should've to get that diploma, just so I could get a job here in Spoonerville."

Max felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room. A tidal wave of guilt crashed over him, heavy and suffocating. He looked at his father's passive face, staring blankly at the screen, and the detachment in his voice made the pain even sharper. He noticed Goofy hadn't even touched his pizza slice.

"Dad," Max asked, his voice broken, "Why are you saying that?"

Goofy slowly turned his head, his face shifting subtly. The familiar smile vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory grimace. And then, unnervingly, fangs extended, gleaming stark white in the dim light of the living room.

"Because that's the truth, Maxie," Goofy hissed, his eyes glinting with a chilling, unfamiliar hunger that was not for pizza.

Chapter Text

PJ followed Goofy into the kitchen, his senses on high alert. The smell of fresh pizza filled the air, but a cold knot of dread tightened in PJ's stomach. PJ clutched the stake he’d slipped into his pocket, his hand sweating around the rough wood. Goofy, meanwhile, was humming a cheerful tune, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he approached the counter.

"Alrighty then, PJ!" Goofy chirped, his voice as bright and boisterous as ever. "Let's get these delicious-looking pies onto some plates, eh? No time for dawdlin' when there's pizza to be had!" He grabbed a pizza cutter and began to slice with gusto.

PJ watched his every move. Goofy seemed… normal. Too normal. His usual, clumsy cheerfulness was cranked up to eleven, almost manic. "Yeah, Mr. G," PJ said, trying to sound casual, but his eyes narrowed. "You're awfully chipper for a guy who was, you know, dead less than a day ago."

Goofy paused, mid-slice, then chuckled, a booming, a-hyuck sound that vibrated through the kitchen. "Oh, that! Just a little misunderstanding, PJ. Got myself in a bit of a bind, you see. Sometimes, when you're Goofy, even taking a nap can turn into a grand adventure!" He winked, then, with a speed that defied his usual awkwardness, he snatched a tea towel from the counter.

"Alright, PJ, quick game!" Goofy exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with a familiar, innocent mischief. "It's the 'Guess the Pizza Topping Blindfolded' challenge! Always a family favorite!" Before PJ could react, Goofy deftly whipped the tea towel over PJ's head, pulling it tight and knotting it expertly behind his neck. The sudden darkness, coupled with the rough fabric, was instantly disorienting. PJ inhaled sharply, a gasp for air that unfortunately sucked in a mouthful of dust from the towel.

"Mmph!" PJ tried to yell, but the tea towel muffled his protest, pressing against his mouth and nose, turning his indignant shout into a pathetic squeak.

"A-hyuck! Good guess, PJ! But that's not a topping, that's a tea towel!" Goofy chuckled, still sounding jovial. PJ felt his arms being pulled behind his back with surprising strength, then something rough and familiar -a jump rope?- was expertly wound around his wrists. "Now, for the 'Silent Helper' challenge! Gotta be super quiet so we don't wake the neighbors, right?"

PJ struggled, kicking out, but Goofy’s grip was surprisingly firm. He was being dragged across the floor. "Mmmph! Mmmph!" he tried again, but it was useless.

"Almost there!" Goofy said, his voice echoing a little now. PJ felt a rush of cool, damp air as he was maneuvered through a narrow stairway. He heard a click, then the distinct thud of a heavy door closing. Darkness enveloped him, thick and absolute, punctuated by the faint scent of mildew and old cardboard.

"There now!" Goofy's voice sounded distant, cheerful as ever. "Nice and quiet in here, just perfect for contemplatin' pizza toppings! We'll be back for ya, PJ, after we've had our fill! A-hyuck!"

PJ slumped against a cold, concrete wall. He ripped the tea towel from his face, gasping for breath. He was in the basement. Tied up. By Goofy. Vampire Goofy. And that damn tea towel still tasted like dust.

"Damn it! He's going after Max!" PJ yelled, his voice echoing uselessly in the cold, dark silence. He started frantically tugging at his bonds.

PJ tugged frantically at the jump rope binding his wrists, the rough fibers biting into his skin. He twisted, pulled, and strained, his muscles burning. He thought of Max, alone in the living room with vampire Goofy. That thought fueled him, injecting a desperate strength into his exhausted limbs. He gritted his teeth, focused on the knot, and gave one final, furious yank. With a snap and a rasp, the rope loosened, and his hands were free.

He scrambled to his feet, rubbing his raw wrists, and charged at the basement door. It was a heavy, old wooden door, thick and unyielding. He slammed his shoulder into it, once, twice, three times, grunting with the effort. The door barely shuddered.

"Ugh, come on!" PJ muttered, backing up. This wasn't some flimsy cupboard door. He took a deep breath, channeling the simmering rage, the fear for Max, the raw power that came with his Slayer strength. He focused, visualizing the wood splintering, the hinges giving way. With a roar of exertion, he launched himself forward, hitting the door with his shoulder again, a bone-jarring impact. This time, there was a loud CRACK! The door frame groaned, a thin line of splintered wood appearing around the latch.

PJ stumbled back, shaking out his shoulder. It hurt like crazy, but he saw the weakness. One more time. He retreated to the far wall, took a running start, and hit the door with everything he had. The impact was deafening. The wood groaned, hinges shrieked, and then, with a final, resounding THWACK!, the door burst inward, tearing away from its frame with a shower of splinters. PJ tumbled through the opening, landing in a heap on the kitchen floor, panting.

PJ scrambled to his feet, adrenaline coursing through him. Before he could even take a step, a heavy steel chandelier, laden with pots and pans from its perch above the kitchen island, plummeted from the ceiling. PJ barely had time to register the shadow before it crashed down, striking him squarely on the head and sending him sprawling to the linoleum. His head exploded with pain, a blinding flash of white that threatened to swallow him whole. He fought to stay conscious, the room spinning around him. He'd forgotten that Vampire Goofy wasn't just a monster; he was still Goofy, and he knew this house, every creak and shortcut, every loose floorboard, far better than PJ ever would.

Through the haze, drifting from the living room, he heard Goofy's voice. It was casual, infuriatingly passive, yet chillingly clear. "Took me twice the time it should've to get that diploma, just so I could get a job here in Spoonerville."

Then, Max's small, heartbroken voice cut through the fog. "Dad, why are you saying that?"

A new voice, devoid of any warmth, any gentleness, answered. It was Goofy, but infused with a cruelty PJ couldn't comprehend coming from the usually kind man. "Because that's the truth, Maxie."

PJ gritted his teeth, his head throbbing, and tried to push against the heavy chandelier. It was too much, too heavy. He heard Max whimper, a small, choked sound. "Dad, no, that's not true."

Goofy's voice, now bursting with outright malice, cut through the air. "Oh, it's the truth, alright. I could have had a wonderful life with Penny. We had a perfect little future laid out. Not only did you take away my wife, my freedom, and any potential of ever getting back to college, but you're also an ungrateful, selfish brat! Always causing trouble, always needing me to bail you out of some mess you made, sucking the life out of everything good around me!"

Through the searing pain in his head, PJ could see what Goofy was doing. Goofy was part of Drusilla's twisted plan to break Max. Spike's words echoed in PJ's mind: Drusilla had chosen Max as her project, already marked her name on him. Now she needed him mentally broken. She was following her sire's lead, the vampire Angel, who'd killed her family and tortured her until he'd driven her mad. PJ had to get free. Now.

Fueled by a desperate surge of adrenaline, PJ ripped himself free from the chandelier. The pain in his head screamed, but it was drowned out by the urgency to reach Max. He scrambled to his feet, swaying for a moment, and stumbled into the living room.

The sight that greeted him sent a fresh wave of ice through his veins. Max was backed against the wall, his face streaked with tears, looking up at Goofy. His father's familiar features were twisted into a mask of cold fury, his fangs glinting in the dim light. Goofy's voice, calm yet venomous, relentlessly pounded Max with accusations. "...My life turned to hell after you were born! You were nothing but a burden from the start!"

"Max!" PJ yelled, launching himself forward. He tried to grab Goofy, to pull him away from his friend, but Goofy was faster. In a blur of motion, he sidestepped PJ, moving with an unnatural grace that was terrifyingly unlike Goofy. PJ dodged a swipe that could have torn his throat out, stumbling backward.

"Max! Help me!" PJ cried, turning to his friend. But Max didn't move, tears streaming silently down his face, his eyes wide and vacant. He was paralyzed by the verbal assault, by the sheer horror of hearing those words from the man he loved.

"Max, listen to me!" PJ pleaded, desperate. "This man isn't your dad! He's the monster who took over your dad's body! He's not real!"

Max still didn't respond to that. PJ let out an aggravated grunt and lunged again, aiming for Goofy's midsection, hoping to at least knock him off balance.

However, Goofy moved with a horrifying speed. He met PJ's charge not with a sidestep, but with a swift, brutal punch. The blow landed squarely on PJ's already injured jaw, snapping his head back with sickening force. Stars exploded behind his eyes, and he crumpled to the floor, a searing pain blooming across his face. He hit the ground hard, his vision swimming, tasting blood.

Through the ringing in his ears, PJ heard a guttural roar, raw with rage and agony. "Leave him alone!"

He forced his eyes open, blurry though they were. Max was on Goofy in an instant, a furious blur of motion. He didn't grab a stake, didn't think about his Slayer strength. He simply launched himself at the vampire, yelling, pushing, shoving with all the desperate force of a son betrayed, a friend defending his own. The raw, desperate shove caught Goofy off guard for a moment, pushing him back from PJ's prone form.

PJ lay dazed on the floor, his head throbbing, his jaw screaming in protest. He watched as Max slammed into Goofy, punching and kicking. For a terrifying second, it was just the two of them, a boy battling the monster wearing his father's face.

Suddenly, the front door burst inward with a resounding crash, splintering wood against the frame. Debbie surged into the living room. She was a blur of motion, rushing straight for Goofy. With surprising strength, she grabbed him from behind, hauling him off Max and sending him sprawling across the carpet. She pinned him down, her knee pressed into his chest, a polished wooden stake appearing in her hand as if by magic, its tip poised menacingly over his heart.

"Get away from them!" Debbie snarled, her face a mask of grim determination.

Then, her eyes widened. Her grip faltered, just for a split second. PJ saw her gaze rake over Goofy's familiar, now snarling features. The realization hit her, plain as day, even in the vampire's monstrous transformation. "Uncle Goofy?" she whispered in horrified disbelief.

It was all the opening Goofy needed. With a sudden, powerful surge, he headbutted Debbie, sending her reeling backward. He scrambled to his feet, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Debbie, recovering quickly, rolled to her feet, stake still in hand. The living room erupted into a whirlwind of motion. Goofy, a vampire now, was far stronger, faster than any human, but Debbie made up for her lack of raw Slayer power with sheer, brutal fighting skill. She ducked, weaved, and countered, using the furniture as cover, her movements precise and economic. A lamp shattered. A couch cushion tore.

Debbie saw an opening. With a grunt of effort, she lunged, striking true. The stake connected, but not with Goofy's heart. It plunged into his shoulder, eliciting a guttural shriek of pain from the vampire. Goofy staggered back, momentarily stunned. Debbie ripped the stake free, poised for the kill, her eyes locked on his chest.

"No, Debbie! That's my dad!" Max's voice ripped through the air, a desperate, anguished scream.

Goofy seized the moment. He lashed out with a powerful kick, sending Debbie sprawling. Then, without a moment's hesitation, he launched himself backward, smashing through the closed window with a crash of glass, and disappeared into the night.

Debbie landed hard, breathing heavily, her chest heaving. Slowly, she pushed herself up, her gaze scanning the room, finally locking onto Max. Her expression softened, grief and shock warring on her face. Max, still trembling, rushed to her. They met in the middle of the ruined living room, clinging to each other, both sobbing uncontrollably.

PJ watched the grieving cousins through the throbbing pain in his head and jaw. Then, he noticed a new man stepping into the ruined living room. He was tall, well dressed, with wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and a neatly clasped briefcase in his hand. He surveyed the chaos, the broken lamp, the splintered door, the weeping Slayer and her cousin, with an unnervingly calm expression. His gaze settled on PJ, then shifted to the growing wetness on PJ's temple.

"You're bleeding," the man stated, his voice crisp with a British accent.

PJ tentatively touched his head, his fingers coming away sticky and red. Right. The chandelier.

Without another word, the man set down his suitcase, flipped it open, and produced a pristine first aid kit. He knelt beside PJ, his movements efficient and precise. He cleaned the gash with antiseptic, gently probing the wound. As he worked, PJ's muddled brain slowly pieced it together. This man speaking with that accent must be Henry Williams, Debbie's Watcher.

PJ let Williams expertly tend to his injuries, his head thrumming with a dull ache. Through his fuzzy vision, he watched Debbie and Max cling to each other, their sobbing slowly subsiding into quiet, ragged cries.

Once Williams was finished, he looked at Debbie, who was still holding Max. "Debbie," he said, his voice soft but firm, "I know this is a difficult time, but..."

"Right." Debbie pushed herself away from Max's embrace, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She smoothed her short red hair back from her face, her expression shifting to grim determination. "Max, I need you to do something." She took Max's hand and led him to the shattered front doorway. Standing outside was a tall, gaunt man with disheveled dark hair, looking homeless, his face etched with a profound sadness.

Debbie looked at Max. "Invite him in."

PJ’s bandaged head throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. "What does that mean?" he demanded, pushing himself up. "Is that guy a vampire?"

Williams adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. "Yes, but he is a good vampire."

PJ let out a humorless laugh. "There's no such thing as a good vampire!"

Debbie sighed. "This vampire was cursed with a soul. Trust me, he's good." She urged Max again, a silent plea in her eyes.

"Come in," Max said, his voice flat with exhaustion.

PJ braced himself as the man walked in, stepping over the shattered doorframe. He moved with a quiet grace, his eyes holding a pathetic, sad look that somehow convinced PJ that Debbie and Williams knew what they were doing.

Debbie turned to them. "Boys, this is Angel." 

PJ instinctively grabbed Max, pulling him protectively away from the vampire. "Are you nuts?!" he yelled, his voice cracking with disbelief and rising terror. "You made us invite Angel in?! The vicious vampire that tortured Drusilla and rendered her insane?!" His accusatory gaze snapped between Debbie and Williams. "You two are vampires, too, aren't you?!"

Williams adjusted his glasses, his expression calm, almost detached, amidst PJ's furious outburst. "Quite the contrary, young man. Debbie and I are most certainly not vampires. And as for Angel..." He paused, gesturing with a precise hand towards the brooding figure who now stood awkwardly near the shattered doorframe, casting a long shadow in the dim light. "He was, indeed, a singularly evil and dangerous creature once. The very definition of a rogue vampire."

A chill ran down PJ's spine as he remembered Spike and Drusilla's conversation about Angel in their crypt.

"However," Williams continued, "his reign of terror was brought to an abrupt halt by a Gypsy curse. The curse restored his human soul. It forced him to feel every ounce of pain, every moment of suffering he had ever inflicted. An eternity of remorse."

Debbie stepped forward, her hand resting gently on Angel's arm. "He hasn't fed on humans for years now," she explained, her voice soft but firm. "He lives off rats. That's why he looks so... well, so gaunt. He's been so consumed with guilt that he's been living alone on the streets, punishing himself for all the terrible things he did."

PJ's furious grip on Max's arm loosened slightly. He looked at Angel. The man stood hunched, his shoulders slumped, his eyes fixed on some unseen point on the floor. There was a profound, almost intense sadness emanating from him, a deep-seated weariness that PJ recognized, though in a much more extreme form, from Max. He couldn't deny it; the vampire didn't look menacing, just profoundly miserable. The idea of a monster burdened by its own atrocities was foreign, yet looking at Angel's passive, grief-stricken face, PJ felt a strange, uncomfortable glimmer of something akin to pity.

"We ran into Angel by accident," Debbie continued, stepping back and surveying the damaged living room with a professional eye. "We'd been in New York, trying to locate Bayanka. But Williams just had to hit pause on that critical mission to fulfill his lifelong dream of interviewing Angel. Because clearly, fanboying over the Fanged Four was a far more pressing issue than, say, our actual objective!"

"Fanged Four?" PJ echoed.

Debbie ticked them off on her fingers: "Darla, Angel, Drusilla, and Spike."

Williams scoffed, adjusting his glasses indignantly. "For your information, the Watchers Council had nothing, absolutely nothing, about Angel's disappearance for decades in any of their documents. I will be the first to bring this information to light!" His eyes gleamed with a scholar's fervor, momentarily forgetting the chaos around them.

"But not right now," Debbie interjected, cutting off Williams's enthusiastic tangent. Her gaze was sharp, serious. "Especially since Spike and Drusilla don't know about Angel's curse."

"They still think Angel's evil?" PJ asked, his brow furrowed, trying to wrap his head around this new layer of deception.

"That's right," Debbie confirmed, a grim smile touching her lips. "And we can use that to our advantage."

~*~*~*~*~

PJ sat amidst the wreckage of the living room, picking at a piece of pepperoni from a pizza slice that had somehow survived the chaos. The fighting, the revelations, the sheer absurdity of it all had left him completely drained. Beside him, Max sat pale and silent, stroking Waffles, who had, against all odds, slept through the entire chaotic ordeal, including the creepy sight of his former owner transforming into a vampire. Debbie sat quietly next to Max, eating, while Williams, across from them, laid out their next move.

They needed their strength, Debbie explained, because she and Williams hadn't just returned to Spoonerville for a casual visit. They were here to take Max and PJ to face Bayanka, the ancient demon responsible for transferring Debbie's Slayer powers to Max and PJ. And before they could even think about confronting such a powerful entity, Williams noted, Max and PJ needed significantly more training. Slayer powers without proper discipline and technique weren't nearly as efficient as they should be.

PJ glanced at Angel, who stood like a silent sentinel in the corner of the room, a picture of profound misery. A vampire wouldn't want to eat pizza. PJ then noticed that Max wasn't eating either. Debbie, seeing this, reached out and placed a gentle hand on Max's shoulder. "You haven’t touched your pizza, Max. You need to recharge before we head to the cemetery."

Max mumbled something about not being hungry, then excused himself, heading towards his bedroom to gather more weapons. PJ watched him go, a fresh wave of concern washing over him.

Debbie turned to PJ, her expression softening. "When did Uncle Goofy... die?" she asked, her voice hushed.

"Four days ago," PJ replied, rubbing the bandage on his head. "Monday. Max and I found him in the street. But he didn't come back as a vampire until tonight."

"Poor Max," Debbie said sadly. "No one told me about Uncle Goofy's death."

"My mom tried to reach his family, but couldn't," PJ explained. "Max gave her your mom's number, and now she's actually in New Jersey, trying to get her to Spoonerville."

"My mom?" Debbie looked surprised.

PJ shrugged. "Yeah, your mom is pretty much the only relative suitable to be Max's legal guardian now." He hesitated, then he pressed on. "Does your mom... does she even like Max?"

Debbie seemed offended by the question. "Of course she loves Max! What makes you think she doesn't like him?"

"Well, Max told me he hasn't seen her in years," PJ stammered, his face reddening.

Debbie paused, a shadow crossing her features. "Mom and Uncle Goofy had a bit of a falling out years ago, back when his house burned down and he and Max had to move into that old trailer." Debbie sighed, her eyes distant. "Mom didn't approve of Aunt Penny and Uncle Goofy's marriage because he was a college dropout. Without a proper degree, Uncle Goofy couldn't land any of the 'good' jobs and couldn't afford a proper house for him and Max. My mom tried to take custody of Max twice, but failed both times. After the second time, Mom stopped visiting altogether."

"Gee," PJ said, shaking his head. "No wonder Max feels like she wouldn't adopt him."

"That's silly," Debbie replied. "Even though Mom stopped visiting, she still called to check on Max. Though Uncle Goofy definitely called her more often than she called him."

PJ and Debbie fell silent as Max came back down the stairs, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, clinking ominously with the weight of sharpened wood and various implements.

Debbie finished her last piece of pizza, chewing thoughtfully. "Alright," she declared, wiping her hands. "Time to hit the cemetery."

~*~*~*~*~

The cool night air bit at PJ’s exposed skin as they entered the Spoonerville Cemetery. Moonlight cast long, skeletal shadows from the headstones, turning the familiar, peaceful resting place into something ominous. Angel stood off to the side while Williams had already set up a makeshift target range using old, crumbling tombstones.

"Alright, gentlemen," Williams announced, his voice crisp and carrying in the quiet night. He held up a small crossbow, identical to PJ’s, with an air of clinical efficiency. "Let's begin with the fundamentals of marksmanship. A Slayer without precision is merely a glorified punching bag, albeit one with supernatural strength."

Debbie loaded a bolt with fluid grace, sighted, and thwack! – the bolt embedded itself precisely in the mossy 'R' of a distant headstone marked 'RIP.' "See?" she said, turning to them. "It's all about focus, breath, and trusting your instinct."

PJ took his turn. He loaded a bolt, adjusted his grip, remembered his earlier disastrous attempts in the living room, and took a deep breath. He aimed, focused on a particularly smug-looking cherub statue, and fired. The bolt whistled through the air and struck the cherub's stone forehead with a satisfying thunk. PJ grinned. He was actually getting the hang of this.

Max's bolts, however, flew wide, missing the targets by yards, sometimes even hitting other headstones with pathetic thuds. He sighed constantly, his shoulders slumped. The events of the night, the revelation about his father, must be weighing heavily on him, making it impossible for him to concentrate.

"Excellent work, PJ!" Williams praised and then turned to Max. "Max, you're gripping the stock too tightly. Relax your hand. You're fighting the weapon, not aiming it."

After numerous attempts at crossbow proficiency, Debbie decided to switch gears. "Alright, enough with the long-range artillery for now. Let's work on close quarters. A Slayer needs to be just as deadly up close." She moved with a fluid power PJ could only dream of, demonstrating a series of quick, brutal martial arts moves. A block, a parry, a sudden kick, a disarm. She made it look effortless.

"Now, you two try it on Angel," Debbie instructed, nodding towards the brooding vampire.

PJ hesitated for only a second, then squared his shoulders. He launched himself at Angel, trying to mimic Debbie's first move, a quick parry followed by a jab. Angel, despite his obvious disinterest in the training, responded with surprising agility, deflecting PJ's clumsy attack with ease. PJ kept trying, throwing himself into each move, pushing himself, determined to impress. He managed to land a few glancing blows, earning a flicker of something in Angel's perpetually sad eyes.

When it was his turn, Max moved half-heartedly. His kicks were weak, his punches lacked conviction. Angel dodged them effortlessly, not even needing to exert himself.

Debbie watched him, her brow furrowed with concern. She stepped in, trying to guide Max's posture, offering pointers. "Max, put your weight into it! Remember the transfer of energy! Your power comes from within, but you have to direct it!"

But Max merely mumbled, his eyes glazed over. He was clearly in no mood to learn.

PJ saw the distress on Max's face. This was the look of someone pushed too far. "Gee," PJ interjected, interrupting Debbie's patient instruction. "It's getting pretty late, isn't it? Some of us have to go to school tomorrow, you know. And by some of us, I'm talking about me." He rubbed his head for emphasis, hoping to subtly convey his own exhaustion.

Debbie shared a dissatisfied stare with Williams. Time was indeed running short, and they desperately needed Max and PJ to be ready for Bayanka.

Finally, Debbie sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "Alright," she declared, her voice resonating with reluctant acceptance. "It's all right. We can pick up where we left off tomorrow."

~*~*~*~*~

Back at Max's house, the discussion turned to sleeping arrangements. Debbie and Max would take Goofy's room, a decision that made PJ's stomach clench in sympathy for Max. Henry Williams would claim the living room couch. And PJ? PJ would be sharing the bunk bed with a vampire. PJ's mind, in its weary state, tried to make this fact acceptable by reminding himself that it was a soul-having good vampire. Yeah, that made all the difference.

PJ and Angel stood awkwardly in the middle of Max's bedroom. The bunk bed loomed in front of them. PJ pointed to the top bunk. "Alright, Fangs McBroody. You get the top." He wanted to see all of Angel's moves, or lack thereof, from his vantage point below.

Angel, true to form, merely gave a slight nod, his gaze distant. PJ reached into the duffle bag Pistol had given him. He pulled out a pair of pajamas and then glanced at Angel. "Uh, could you…?" He gestured for some privacy. Angel, taking the hint, turned his back.

"So," PJ began, taking off his blue jacket, "this whole 'Gypsy curse' thing. They just popped your soul back in like a forgotten battery?"

Angel shifted but said nothing.

"Or was it more like," PJ pressed on, undoing his pants, "you woke up one morning and thought, 'Gosh, I really regret all that eternal torment and mayhem. Maybe I should go volunteer at a soup kitchen and brood artistically in dark alleys?'"

Angel sighed, a soft, weary sound. "It… was unpleasant."

PJ snorted. "Unpleasant. Right. I can only imagine what 'unpleasant' means for a guy who's been effectively torturing others for centuries." PJ started to button his pajama top. "Well, don't mind me. I'm just gonna try to ignore the fact that my new roommate could probably peel my skin off with his fingernails. No offense. Okay, all done. You can look now."

Angel simply stared at him, unblinking. He still looked miserable, consumed by his inner torment. PJ sighed. So much for witty banter. Some vampires just weren't built for a laugh track.

~*~*~*~*~

PJ awoke to the soft creak of the bedroom door, keeping his eyes closed and feigning sleep. He listened as light footsteps approached, identifying them as Max's. He heard the rustle of clothes as Max climbed onto the top bunk, and PJ braced himself, wondering what Max would do.

A low whisper broke the silence, Max's voice. "Angel?"

Silence. PJ strained his ears, but heard nothing.

"Angel, wake up," Max insisted.

A groan, then silence again. "We need to talk," Max said.

Still, no response from Angel. True to form, Angel was apparently still opting for the strong, silent type.

Max's voice came again, tinged with desperate urgency. "Please. Please tell me. How did you get cursed?"

Another stretch of silence followed, and PJ held his breath.

Then, Angel's voice, a low rasp PJ had barely heard before: "What is it that you want, kid?"

PJ opened his eyes, seeing only Max's feet on the steps to the top bunk. It was as if sight would enhance his hearing.

"I want to curse my dad with a soul." Max's whisper was barely audible, yet it cut through the silence like a knife.

Chapter Text

Max silently climbed onto the top bunk, the springs sighing under his weight. Angel was already there, lying still and facing away from him. In the faint window light, Max gripped the last wooden step, his gaze fixed on Angel's back. PJ was asleep in the bunk below, so Max kept his voice to a hushed whisper.

"Angel?"

The vampire didn't stir immediately. Max waited, his heart pounding a nervous rhythm against his ribs. "Angel, wake up."

A groan escaped Angel, and his body shifted slightly. "We need to talk," Max whispered, watching Angel's back for a reaction.

Angel shifted again, turning his head to look at Max. His eyes, even in the gloom, held a profound weariness.

"Please," Max said, "Please, tell me. How did you get cursed?"

A prolonged moment of silence followed. Angel regarded him with an unreadable expression, and Max's nerves frayed.

Finally, Angel's voice, low and raspy, broke the silence. "What is it that you want, kid?"

"I want to curse my dad with a soul," Max whispered, the words a desperate plea.

"I don't exactly know how," Angel replied, his voice barely a murmur. "The curse was put on me. I didn't seek it out." He paused, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. "I'm sure it involves black arts. Dark magic. You shouldn't be messing with that, kid."

"But I need my dad back!" Max insisted, a raw ache in his chest.

Angel's expression, always somber, seemed to deepen. "You won't exactly get your dad back." He spoke carefully. "A soul doesn't mean the return of the same person. We, as vampires, we have the traits of our human selves, and the memories. But we are not the same person who died. The demon influences you."

Max’s mind reeled. He thought of his dad's words, his cruel, calm accusations: My life turned to hell after you were born. Every single hope, every dream... shattered because of you! You were a burden from the start! The memory stung like a fresh wound, and Max's breath hitched as a terrible, crushing thought began to form.

"Could it be… could it be that what my dad said… is what he really felt about me?" Max asked, his voice hesitant. "And that before, he didn't say it because of his human soul? Does not having a soul make a person more honest?"

Angel stared at Max for a long moment, his eyes unblinking. The profound sadness in his gaze seemed to soften, just slightly. He spoke gently, his voice a quiet rumble. "Whatever he said to hurt you was not his true feelings. He was speaking and acting from the perspective of the demon that inhabited his body. The demon twists your essence. It finds your vulnerabilities, your darkest fears, and uses them to inflict pain."

Max felt a wave of profound relief wash over him at Angel's words. "So it wasn't him?" he whispered, desperate for confirmation.

"No, kid," Angel affirmed, his voice gentle. "It wasn't him."

Max still needed to be sure, though. He needed his father back, the real him. "But if he had a soul, he wouldn't be like that, right?"

Angel sighed. "I understand what you're feeling."

"You don't know what I'm feeling!" Max retorted. He clenched his hands on the bunk bed steps. "You caused what I'm feeling to other people!"

A heavy silence descended. Angel didn't react, his face unreadable in the dim light. After a tense moment, Max asked, his voice calmer but still laced with impatience, "Are you going to help me or not?"

Angel slowly shook his head. "I think you should forget about it. Your dad, as you know him, will never come back."

Max's mouth thinned with anger. "Thanks for nothing," he muttered, his frustration evident as he descended the bunk's steps. On the floor, he noticed PJ in the bottom bunk, eyes too tightly shut, too still, too perfect. "I know you're awake, PJ," he stated, his voice strained with anger, before leaving the room.

PJ was right behind him. "Man, are you nuts?" he whispered, his voice a mix of concern and disbelief as they walked in the hallway outside Max's room. "You're gonna play with dark magic?"

"Anything to bring my dad back," Max said, not slowing his pace.

"But Max, he won't be exactly back!" PJ asserted, catching up. "He'll still be a vampire! And a Goofy-brooding vampire, at that. Which is nothing like Goofy at all."

"I'll take him anyway," Max declared, his jaw set with fierce determination. He pushed open the door to his dad's room and stepped inside, the familiar scent of his father's old cologne, of dusty books and forgotten hobbies, washing over him. Memories flooded his mind: his dad's booming laugh and his endless supply of terrible puns. Max's eyes fell on the figure sleeping in the bed. For a brief, heartbreaking moment, he imagined it was his dad, whole and alive. He reached out a hesitant hand, placing it on the arm of the person sleeping in the darkness.

The figure stirred. Max's heart leaped. He imagined his dad turning over, rubbing his eyes, and asking, "Did you have a nightmare, Maxie?"

But it wasn't his dad. It was Debbie. She looked up at him with sleepy eyes, her brow furrowed with concern. "Max? Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Max mumbled, pulling his hand back. "Go back to sleep." He walked around the bed, pausing to pat Waffles, his dad's cat, who was accustomed to sleeping at the foot of the bed. Gathering the protesting Waffles into his arms, Max lay down beside Debbie. He was determined to find a way to curse his dad, even if no one helped him. He would do it alone if he had to.

~*~*~*~

Early morning light was just beginning to paint the sky when Max found himself standing in front of the closed magic shop. The familiar storefront, with its whimsical displays of disappearing handkerchiefs and fake wands, used to fill him with a sense of childlike wonder. Today, a knot of dread tightened in his stomach. He didn't know what he was looking for, only that he desperately needed help.

A figure shuffled up to the door, fumbling with a set of keys. It was Garbanzo, the shop owner, his wild hair even more disheveled in the early hour. He spotted Max and grinned. "Oh, you're the kid who used the magic hat, aren't you?" he chuckled, his voice raspy. "Here for more magic tricks? Perhaps the ol' disappearing coin gag?"

Max shook his head. "No, Mr. Garbanzo. I'm here for something else."

Garbanzo unlocked the door, the bell above it jingling merrily as they stepped inside. The shop, which had once seemed thrilling and exciting, now looked… ordinary. Just a place filled with cheap plastic toys and dusty novelty items. Max was afraid Garbanzo wouldn't have what he truly needed.

"So," Garbanzo asked, turning from flicking on a few dim lights, "what brings you to my humble abode at such an ungodly hour?"

Max took a deep breath, his voice barely a whisper. "Do you believe in vampires?"

Garbanzo let out an awkward, exaggerated laugh, a sound like a rusty hinge. "Woo-woo! Where did that come from? Been watching too many late-night horror flicks, eh?" He gave Max a theatrical wink.

Max felt a flicker of relief at the overly dramatic reaction. It meant Garbanzo did believe in vampires. "I know they exist," Max said firmly. "I know about vampires. And demons. And Slayers. They're real."

Garbanzo’s jovial facade evaporated, replaced by a profound seriousness that Max hadn't seen before. "So, you know," he said, his voice flat.

Max nodded, the familiar lump rising in his throat. He looked at his hands, unable to meet Garbanzo’s gaze. "My dad," he whispered, the word catching. "He… he turned into a vampire."

Garbanzo stared at him sympathetically, the kindness in his eyes genuine. "I'm sorry, kid. Truly I am."

"I know about the Gypsy curse," Max continued, the words tumbling out. "The one that puts a soul back into a vampire. I was wondering… do you have the ingredients? Do you know how to perform the spell?"

Garbanzo frowned, shaking his head. "That spell is far too dangerous."

Max’s eyes lit up, a desperate hope blooming in his chest. "So you do know about it?!"

Garbanzo sighed, running a hand through his wild hair. "Yes, I know of it. That particular spell was made by a Romani clan, and it was specific. For one vampire. It was done out of vengeance, pure and simple. It does not suit your dad. It may not work on him."

"Please," Max begged, his voice cracking. "I'll try anything. Maybe… maybe the curse will work on my dad, too. Maybe it'll bring him back."

Garbanzo looked at Max with deep sympathy. "I understand your desperation. Truly, I do." He walked over to a dusty, locked cabinet and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound volume. "I have a volume here that belonged to my grandfather. It documents other scholars' attempts to restore souls to vampires." He placed the tome on the counter. "But I must warn you, so far, none of them have worked."

Max's anger flared. "Then why should I even read it?"

"Maybe," Garbanzo offered gently, "one of them might work on your father. These are varied, complex rituals."

"I don't have time to go over all those spells!" Max yelled, slamming his hand on the counter. "I need the one that did work! The Gypsy curse!"

Garbanzo shook his head slowly. "Then, I'm sorry. I can't help you with that specific ritual. It is unique, and not something I possess."

Tears blurred Max's vision. "Please! There has to be a way!"

Suddenly, the shop door burst open, a jingle of bells announcing a figure wrapped in a dark, smoking blanket. Max cursed himself for not bringing a stake, automatically taking a fighting stance as he watched smoke curl from the scorched fabric. The blanket was thrown back, revealing Angel, his face etched with a grim sulk.

"What are you doing here?" Max demanded, wiping his eyes furiously.

"Your friend was getting ready for school, and woke me up." Angel narrowed his eyes at Max in disapproval. "I saw you through the window, sneaking out of the house. I followed."

"Why?" Max snapped, his anger at Garbanzo transferring to Angel. "It's not like you care what I do!"

Angel stepped closer, his gaze fixed on Max. "I'm here to stop you from making a big mistake."

Max shoved him back. "Just get lost, Angel!"

Garbanzo gasped. "By Jove! Is this... is this the famous Angelus? The vampire cursed with a soul?"

"How did you even get in here?" Max asked Angel. "Shouldn't you have to be invited?"

Garbanzo quickly explained. "Vampires can enter public establishments like shops and schools uninvited. It's private residences where the invitation is required."

"Whatever!" Max huffed, glaring at both Garbanzo and Angel. His jaw was set. "If you two won't help me, I'll find a way to curse my dad myself!" He spun on his heel and stormed out of the magic shop, leaving the two men in the dusty interior.

He'd barely taken a few steps when a shadowy form materialized beside him. Angel, still wrapped in his blanket against the 9 o'clock sun, grabbed Max by the arm and deftly steered him into a narrow, shadowed alleyway, away from the direct sunlight.

"You can't stop me!" Max demanded, pulling his arm away.

Angel's eyes met his. "I will help you."

Max stared, his anger momentarily forgotten, replaced by skepticism. "Really?"

"Yes," Angel said, his voice flat but firm. "It's better if I'm with you, so you don't get hurt." He paused, his gaze drifting towards the sunlight seeping into the alley. "Tonight, I'll look for leads. See if there's a way to restore your father's soul."

The words, so simply spoken, hit Max with the force of a tidal wave. Hope, raw and overwhelming, surged through him. Without thinking, Max launched himself forward, wrapping his arms around Angel in a fierce hug. He felt Angel stiffening instantly, his body rigid. As Max pulled back from the hug, he let out a laugh at the awkward look on Angel's face. Better get him home before he fried.

"Alright, Dracula," Max said, clapping Angel on the arm, "Operation: Get Vampire Home Without Spontaneous Combustion is a go! The blanket's pretty lame, even for you."

Angel merely raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, new plan!" Max scanned the alley. His eyes landed on a discarded cardboard box, once home to a large appliance. It was big enough. Maybe. "The Cardboard Coffin Express!"

He wrestled the box upright effortlessly. Thanks, Slayer powers. "Alright, get in!" he commanded, gesturing grandly.

Angel looked at the box, then at Max, a flicker of something that might have been disbelief crossing his broody features. "You want me to... get in a box?"

"It's a tactical maneuver!" Max insisted, pushing the box closer. "Think of it as a mobile, eco-friendly, vampire-proof transport unit. Plus, you'll blend right in with the trash. Nobody suspects the recycling bin!"

Angel sighed, a sound that conveyed centuries of resigned suffering. With a surprising lack of dignity for a creature of the night, he folded himself into the box, his long limbs bending at awkward angles. He barely fit, his knees practically touching his chin.

"Perfect!" Max cheered, pulling the top flaps shut. Good thing vamps didn't need to breathe. He grabbed one end of the box. "Ready for your morning commute, Fang Boy?"

A muffled groan came from inside the box.

"Excellent!" Max grinned, already straining with the weight. "Next stop: Not-So-Sunny Side Up Home!"

Max navigated the bustling morning streets, dodging bewildered pedestrians and narrowly avoiding a collision with a fruit stand, all while pushing the "Cardboard Coffin Express." Each jostle and bump was met with a low groan from within, which only spurred Max on to find the most entertainingly bumpy route. He chuckled to himself, imagining Angel's dignified scowl as they trundled past a group of giggling schoolchildren who pointed and whispered about the oddly shaped "recycling bin."

They were only a few yards from the house when Max saw Debbie standing in the doorway, frantically scanning the area. The front door, still broken from yesterday, had been propped shut by a bookcase.

Debbie's eyes widened with panic when she saw him. "Max! Where have you been?!" she hissed, her voice an alarmed whisper. "Mom is here!"

Max’s gaze snapped to Mrs. Pete’s car that was parked in the driveway next door. A cold dread seeped into his stomach, mixing with the exertion of pushing a vampire in a box.

Debbie’s gaze immediately fell on the oversized cardboard box Max was struggling with. Her eyes widened even further.

"That's Angel," Max clarified, knocking on the box.

"Can I come out now?" Angel asked from inside.

"No," Debbie whisper-snapped. She pointed urgently towards Max’s bedroom window even though Angel couldn't see it. "Angel, quick! Sneak into Max's room! Don't let Mom see you!"

Angel's attempt to discreetly access Max's second-story window, while still encased in his cardboard chariot, proved to be a masterclass in undignified stealth. Max watched, thoroughly entertained, as the oversized box began a slow, scraping ascent up the brick wall, a series of muffled thuds and frustrated grunts emanating from within. It was less a stealthy infiltration and more a stubborn, vertical struggle, made all the more comical by the occasional glimpse of a pale, exasperated hand desperately fumbling for a foothold from a torn flap.

Debbie grabbed Max's arm, pulling him towards the front door. "Listen," she whispered, her words tumbling out in a rush. "Mom was totally shocked to see me here. I was supposed to be on that school trip, you know, the 'educational homework retreat' in the mountains. I had to tell her I got the news about your dad's death, and I came straight here to see you. And Williams had to pretend to be my history teacher who drove me back. It was… a stretch."

Max's heart hammered against his ribs as Debbie pulled him towards the front door. He hadn't seen his Aunt Carol since he was about six, when she'd abruptly stopped visiting. He barely remembered her.

He stepped into the living room, which now looked even more chaotic in the harsh morning light. His Aunt Carol stood with Mrs. P and Williams amidst the scattered debris. She was a tall woman, her red hair pulled back in a severe bun, and spectacles perched on her nose. There was an undeniable air of arrogance about her.

"I can't believe this," Aunt Carol was saying, her voice sharp and critical as she gestured at the torn couch.

Mrs. P's face was flushed. "I swear I left the house in good condition."

Williams let out a nervous chuckle. "The boys were merely engaged in a rather enthusiastic game of 'pirates,' I believe, with the pillows and various kitchen utensils when Debbie and I arrived."

Aunt Carol glared at Mrs. P. "You told me your husband was watching my nephew!"

"Oh, believe you me," Mrs. P said, her hands on her hips, "I'm going to have a hell of a talk with him!"

Max watched his aunt, an overwhelming feeling of discomfort settling in his gut. She didn't seem anything like PJ's mom, who was always so warm and understanding. Max found himself wondering, not for the first time, if his own mother had been nice or not, seeing as she'd passed away when he was too young to remember.

Finally, Aunt Carol's gaze landed on him. Her eyes, a striking shade of green, narrowed slightly.

"Hi, honey!" Mrs. P said tenderly, stepping forward to give Max an affectionate hug, which he gratefully returned.

Aunt Carol stood rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on him with clear displeasure. "You look exactly like your father," she stated, her voice flat and devoid of warmth. Her eyes then swept over his disheveled clothes and messy hair, and almost fainted at the sight of his untied shoes. "And you look like you've been sleeping in a ditch. What on earth happened in here?" She surveyed the chaotic living room, then her glare snapped back to him. "How could you trash your own house like this? Didn't your dad ever teach you to take care of your things?"

Williams stepped forward, attempting to intervene. "You know, young boys can be…"

Aunt Carol held up a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. "I'm talking to my nephew." She turned her icy glare back to Max. "Honestly, Goofy was never fit to take care of you, now was he?"

Max felt a familiar heat rise in his chest at the insult to his dad. But instead of defending him, he lowered his angry gaze to the floor. The last thing he needed was to drive away the only relative who could save him from ending up in a foster home.

Debbie stepped forward, her voice sharp with instant protest. "Mom, that's enough! There's no need to be so... blunt!"

Aunt Carol merely raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her gaze unwavering. "On the contrary. Tough love is what's needed. Now," she turned her attention back to Max, her voice firm, "Max, take me to your room. I need to see the condition of your living space. And don't think for a second I won't be checking under your bed."

"I'm coming too," Debbie interjected, moving to stand beside Max.

"No, you're not," Aunt Carol refused, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Max cast a quick, desperate glance at Debbie, who looked just as helpless. As he walked towards his bedroom, he purposefully raised his voice, loud enough for anyone inside to hear. "This is MY room, Aunt Carol! Just so you know! It's, uh, very... personal in here!"

As Max entered the room, he saw his closet doors click shut. Angel must have hidden there. His aunt swept in behind him, her eyes immediately scanning every corner. "This place is a pigsty! And what is that awful smell?" she sniffed, wrinkling her nose.

Max noticed a crossbow on the floor and quickly kicked it under the bed. He then remembered his aunt's threat to look under the bed, but his attention was immediately drawn to her moving toward the closet where his undead friend was hiding. Max suddenly stood squarely in front of his closet, arms spread wide in a desperate attempt to block it from view. "Oh, uh, that's just... my special air freshener! It's a new scent, 'Preteen Boy & Mystery Dust'!" he babbled, trying to sound casual.

Aunt Carol, however, ignored his theatrics. Her sharp eyes darted to his unmade bed, or rather, beds. "Why do you need double bunk beds?" she questioned, her gaze scrutinizing the unusual setup. "What's the use of the bottom bunk with wheels, and the closet of drawers holding the top bunk? Where did your father buy this contraption?"

"I love my unique bed!" Max babbled, trying to sound enthusiastic. "No one has double bunk beds like it, and the drawers are important, more space for my things." He gestured wildly at the drawers, subtly using his foot to slide the crossbow out from under the bed. Just as his aunt turned to speak to him, he expertly flung the crossbow into the closet.

"These drawers are stacked with nothing but useless comic books," his aunt declared, holding out a Batman comic as proof.

"Oh, but they're history," Max argued. "Each one tells a story, teaches you about right and wrong, about standing up for what's good. They're about heroes who make a difference!" He gestured wildly at the offending comic. "That Batman comic explores the depths of human psychology, the struggle against inner demons, the importance of justice in a corrupt world!" He paused, slightly out of breath, and then added in a slightly softer tone, "And besides, they're really fun to read."

His aunt performed a stuck-up version of an eye-roll as she tucked the Batman comic back into the drawer and shut it with a definitive click. Max watched, heart pounding, as her gaze drifted towards his old clothes chest, the very one where his slayer gear lay inside.

In a flash of desperate inspiration, Max snatched his report card from his desk. With the agility of a squirrel defending its last acorn, he launched himself onto the makeshift weapons chest, landing just as his aunt reached for it. He held out the crumpled card with a saccharine smile. "Did you see my report card, Auntie?" he chirped, feigning innocent enthusiasm. As she took it, he remembered, with a sickening lurch, that his grades were less than stellar. He bit his lip, bracing himself for the inevitable hurricane.

"These are abysmal!" Her lips pursed in distaste as she scanned the report card. "Barely passing in algebra! This is exactly what I mean. You haven't had a proper upbringing, have you?" She leaned forward, bringing herself to his eye level, her glasses glistening. "Your mom was a true intellect. She graduated high school with honors. She was the house's provider while your dad mooched off her, being a stay-at-home husband."

Max stared intently at his untied shoelaces, his mind attempting to erect a fortress against the barrage of his aunt's criticisms. She was meticulously detailing every flaw, every misstep, every single reason why his mom had been too good for his dad. The familiar sting of his father being torn down, coupled with the subtle, yet potent, guilt Aunt Carol was expertly laying at his feet, was becoming almost unbearable.

His gaze flickered towards the closet once more. Through the narrow, almost imperceptible gap in the doors, he caught a glimpse. Angel's eyes gleamed through the darkness, a faint, eerie luminescence, peering out and staring long and intently at him. Max hated how exposed he felt, how his entire life had become an open book for people to analyze and criticize at will. This wasn't new; even before his dad's death, his principal had somehow concluded his dad was an unfit parent and needed to remarry. That was a detail he'd definitely keep from his aunt; she'd just twist it into another accusation against his dad.

~*~*~*~*~

The air in Pete's dining room was so thick, you could almost taste it. Max felt squished between PJ and Debbie, every fiber of his being aware of Aunt Carol's stiff, disapproving presence directly across their makeshift table. He'd known this was coming. Just before dinner, he'd overheard Mrs. P practically spitting fire at Pete in the kitchen, her "whisper-shouting" barely a whisper at all. "You let those boys stay alone in that empty house?!" she'd shrieked, her voice a tight, furious wire. Pete's cool "Builds character" had sealed Max's fate. He knew right then that dinner would be a total minefield.

Peg had pushed two square tables together to accommodate the unusual number of guests. The spread was hearty but heavy, a typical Mrs. P meal: a giant casserole, mashed potatoes, and green bean a-la-anything. Williams offered polite praise. "My compliments to the chef, Mrs. Pete. This, ah, casserole is quite... robust." Peg nodded, a weary smile on her face.

"So, PJ, Pistol," Peg chirped, her voice a determinedly bright attempt to cut through the thick tension. "How was school today?"

PJ nearly choked on his mashed potatoes. "Fine," he blurted out, his eyes wide.

"What about you, Pistol-kins?" Peg prodded, turning her attention to the younger girl.

Completely oblivious to the unspoken drama, Pistol launched into a rambling, glitter-filled epic of her kindergarten day, complete with a dramatic reenactment of snack time.

Max just picked at his food, feeling an overwhelming heaviness settle over him. He mumbled, "I feel full," hoping to be excused.

"Nonsense," Aunt Carol’s sharp voice cut in. "You haven't even finished half of that. You need to eat, young man."

"Mom, please, leave him be," Debbie interjected softly.

But Aunt Carol was unyielding. "He needs his nourishment. Finish your plate, Max."

Max felt a hot flush creep up his neck. A surge of defiant anger, a desperate need to lash out, overtook him. He glared at Aunt Carol, then, with a challenging thrust, shoved a forkful of casserole into his mouth. He jammed the rest of the food in, practically inhaling it, chewing rapidly and swallowing with a desperate gulp. He almost choked, gagging slightly. PJ quickly patted him on the back.

Aunt Carol's eyes narrowed. "That's enough, Max," she said, her voice tight with suppressed fury. "Go to your room. And wipe that last piece of food from your mouth." She extended a napkin.

Max stubbornly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then shoved his chair back, hearing her disapproving 'tsk' as he stormed towards the stairs.

He stepped into PJ's room and eyed the thin mattress on the floor, his designated sleeping spot. Aunt Carol had pushed for a hotel, but Peg had ultimately swayed her, assuring her the Petes' house could accommodate everyone. Max was set up in PJ's room, Williams was banished to the attic, and Peg was with Pistol. Aunt Carol and Debbie were sharing Pete and Peg's bed, much to Pete's obvious annoyance. Max had overheard his grumbling as he'd been forced to vacuum the living room as punishment for kicking the boys out earlier.

Max stared out PJ's window at his own house. Aunt Carol had made it crystal clear he wasn't to set foot inside, convinced it was the root of his trauma. She was right about the trauma, just not the reason why. He wondered if Angel was keeping his promise, searching for a way to bring Max's dad back, or at least his soul. The clinking of utensils and murmur of voices still drifted up from downstairs. Seizing the moment, Max silently climbed out the window.

He swiftly ran from Pete's lawn onto his own. The front door was still blocked by the overturned bookcase, so he slipped into the house through the kitchen door. The kitchen was a chaotic mess: scattered utensils, the steel chandelier lying on the floor, and the dark stains of PJ's blood still visible. Max took a shaky breath and hurried out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into his bedroom.

He found Angel clad in dark jeans, a pristine white shirt, and a black leather jacket that made him look like he'd just stepped off a movie set. Max felt surge of awe. He looked cool.

"What are you doing here?" Angel asked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he looked at Max. "Shouldn't you be in deep trouble with your aunt right now?"

"She's still stuffing her face," Max replied, a little breathlessly. "Are you going out?"

Angel moved gracefully towards the window, a subtle shift in his posture. "Yes," he confirmed, his attention now fixed on the world outside.

"Are you going to a vampire club to meet a vampire date?" Max joked uneasily. "Just make sure she doesn't try to go for your neck on the first date, unless you're into that kind of thing, of course!"

Angel glanced back, his eyes meeting Max's over his shoulder. "I'm going to find a way to restore your father's soul."

The tension drained from Max's face, replaced by a genuine, unburdened smile, the first one that reached his eyes all day. "Thank you," he whispered, the words raw with emotion.

Angel offered a brief nod. Then, with a silent, impossible grace, he pushed off the windowsill and melted into the night. Max stared out into the darkness, a fresh wave of awe washing over him. He wished he could be that effortlessly cool.

~*~*~*~*~

Max slipped back into PJ's room through the window, moving with practiced stealth. He landed softly on the floor, relief washing over him that he’d made it. But before he could even take a full breath, a cold voice cut through the darkness.

"Where have you been, young man?"

Max froze. Aunt Carol stood by the doorway, a stern shadow in the dim light filtering in from the hallway.

"I, uh... I went to get something from my room," he stammered, his mind racing for a believable excuse.

"Sneaking around like a thief in the night!" she snapped, her voice rising sharply. The sudden yelling quickly drew attention. Peg and Pete appeared in the doorway, their faces a mixture of confusion and annoyance. Max felt a hot flush of mortification creep up his neck, despising that he was yet again the main act in a humiliating show with an unwilling audience.

"This is what I'm talking about," Aunt Carol continued, turning her livid gaze from Max to Pete and Peg. "This boy's behavior is a direct result of his father's inadequate upbringing. He has no sense of discipline, no proper manners."

To Max's surprise, Pete, in a rare moment of something akin to sympathy, actually spoke up. "Now, Carol, the kid's not that bad."

Peg approached the fuming aunt, placing a gentle hand on her arm. "You must cut him some slack. He's been through a lot."

Aunt Carol merely sniffed, entirely unmoved. "He needs to move in with me as fast as humanly possible. He's clearly been spoiled and doesn't know how to behave like a decent human being. Max, you'll be sleeping with me in my room tonight."

Max's heart sank. He shot a helpless stare at Debbie and PJ, who were now standing awkwardly in the doorway. He and PJ were supposed to resume their Slayer training tonight, especially since Max's moody behavior yesterday had put a halt to their plans.

Debbie stepped forward, her brow furrowed. "What about me, Mom? Wasn't I supposed to sleep with you?"

"Max will sleep with me," Aunt Carol stated, unwavering. "You can share the room with PJ."

"Wait a minute!" Pete interjected, his face reddening. "Who are you to be making sleeping arrangements in my house?"

"It's all right, Petey," Peg said, placing a calming hand on her husband's arm. She offered Max a soft, sympathetic smile. "Good night, dear."

Max hung his head, shoulders slumped, and slowly followed Aunt Carol out of the room. As he passed PJ, his friend gave his shoulder a quick, comforting squeeze. Just as Max stepped into the hallway, he heard Peg whisper to Pete, her voice heavy with pity, "That poor boy just can't catch a break, can he?"

~*~*~*~

Max stood awkwardly in Pete and Peg's bedroom, feeling out of place. He'd never been in their room before, let alone imagined sleeping in it. Aunt Carol gestured towards the adjoining bathroom. "Put on your pajamas."

Now, he was changing clothes in Mr. P's private bathroom. He closed the door behind him, stripping off his clothes and pulling on the thin fabric of his pajamas, feeling oddly vulnerable. The thought of sharing a bed with his aunt, a woman who felt more like a stranger than a relative and whom he so far disliked, made his stomach clench. He tried to imagine living with her in New Jersey until college, and a shiver went down his spine. He really hoped Angel could curse his father back, though he wasn't sure if even that would change anything about his terrifying future living situation.

When he emerged, Aunt Carol was by the dresser, a silk sleeping gown replacing her earlier severe clothes. She was methodically smoothing creams onto her arms, her movements precise. Without looking at him, she murmured, "Get in bed."

Max climbed in awkwardly, keeping as much distance as possible between them. He lay stiffly, staring at her as she settled under the covers. She noticed his gaze and, for the first time since her arrival, her rigid features softened. Her eyes met his, and a gentle, almost sad look replaced her usual sternness. "I didn't like how today turned out either," she said quietly.

Max just stared back. He offered no reaction to her unexpected vulnerability.

Aunt Carol sighed, turning her head to look at the ceiling. "Seeing your house crumbled like that... it terrified me. I just couldn't imagine what kind of life your father had given you."

"The best life," Max replied immediately.

She turned back to him, her expression hardening slightly. "That's because you know no alternatives."

Max shook his head. "There is no better life than the one I had with my dad."

Aunt Carol offered a small smile. "You sound just like your mother," she muttered. She then lay back down, settling into the vast expanse of the pink bed.

Max watched her, then, hesitantly, he asked, "What was she like?"

Aunt Carol turned her head, a thoughtful expression on her face. "She was mischievous," she said, a faint, almost nostalgic chuckle in her voice. "Very hotheaded, too. Always diving into things without thinking. But she was also incredibly brave. Always did what she thought was right, no matter what anyone else said."

"I wish I got to know her," Max whispered.

Aunt Carol reached out, her hand gently touching his arm. "Me too." There was a comfortable pause, filled only by the soft hum of the house. "Maybe once you come to live with me, I can show you pictures of her. And tell you stories."

Max smiled. "That would be nice."

~*~*~*~*~

Max lay stiffly in the enormous pink bed, staring at the ceiling. Beside him, Aunt Carol's breathing had finally deepened into the even rhythm of sleep. He waited, motionless, for what felt like an eternity. When he was sure she was truly out, he began his slow, agonizing escape.

First, the blankets. He carefully peeled back the heavy comforter, inch by agonizing inch. The slightest rustle sounded like thunder in the silent room. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, lowering one bare foot to the plush carpet. The floorboards, of course, chose that exact moment to let out a protest groan. Aunt Carol stirred, a soft mumble escaping her lips. Max froze, one foot dangling mid-air, eyes wide, heart hammering against his ribs. He stayed like that for a full minute, until her breathing resumed its steady pace.

Phew. He lowered his foot. Now, for the stealth part. He began to tiptoe, each step a precarious dance across the creaky floor. Then, disaster. His foot caught on the edge of the rug, and he lurched forward, arms flailing wildly to catch his balance. He swayed precariously, a human totem pole about to topple, his hands slapping against the wall with a soft thwack. Aunt Carol stirred again. Max froze, plastered against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, practically vibrating with the effort of not falling over. He could practically feel her eyes on him, even though he knew they were closed. Another long, agonizing minute passed before she settled back down.

Finally, he made it to the door. He turned the knob with excruciating slowness, eased the door open, and slipped out into the darkened hallway. Freedom! Almost.

His first stop was PJ's room. He tried the handle. Locked. He knocked softly, then whispered urgently, "PJ? Debbie? It's Max!" Nothing. He knocked again, a little louder. Still no answer.

Max sighed. Fine. Plan B: the front door. He crept down the stairs, hearing a low, angry mumble from the living room.

"Can't believe it," Pete seethed, more to the universe than anyone else. "That Goof, even dead, is still a pain in my backside! Manages to send his personal tyrant to wreak havoc. And she thinks she's running a five-star hotel now, making sleeping arrangements like she owns the deed to my house!"

Max froze, halfway down the stairs, one hand on the banister, one foot suspended. Pete was facing away from him, towards the kitchen, but any sudden movement would surely give him away. Max eased his suspended foot back down, then began to tiptoe down the remaining steps. He felt a sneeze building. He pinched his nose, trying to stifle it, his eyes watering. Pete suddenly turned towards the staircase, scratching his stomach. Max instantly morphed into a statue, mid-tiptoe, holding his breath, one leg bent at a ridiculous angle. Pete squinted into the gloom, grunted, and then thankfully turned back towards the kitchen.

Finally, finally, Max made it to the front door. He unlatched it with silent precision and slipped out into the cool night air.

Debbie, PJ, and Williams were already on the porch of Max's house, looking impatient.

"Finally," PJ grumbled, tugging at a leather jacket Max didn't even know he owned. He was definitely trying to pull off an Angel vibe tonight.

"Hey, not my fault!" Max retorted, pointing at Debbie. "Her mom kept me on a tight leash!"

Debbie checked her watch, a hint of frustration in her voice. "We're late. And I didn't find Angel anywhere in the house." She glanced at Williams. "Where do you think he went off to?"

Max looked away, carefully avoiding PJ's gaze. He knew his friend had probably pieced together Angel's secret midnight departure. "No point in wasting time!" he blurted out, trying to sound enthusiastic as he strode purposefully towards the street. "Let's go!"

"Um, Max?" PJ said.

"What?" Max snapped, turning back.

PJ simply pointed. Max looked down. He was still wearing his bright blue, cartoon-patterned pajamas.

A sheepish grin spread across Max's face, and he chuckled. "Okay, okay. Wait. I'll get dressed."

~*~*~*~

Max, PJ, Debbie, and Williams had been training for over an hour, and Max felt a surge of grim satisfaction at his progress. He was doing much better than yesterday. His aim with the crossbow was sharp, the bolts hitting their targets with satisfying thuds. The martial arts moves Debbie had taught them felt less clumsy, more natural.

Suddenly, a vampire materialized out of the shadows, its eyes glowing with malevolent intent.

"Max! PJ! Kill the vampire!" Williams's voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the night.

Max and PJ moved in sync. Max lunged, distracting the creature with a flurry of rapid punches, while PJ, moving with surprising speed, drove a stake deep into its chest. The vampire let out a guttural shriek, then crumbled to dust. Max and PJ stood panting, a cloud of ash swirling around their feet.

"Excellent work, boys!" Debbie praised, a proud smile on her face.

Before they could even catch their breath, another figure emerged from the darkness, a female vampire this time. Max, feeling the rush of adrenaline from their last kill, immediately started to move towards her, ready to stake her. But she held up a hand, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Hold it, Slayers," she sneered, her voice like grinding gravel. "Message from Spike." She flicked her wrist, and a dark, small object tumbled to the ground between them.

Debbie let out a sharp gasp, hand flying to her mouth. Max stared down. A simple red hair bun. "That's Mom's," Debbie whimpered, reaching for it.

Cold dread flooded Max. Spike took Aunt Carol. She must have followed him. All that effort to sneak out, all that quiet... she must have seen him, tracked him. His stomach twisted.

"We know where Spike's crypt is," PJ said, "but this is clearly a trap."

"Precisely," Williams agreed, his gaze sharp. "As you two have told us, Drusilla intends to transfer your Slayer powers to her."

"And she's using Debbie's mom as bait," PJ finished.

Debbie’s jaw tightened. "I don't care if it's a trap. I have to save my mom."

Max understood that feeling all too well. Having just lost his own dad, the idea of someone else losing their parent resonated deeply. He knew the unbearable pain, the gnawing regret. He nodded, siding with her instantly.

"Maybe we should think of a plan," PJ suggested.

"PJ is right," Williams stated, his voice firm, cutting through the rising tension. "I understand you two," he motioned between Debbie and Max, "are blinded by your emotions, but..."

"God, we could have used Angel right now!" Debbie exclaimed, her voice tight with frustration. Max flinched. He was the one who'd sent Angel away, but he kept his mouth shut, knowing a confession would only complicate things further.

"Maybe we split up," PJ proposed. "Two of us go in, and the other two stay out as backup."

"Debbie and I should go in," Max said, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. He looked at Debbie. "We're the ones related to Aunt Carol."

"Wouldn't that be less wise?" Williams said, sounding unsure. "You two are too emotionally invested in this. Maybe it's better if…"

"I'm going," Debbie interrupted firmly.

"Me too," Max added, his tone even firmer.

Williams and PJ exchanged a helpless glance.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max and Debbie slipped into the cold, stone crypt, the heavy door groaning shut behind them. The air was thick with dust and the cloying scent of stale blood. PJ and Williams were hidden effectively outside, waiting for their signal.

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the cavernous room. Their eyes immediately landed on the Victorian bed. Aunt Carol lay sprawled across it, seemingly passed out. Max's breath hitched in his throat, and he instinctively clutched his stomach where Drusilla had carved her name as if he were a tree.

Debbie started to rush forward, but Max grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly. His gaze darted to the side of the bed. Spike was there, lounging in a velvet armchair, a cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling lazily around his head. He watched them with an infuriatingly casual smirk, his platinum blond hair gleaming in the candlelight.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Spike drawled, his voice thick with a mocking British accent. "And brought a friend, too. How awfully thoughtful."

Debbie’s face was a mask of furious determination. "You let her go! Now!"

Spike took a slow drag from his cigarette, then exhaled a plume of smoke, his eyes twinkling with cruel amusement. "Let her go? And why would I do that, love? You haven't got the power anymore, have you?" His gaze, sharp and predatory, shifted from Debbie to Max, lingering for a moment. A wicked, knowing leer spread across his face. "He does, though, doesn't he?"

Max ignored Spike's taunt, his gaze fixed on Aunt Carol. He marched directly to the bed, relieved she wasn't chained. He reached for her, grunting with effort as he tried to hoist her unconscious weight.

"Uh, mate?" Spike's amused voice drifted from the armchair. "What exactly are you doing?"

Max pulled his aunt closer, his muscles straining. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

Spike chuckled, taking a leisurely drag from his cigarette. "Well, forgive me, but aren't you a little too short to be carrying a grown woman?"

Max adjusted his grip and, with a bit more ease, lifted Aunt Carol from the bed. "You're forgetting," he replied, already turning towards the crypt's entrance, "Slayer powers."

He couldn't believe it. He was actually walking away, carrying his aunt, and Spike wasn't putting up a fight. Debbie looked just as surprised.

Then, a cold, familiar voice, devoid of its usual easygoing warmth, cut through the quiet. "Where do you think you're going, son?"

Max's chest tightened. His dad emerged into the room, standing behind Debbie, his eyes dark and menacing, unlike the father Max knew.

Debbie spun around, looking behind her. She let out a gasp. "Uncle Goofy?"

Chapter Text

PJ crouched low behind the thick trunk of an old oak tree, the rough bark digging into his jacket. Beside him, Williams was equally hidden, peering through the gloom. A knot of anxiety tightened in PJ's stomach. He kept replaying Max's last encounter in that very crypt, the way the panic had seized him, the sheer terror that had overwhelmed his friend in the place where Drusilla had scarred his body. PJ desperately hoped that episode wouldn't recur again.

"I've never seen Debbie act so reckless," Williams murmured, his voice a low, worried rumble.

"Obviously," PJ replied, his gaze fixed on the crypt entrance. "It's her mom in there."

Williams turned, his eyes serious in the dim light. "I admire your level-headedness, PJ. You look at these situations so pragmatically. You'll make a good Watcher."

A faint blush touched PJ's cheeks. "Thanks," he mumbled, "but you're giving me too much credit."

"No, I'm not," Williams insisted. "I remember when you two told us about your sister being kidnapped. You still managed to save her and Max despite taking a severe hit to the head. The Watchers Council has applauded your strength and your ability to keep cool under pressure."

PJ's eyes widened. "You... you told the Watchers Council about me?"

"Of course," Williams said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Everything that happens should be documented to the Watchers Council."

PJ didn't know what to say. He wasn't used to being praised, especially not in such a grand, official way. His dad rarely praised him, and between him and Max, it was always Max who got noticed for his outlandish ideas and great out-of-the-box thinking. PJ was always just... the sidekick.

The idea of being a Watcher, of being formally recognized for his ability to stay calm when things went sideways, was… appealing. But it also felt heavy, a responsibility he hadn't asked for. He was PJ, Max's best friend. He wasn't some stoic, rule-bound observer. Yet, Williams's words settled into him, a quiet affirmation he hadn't realized he craved. Maybe he could be more than just a sidekick. Maybe he already was.

PJ’s internal thoughts were abruptly cut short. A subtle shift in the night air, a faint disturbance in the cemetery's stillness, sent a prickle of alarm up his spine. Beside him, Williams, whose senses were far more attuned to such things, stiffened. His hand instinctively went to the inner pocket of his jacket, where PJ knew he kept a well-balanced stake. Both of them peered intently through the gloom, their gazes fixed on an approaching figure. A heavy-footed stride crunched on the gravel, growing steadily louder. PJ's heart leaped into his throat as a familiar voice grumbled a few curses he knew all too well.

"Dad!" he hissed, immediately pulling further back into the shadows of the old oak tree. "What are you doing here? Go home!"

Pete emerged from the darkness, his silhouette a bulky, furious shape against the faint glow of the streetlights. "Go home? I wish!" he grumbled, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "My whole night is ruined, thanks to that crazy aunt! Yapping my ear off about her 'troublesome nephew sneaking out'! Peg heard her yelling, sent me out after her, and then the old bat just vanished in the middle of the road!"

PJ glanced from the crypt, still waiting for Max's signal, back to his dad. "How did you end up in a cemetery, Pop?" he asked.

Pete threw his hands up in exasperation. "I figured, where else would a crazy old bat disappear to in Spoonerville at this hour? Always the cemetery, isn't it?"

His gaze finally landed on PJ, narrowing dangerously. "Now, what are you doing in a cemetery at this hour?"

PJ scrambled for an excuse, his mind drawing a blank. "We, uh… we were just…"

Williams stepped in smoothly. "Mr. Pete, my apologies. We are conducting an extra-curricular historical field study on funerary architecture and local folklore. Young PJ here is proving to be quite the adept researcher, assisting me with the photographic documentation of various… ancient engravings."

Pete's eyes narrowed, and he pointed a suspicious finger at Williams. "I smell the stench of a weasel! You're shadier than a tax evasion scheme. I knew this whole homework trip with Carol's girl was nothing but a load of hogwash. There's no such thing as a homework trip that ends up in a graveyard. What kind of cult are you running, dragging these kids out here?"

Suddenly, a piercing scream, unmistakably Max's, ripped through the silent night. Pete jumped, startled, nearly tripping over his own feet. "What in blazes was that?!" he yelped, his bravado instantly replaced by wide-eyed terror.

"The signal," PJ choked out, dread washing over him like a cold wave.

Williams’s eyes met PJ’s. "It's our cue."

Pete’s face contorted in a mixture of fear and rage, his gaze darting wildly between PJ and Williams. "What in Pete's sake is going on here?!"

PJ looked uneasy, hesitating. "I think I should tell him?" he mumbled to Williams.

Williams sighed, a weary acceptance in his expression. "There's no other choice, I'm afraid."

"Someone better speak," Pete exploded, his voice cracking with exasperation, "or I swear to...!"

PJ cut him off, taking a deep, fortifying breath. "Dad," he said, his voice surprisingly steady. "I'll tell you everything."

Pete's face flushed, his eyes blazing.

PJ looked him straight in the eyes. "Dad," he said, the words feeling huge and strangely momentous, "I'm a vampire slayer."

Pete blinked. A beat of silence. Then, a bewildered expression replaced his anger. "Son," he said slowly, "is that your Millennial slang for telling me you're… gay?"

PJ just blinked back, completely dumbfounded. "What?"

"Knew something was going on in those endless sleepovers with Tiny Goof," Pete mumbled, then spun on Williams, his anger reigniting. "Has that… that pedophile been pressuring you?!"

Williams gasped, indignant. "I beg your pardon!"

PJ grabbed his dad's arm, shaking his head furiously. "No, Dad! What I meant is I'm a person who fights vampires. Real vampires!"

Pete squinted at Williams, then back at PJ, then at Williams again, his face a mask of disgusted confusion. "What kind of kinky cult are you running, you British pansy?!"

Just as Pete's voice reached its indignant peak, a dark shape detached itself from the deeper shadows of the cemetery. With a guttural snarl, a vampire launched itself, a blur of fangs and claws, directly at Pete.

"Dad, look out!" PJ yelled, shoving Pete hard to the side. The vampire, thrown off its trajectory, stumbled. In that split second, PJ was already moving. He yanked a wooden stake from his jacket, the familiar weight comforting in his hand. He lunged, driving the stake with all his force into the vampire's chest. The creature let out a hissing shriek, dissolving into dust that swirled in the moonlight before settling on the damp earth.

Pete stared, wide-eyed, at the dissipating pile of ash. His mouth hung open. "PJ?" he whispered, his voice barely a breath. Shock stretched across his face, so profound it was almost comical. Then, slowly, a proud, incredulous smile spread. He enveloped PJ in a crushing hug. "Son," Pete rumbled, his voice thick with emotion, "I've never been prouder. To be honest, I thought you were, well, you know, like that British nancy there, but tonight… tonight I'm seeing you as you truly are. A man."

A wave of dizzying happiness washed over PJ, so intense it almost buckled his knees. For the first time, his dad was genuinely, unequivocally proud of him. It was everything he’d ever wanted to hear. But the warmth of the moment was fleeting, instantly replaced by a stark, cold urgency. There was no time to soak it in. Max and Debbie were still in that crypt.

He pulled back from his dad's embrace. "Now that you know, Dad," PJ said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the tremor of adrenaline, "I need you to go back home. And you have to make up a lie for Mom. My identity… it has to be a secret."

Pete blinked. "My son, the superhero," he mumbled, a new awe in his tone. Then his expression hardened, and he glared at Williams. "But I don't feel right leaving you alone with that pencil-necked egghead."

"Dad, trust me," PJ pleaded, looking him in the eye, trying to project every ounce of confidence he felt. "I'm a man, right?"

Pete clapped a heavy hand on PJ's shoulder, a firm, reassuring pat. "Yes, you are, son. Now you just try to come home in one piece, alright?"

"I promise, Dad." PJ watched as his father, still visibly shaken but with a newfound respect in his stride, turned and hurried back towards the street, leaving PJ, Williams, and the dust of a vanquished vampire behind. The next priority was clear: Max and Debbie.

Attention now snapped toward the crypt. PJ’s heart hammered against his ribs. Max's scream, a raw, terrified sound, had ripped through the still cemetery air moments ago, confirming PJ’s worst fears. Williams remained a picture of controlled urgency, his dark eyes fixed on the crypt entrance. He was already fumbling with a specialized tactical flashlight PJ didn't even know he carried, rigging it with a small, disposable camera flash for a more intense burst.

"Ready?" Williams whispered, his thumb hovering over the trigger.

PJ nodded, clenching the stake in his hand. "As I'll ever be." He knew the weight of this moment. The plan was simple, perhaps too simple for the danger they faced: a blinding flash followed by a mad dash.

Williams counted silently on his fingers, then exhaled. "Now."

A sharp, almost deafening click cut through the night, followed by a blinding burst of white light that erupted from Williams's device. PJ, anticipating it, had already yanked the heavy crypt door open with a grunt, exposing the cavernous interior.

The scene before PJ was straight out of his worst nightmares. Debbie was in Spike's hold, her neck caught in his hand. Spike's face was a mask of pure, vicious intent. His thumb pressed ominously against Debbie's windpipe, her face already starting to flush, her hands clawing weakly at his arm.

"Now, whelp," Spike's voice was a low, dangerous growl, devoid of its earlier sarcasm, "you're going to be a good chap and hand over our pet project." He exerted more pressure, and Debbie let out a strangled gasp. "Unless you want me to snap my third Slayer's neck right here, right now."

Max stood frozen, Aunt Carol still draped in his arms, his face a mask of agony. He looked at Debbie, struggling in Spike's grip, then back at his aunt, still unconscious. The choice was brutal, impossible. PJ could see the war raging within him.

"Max, don't!" Debbie choked out, her voice barely a whisper.

But the desperate plea seemed to steel Max's resolve in the worst possible way. He gently, reluctantly, lowered Aunt Carol to the cold stone floor, then pushed her towards his dad with a defeated slump of his shoulders.

Spike's cruel smile returned, widening with triumph. "Good boy," he purred, his eyes gleaming. He flicked a dismissive hand towards Goofy, who carried the unconscious aunt back to the bed. "Chain them both up."

Goofy grabbed Max by the upper arm, roughly chaining him to the cold stone wall. Spike then released Debbie, who didn't even have a moment to catch her breath before he threw her to Goofy. She was swiftly chained alongside Max.

PJ watched his friends, helpless, from the shadows near the crypt entrance. They both strained against their bonds, their eyes blazing with fury and frustration. Spike stood by, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips, occasionally flicking his cigarette ash onto the cold stone floor. Aunt Carol remained slumped on the bed.

"This is not optimal," Williams whispered beside PJ, his voice tight with controlled urgency. "A direct assault would be... ill-advised."

PJ's gaze darted around the crypt, assessing the layout. Limited cover, two powerful vampires, two chained Slayers, and an unconscious aunt. The odds were abysmal. He felt the familiar prickle of dread, the kind that had paralyzed Max, but Williams's calm presence, and the sheer stakes of the situation, pushed it down. He had to think. Max and Debbie were counting on them.

"They're too strong," PJ whispered, the bitter truth hard to swallow.

"Indeed," Williams agreed, his eyes scanning the crypt with the methodical precision of a tactical genius. "But not without vulnerabilities. Vampires possess heightened senses; a sudden, overwhelming sensory assault can disorient them, however briefly." He pulled out a small, metallic device from his coat, not the camera flash, but something else entirely, intricate and unfamiliar. He twisted a dial on its side. "I was developing this for crowd control," he explained, almost to himself. "A high-frequency sonic emitter, paired with a concentrated UV burst. Designed to induce a temporary, localized vertigo and acute photophobia without causing permanent damage. Should buy us a few precious seconds of disarray."

PJ swallowed hard. "A few seconds?"

"More than enough, if executed correctly," Williams affirmed, his thumb hovering over a large red button. "The moment it activates, you will make for Max and Debbie. I will engage Spike and Goofy. Free them. Get Mrs. Carol. And then we escape."

"Engage them? Alone?" PJ’s voice hitched.

"A Watcher's duty, PJ," Williams said, a grim set to his jaw. "Now, remember our training. Quick, decisive action. Minimize engagement, maximize extraction. Your role is extraction."

He took a deep breath, his focus absolute. "On my mark."

The next few seconds stretched into an eternity. PJ tightened his grip on his stake, his knuckles white. He could hear Spike’s low chuckle inside, the clinking of Max’s chains as he shifted. Then, Williams's voice, firm and clear.

"Mark."

A high-pitched, piercing whine filled the air, so intense it made PJ's teeth ache. Simultaneously, a blinding flash of violet-white light erupted from Williams's device, washing over the crypt's interior. PJ flinched, even though he was prepared, and heard angry snarls and shouts from within. The light lingered for a terrifying second, then vanished, leaving phantom spots dancing in PJ's vision.

This was their cue.

PJ shoved the heavy crypt door open, charging in. Spike and Goofy were reeling, clutching their heads, their senses overwhelmed. Spike stumbled back, his fangs bared in a silent, furious scream. Goofy groaned, his tall frame momentarily disoriented.

Williams moved like a phantom, launching himself at Spike. He didn't carry a stake, but instead unleashed a series of precise, bone-jarring blows to Spike's midsection, capitalizing on the vampire's momentary weakness. Spike roared, recovering faster than anticipated, his eyes flashing with renewed fury. He lashed out with a clawed hand, raking Williams's side.

PJ sprinted towards Max, his focus absolute. The chain binding Max to the wall was thick, but the shackle was old. PJ pulled out a small, specialized lock-pick set Williams had given him, fingers fumbling with surprising dexterity. He heard the sickening crack of bone. Williams cried out, a sharp gasp of pain. PJ risked a glance. Spike had recovered fully, and Goofy, now clear-headed, had joined the fray. Williams, despite his skill, was being overwhelmed. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle, clearly broken, but he was still fighting, deflecting blows, creating precious seconds of distraction.

Max strained, shouting encouragement through his pain. "PJ! Hurry!"

The lock clicked. Max’s shackle sprang open. "Go for Debbie!" Max yelled, rubbing his raw wrist, already moving towards Aunt Carol on the bed.

PJ didn't hesitate. He lunged for Debbie, who was already struggling desperately against her chains. Goofy, seeing Max free, snarled and lunged, but Williams, despite his broken arm, twisted and threw himself in Goofy's path, taking a crushing blow to the chest.

"PJ! Get them out!" Williams yelled, his voice strained, as he crumpled to one knee, buying them seconds.

PJ fumbled with Debbie's chains, his fingers flying. She was almost free. He heard the ominous thud of Spike hitting the ground, then the enraged roar as he recovered. He had to be quick. The shackle finally gave way.

"Go! Go!" PJ urged, grabbing Debbie's hand. Max was already hoisting Aunt Carol over his shoulder, the tall woman looking comically like a lopsided, unconscious cape draped over Max's much smaller body, her hands sweeping the crypt floor behind them. PJ rushed over and slung Williams's unbroken arm over his shoulder, helping the Watcher hobble towards the crypt's exit. They surged towards the door, the crypt's cold air now feeling like the sweetest freedom. They were almost there. Just a few more steps.

A new figure emerged from the deeper shadows, gliding with an unsettling grace. It was Drusilla, her delicate features twisted into a chillingly sweet smile, her eyes dark pools of madness. And beside her, held loosely by the arm, was Pete.

PJ's heart skipped a beat. His father’s eyes were glassy and vacant, his body unnaturally stiff. He was hypnotized.

"Well, hello, poppets," Drusilla purred, her voice a soft, lilting melody that sent shivers down PJ's spine. "Such a lovely reunion, isn't it? And speaking of reunions…" She tilted her head, her gaze sweeping over PJ, then resting on his hypnotized father. "I do believe our dear Peter will invite me into your charming little house. Such a delightful way to make acquaintance with your mother and your sweet little sister."

PJ’s blood ran cold. They were threatening his family now. His mom. Pistol. He felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. Drusilla's gaze drifted past him, landing on something in the distance.

"Oh, I did miss little Pistol," Drusilla mused, her voice suddenly wistful. "She left Sir Reginald Fluffybottom last time she was here, didn't she?" PJ's gaze darted to the crypt’s interior, to where Pistol’s beloved teddy bear sat propped amidst a collection of old, dusty dolls.

Then, Drusilla’s demeanor shifted. Her eyes sharpened, and her voice, though still soft, became laced with a chilling authority. "Now, get back."

PJ squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then carefully lowered Williams to the ground. He cast the Watcher a swift, apologetic look, then immediately averted his gaze. He didn't want to see the disappointment in Williams's eyes, not after the praise he'd just received a few minutes ago. PJ knew he couldn't be pragmatic now. Not when his family was being threatened. He was now in Max's and Debbie's shoes, blinded by a surge of overwhelming emotion. This time, it was his judgment that was clouded. He looked at Max, his eyes filled with desperate apology, and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

~*~*~*~*~

PJ found himself chained side-by-side with Max, the cold iron biting into their wrists. Across the crypt, Debbie and Williams were similarly bound, the latter's face contorted and flushed from the agony of his broken arm. Goofy stood guard near the entrance, occasionally glancing at them with a terrifying disinterest. From a separate chamber, just behind a thick set of curtains, Spike and Drusilla's voices and movements drifted out as they prepared the spell to transfer the boys' Slayer powers to Drusilla. PJ's dad stood nearby, still dazed and unmoving, completely lost to the unfolding horror.

"So much for being a great Watcher," PJ mumbled, mostly to himself, the words bitter on his tongue.

"What?" Max whispered, his gaze fixed on his dad.

"Nothing," PJ replied, immediately regretting the outburst. He noticed Max's intense stare, the familiar wheels turning in his friend's mind, a calculating glint in his eyes that PJ knew well. He wanted to discuss it, to understand what Max was concocting, but the vampires had unnervingly keen hearing. Instead, PJ subtly moved his foot, gently touching Max's chained ankle. Max looked at him, and PJ subtly gestured towards Goofy, who stood bored at the crypt entrance, seemingly oblivious. Max's eyes then flickered towards Spike's pack of cigarettes, lying casually on a nearby stone table. PJ didn't get where Max was going with this, but he was in for the ride.

"Oh, Pops," Max said, his voice surprisingly casual, "You know what can be fun?"

Goofy, looking bored, shifted his weight. "Sucking your blood dry?" he grumbled.

Max shook his head. "No." A small, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. "Smoking."

Goofy raised an eyebrow.

"I remember Grandma telling me," Max continued, playing his part perfectly, "about how you used to be an addicted smoker. But you had to quit, right? Because of lung cancer." Max paused for effect, then delivered the punchline. "Well, that's not a problem anymore, is it?"

Goofy's gaze slowly drifted towards the pack of cigarettes on the table, a strange conflict playing out on his face, the vampire's invulnerability clashing with the ghost of a human habit. He considered them for a long moment, then, with a shrug that was eerily reminiscent of his old self, he reached out, snagged a cigarette from the pack. "Yo, Spike," he called out, his voice a low drawl, "got one of them lighters?"

Spike's head jerked out from between the thick curtains. He strode over, his movements quick and predatory, and snatched the cigarettes from Goofy's hand. "Oi, you great bloody oaf!" he snarled, his British accent thick with irritation. "These aren't for the likes of you, you daft git! Get back to your post!"

Goofy bristled. "Now hold on, pointy-boy," he drawled. "Don't you be tellin' me what to do with my own damn vices."

"Hey!" Max yelled, playing along. "You gonna deny my old man a little puff? Seems a bit un-neighborly, even for a bloodsucker."

Spike's eyes, narrowed to venomous slits, snapped to Max. He took the cigarette from his own mouth, a faint wisp of smoke curling upwards. "Oh, you wanna open your trap, do you, runt?" he purred, his voice dripping with menace. "Open it again, and I'll extinguish this right on your flesh. Your body can certainly take more scars, can't it, whelp?" He gestured subtly towards Max's stomach, where Drusilla's name was carved.

Before Max could retort, Goofy shoved Spike hard, sending the smaller vampire stumbling back a few paces. "Who gave you permission to talk to my boy like that?" Goofy growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "If anyone's scarin' his body, it'd be me."

"No," a soft, chilling voice interjected. Drusilla, floating rather than walking, emerged from behind the heavy curtains, her gaze fixed on Max. "It's me."

PJ felt Max tense beside him, a shiver running through his chained body. Drusilla approached them slowly, her movements unnervingly graceful, her smile both sweet and utterly mad. She knelt in front of Max, her delicate hand taking the end of his shirt and lifting it to reveal his stomach, her other hand hovering over the faint white lines where her name was carved.

"Once I get the Slayer powers, my little kitten," Drusilla whispered, her eyes wide and unblinking, "you're going to be mine. For eternity."

PJ watched as Max's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping frantically in his cheek, and his breath hitched. He didn't speak, but PJ could practically feel the raw, terror emanating from him.

Goofy grumbled, his gaze sweeping over their prisoners. "All this fresh blood around," he muttered, eyeing Pete, then Debbie and Williams, "and I'm not allowed to drink any. What kind of party is this?"

"Once the spell is done, you can drain whoever you want, you great oaf. Just hold your horses," Spike remarked, about to tuck the cigarette pack back into his leather duster.

"For the meantime," Goofy retorted, his eyes gleaming with a newfound defiance, "I'll have a smoke." He lunged, snatching the cigarette pack right out of Spike's hand. He even took the cigarette Spike had been holding, pulling it from the smaller vampire's lips.

"Oi! You bloody wanker!" Spike roared, leaping to his feet, his face contorted in a mask of furious indignation. "Those are my fags, you overgrown lummox!"

"Finders keepers, numb-nuts!" Goofy shot back, his Texas drawl thick with challenge. He took a deliberate, defiant puff from the stolen cigarette.

Spike lunged, swinging wildly. Goofy sidestepped and returned the blow. The crypt erupted into a chaotic flurry of angry shouts and the dull thud of bodies colliding. Spike, quick and agile, darted in and out, landing sharp jabs. Goofy tried to grab and wrestle, cursing loudly. Pete, still dazed, blinked at the sudden brawl.

"Stop it!" Drusilla's voice, usually a soft, mad whisper, now rang out with surprising authority, cutting through the fracas. Spike and Goofy froze, panting, glaring at each other.

Drusilla turned her head slowly, her unnervingly sane gaze settling on Max. A mischievous, almost delighted smile spread across her lips. "Naughty boy," she purred. She then turned her attention to the two squabbling vampires. "The boy has been playing you."

Goofy squinted at Max. "Well, I'll be," he drawled. "A schemin' little boy you've become? I never taught you to be a schemer, son. You could've been Pete's son, now that was a master of dishonest dealings and trickin' folks."

"Right then, Dru," Spike said, turning back to Drusilla, "best continue preparing for the spell." Before he returned to the curtains, he swung a hand out and smacked Max hard across the face. "And you," he snarled, his eyes glinting, "don't think for a second your little tricks are going to save you. This is going to be the longest night of your pathetic life."

PJ's gaze flickered from the smear of blood on the corner of Max's lips to Debbie and Williams. The Watcher's face was a mask of strained control, battling the agony of his broken arm. Debbie, her brows furrowed with worry, met PJ's eyes, silently asking about their next move. PJ understood Max's strategy; he was trying to ignite a full-blown argument between the vampires. But now, Goofy was clearly glaring at his "son" with a newfound, complicated anger.

"I agree with you, Mr. G," PJ said, his voice carrying clearly across the crypt. "Max is a conniving weasel, just like my dad."

Goofy actually chuckled, his gaze shifting to Pete, who remained dazed and oblivious by the door. Max, meanwhile, raised an eyebrow at PJ, caught off guard by the unexpected insult. PJ offered a quick, apologetic shrug.

Goofy lumbered over, planting himself directly in front of Pete, who still stood in a daze. "Well, lookie here, if it ain't the king of shady deals and broken promises!" he sneered, launching into a stream of insults that sounded to PJ like years of bottled-up anger from all the times Pete had scammed Goofy or put him in questionable situations.

"Makes you wanna hit him, huh, Mr. G?" PJ muttered, his eyes on Goofy.

Without a word, Goofy wound up and delivered a hard punch directly to Pete's jaw. Pete's head snapped back, his dazed expression briefly replaced by a flicker of pain. PJ held his breath, praying the blow would snap his dad out of it. Goofy grinned, rubbing his knuckles. "Heh. That was fun."

"Punch him again, Mr. G," PJ urged.

Goofy looked at him skeptically. "Why do you want me to keep punchin' your old man?"

"Because," PJ sighed, laying it on thick, "my dad... he's just never seen me as good enough, you know?"

Goofy squinted at him, a slow, appraising look. "Son, you're just too darn nice to be smart. Always were. That's your problem, see? Too much heart, not enough grit."

PJ's jaw tightened. Too nice to be smart? he thought bitterly. Whatever happened to that chestnut metaphor, Mr. G? Forgot what you said about my steady core?

Ignoring PJ's displeasure, Goofy wound up again and punched Pete once more. This time, Pete seemed to snap out of his stupor. His eyes, though still wide, focused. He looked at Goofy, then at PJ, a dazed question in his gaze.

PJ subtly nudged Max, who immediately picked up his game, launching into a barrage of questions at Goofy, loudly criticizing his parenting skills as a vampire, anything to keep him distracted. PJ, meanwhile, used his eyes to communicate with his dad, a desperate plea to free Debbie and Williams. Pete's initial shock at seeing Goofy, looking alive instead of dead, quickly turned to confusion. PJ shook his head subtly, then nodded pointedly towards Debbie and Williams, still chained. Pete didn't immediately see how to free Debbie, but she gave a frantic nod towards an axe embedded in a nearby wooden pillar.

Max and PJ kept up their distracting chatter, drawing Goofy's attention. PJ's gaze shifting to his dad every second or so. Pete moved, grabbing the axe, and swung it with a powerful grunt, the blade biting into Debbie's chains with a loud clang. Goofy's head snapped around, his eyes widening as he saw Pete, axe in hand.

"You low-down, double-crossin' piece of no-good trash!" Goofy roared, a fresh wave of furious insults spewing from his mouth, each one more shocking than the last. Pete recoiled, aghast at Goofy's language, his jaw dropping. With a furious growl, Goofy lunged, seizing Pete, and bit him deeply.

PJ's heart lurched. "Dad!" he screamed, pure terror seizing him.

"Uncle Goofy!" Debbie yelled, now completely free, and without hesitation, she brought the axe down hard on the back of Goofy's head.

From behind the thick curtains, Spike let out a guttural roar, punctuated by a string of furious curses. "What in bloody hell was that?! Goofy, you daft git, what are you playing at?!"

Everyone froze, the sudden silence amplified by the lingering echo of Spike's rage. Max and PJ subtly rattled their chains, creating a small, distracting clinking sound. Then, PJ, in a surprisingly accurate Goofy drawl, strained his voice to sound gruff. "Nothin' happened, boss! Just... uh... dropped a rock. Big rock. Right on my head, almost. Ah-yuck!" He and Max shared a helpless, exasperated stare.

"Keep your damned commotion down, you git!" Spike snarled from behind the curtains. "We're almost done here!"

Debbie, now fully free, rushed to PJ's side. With a swift, practiced movement, she picked the lock on PJ's chains. PJ immediately rushed to his dad, who was still reeling from Goofy's bite and Debbie's rescue.

"Dad! Are you okay?" PJ asked, frantically checking the bite mark on Pete's neck.

Pete blinked, a bewildered expression on his face. "What the hell happened to the Goofster? Wasn't he dead?"

"It's a long story, Dad," PJ quickly replied, knowing there was no time for explanations.

"We must get out of here!" Williams urged, his voice strained but firm, clutching his broken arm.

Debbie's face clouded with renewed fear as she freed Max. "But what about my mom? If we run, she'll be killed!"

PJ scanned their surroundings, his mind racing. Aunt Carol unconscious on the bed, Williams injured, and Pete dazed and bitten. "We can split up," PJ said, a new plan forming, "Get the injured out, and some of us save Mrs. C."

"Not so fast," Goofy's voice rumbled, surprisingly clear as he lunged forward, regaining his consciousness. He was on them instantly, a whirlwind of powerful blows. The brief respite was over.

The sudden renewal of combat, the sharp crack of fists on flesh, immediately drew attention from behind the curtains. Spike's head jerked out, his eyes blazing, Drusilla floating out just behind him, her mad gaze sharpening into cold fury. "What in hell's bells is going on out here now?!" Spike snarled, seeing Goofy grappling with the barely-freed Max and PJ. Drusilla's eyes narrowed, sensing the shift in dynamics, the disruption of her delicate spell preparations.

"Williams! Get my dad outside! Now!" PJ yelled, his voice strained as he dodged a wild swing from Goofy. It was a desperate gamble, but Williams was injured and Pete was a civilian. They were liabilities in this fight.

Williams, despite his broken arm, didn't hesitate. He seized the still-dazed Pete by the shoulder and, with a grunt of pain, began pulling him towards the crypt entrance. Pete stumbled, his movements clumsy, but Williams, grim-faced, dragged him steadily out into the cold night air. The heavy crypt door groaned shut behind them, leaving the remaining four trapped inside with their vampiric captors.

The crypt exploded into chaos. PJ found himself face-to-face with Spike, who moved with a furious, almost liquid grace. Spike was a blur of motion, a flurry of kicks and punches, each one aimed to maim. PJ ducked, finding a piece of broken wood that could pass for a stake. He parried with it, the wood scraping against Spike's hard knuckles. He tried to get inside Spike's guard, but the vampire was too fast, too experienced, fueled by rage.

Across the uneven stone floor, Max roared, his Slayer strength unleashed against Goofy. The blows between them were thunderous, shaking the very foundations of the crypt. Max fought with a desperate, brutal efficiency, every punch aimed at incapacitating. But Goofy, though temporarily stunned by Debbie's axe, was a powerhouse, absorbing hits that would fell a normal human, his eyes now alight with a primal, bloodthirsty glee.

Debbie, meanwhile, was locked in a horrifying dance with Drusilla. The insane vampire moved with an ethereal beauty, her attacks graceful but deadly. She didn't fight with brute force; instead, she moved like a wraith, her nails like razors, aiming for arteries, for the eyes, for the vulnerable spots. Debbie met her with the raw, untamed power of the Slayer, her fists a blur, but Drusilla seemed to anticipate every move, a chilling smile playing on her lips even as Debbie landed glancing blows.

The fight raged, a desperate symphony of grunts, snarls, and the thud of impacts. PJ lunged, driving his stake, but Spike spun away, catching PJ with a vicious backhand that sent him sprawling. Max landed a solid hit on Goofy, staggering him, but Goofy recovered instantly, slamming Max against a pillar with sickening force. Debbie, bruised and panting, found herself increasingly on the defensive against Drusilla's relentless, unnerving assaults.

In the end, despite their courage, their Slayer powers, and their desperate will to survive, the vampires were simply too much. Their inhuman speed, their ancient strength, and their sheer numbers overwhelmed the heroes. One by one, the resistance crumbled. The darkness in the crypt seemed to press in, thick and final.

~*~*~*~*~

PJ’s head throbbed, a dull ache reverberating through his skull. He opened his eyes to the grim reality. He and Max were now bound together, back-to-back, at the very center of a large, intricate symbol drawn on the crypt floor. It glowed faintly with an ethereal, unsettling light, made from what looked like dried blood and crushed bone. The air hummed with a low, unnatural energy. Debbie was back on her chains across the room, her face bruised but defiant. Goofy stood guard near the crypt door, his earlier daze replaced by cold, stony vigilance.

Drusilla circled them, her bare feet making no sound on the stone. She hummed a low, tuneless melody, her eyes glazed with a terrifying, ecstatic madness. Spike, meanwhile, moved with a more grounded, brutal efficiency. He held a small, wickedly sharp ritual knife, its blade glinting in the candlelight, and approached Max first.

"Just a little taste, whelp," Spike purred, his voice devoid of any previous irritation, now laced with a chilling, professional calm. He grabbed Max's arm, baring the forearm.

PJ felt a wave of cold dread wash over him. "So, uh," he said, his voice a little shaky, "after this whole thing is over, Drusilla’s going to turn Max into her pet, right?" He swallowed hard, forcing the next words out. "What about me? What am I gonna turn into?"

Spike paused, the knife hovering over Max’s skin. He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet PJ’s gaze, a flicker of cruel amusement in his eyes. "Sorry, mate," he drawled, the words delivered with an almost bored shrug. "Don't need pets. Too much bother."

PJ's heart skipped a beat, then hammered against his ribs. The casual dismissal was more terrifying than any direct threat. "So," PJ whispered, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow, "basically… you're going to kill me."

Spike offered a slight nod. "Precisely." He then turned his full attention back to Max, the knife descending.

A voice, smooth and deep, echoed from the crypt doorway, cutting through the tense silence. "Ah, what a charming little abode you've found here. So... macabre."

PJ's heart skipped a beat, then hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He strained his neck, his gaze snapping towards the entrance, and his eyes widened in disbelief. Standing there, framed by the moonlight, was Angel, looking less like the brooding stud that was their pal and more like, well, more like Spike.

Drusilla's face blossomed into a horrifyingly sweet delight. "Angelus!" she cooed, her arms outstretched, floating towards him for a creepy, almost childlike embrace.

Spike, regaining his composure, abandoned his knife and met Angel with a rare, almost genuine warmth, pulling him into a rough, manly hug. "Angelus, where in bloody hell have you been all these years, you old git?"

Angel returned the embrace, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Just traveling the world, Spike. Saw the sights. Turns out, the Great Wall of China is just a really long wall, and the Eiffel Tower is a giant metal stick."

Angel's gaze drifted past Spike and Drusilla, landing with keen interest on the glowing symbol on the floor, on Max and PJ chained within its confines. "And what," he mused, a low hum of curiosity in his voice, "do we have here? Looks like you've been busy."

"We're making a new Slayer!" Drusilla chirped, her eyes sparkling. "Or rather, unmaking a Slayer! We're transferring their powers to me!" She gestured wildly towards the chained boys, her excitement bubbling over.

Spike added, "Yeah, these two bleeders," he jabbed a thumb at Max and PJ, "are the current Slayers. We're siphoning their power into Dru, making her unstoppable!"

Angel's eyes flickered to Debbie, still chained across the crypt. "Isn't that the Slayer?" he asked, a hint of disdain in his tone.

Spike snorted. "Not anymore," he waved dismissively at Debbie, "she's a dud. Lost her powers to these two," he gestured to Max and PJ, "They are the real deal."

Angel's brow furrowed, then a look of deep fascination crossed his face. He walked closer to the glowing circle, his gaze intently studying the symbols, then the two boys. "Transferring Slayer powers," he murmured, almost to himself. "Remarkable. And quite ambitious." He paused, taking a deep, exaggerated sniff of the air. His eyes, suddenly predatory, narrowed. "Speaking of ambition, you wouldn't happen to have a little something for an old friend to snack on, would you? All this travel makes a fellow peckish." His gaze landed on Aunt Carol, still unconscious on the bed.

Spike grinned, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Be my guest, Angelus. She's all yours."

Goofy, who had been silently watching the entire exchange, suddenly exploded. "You're allowing him to feed?!" he snarled, pointing an accusing finger at Angel. "And you told me no!"

Spike spun on Goofy, his face twisting into a mask of pure fury. "You blithering idiot! You don't know who Angelus is! He's not some common street vamp, you imbecile!"

As Spike ranted, Drusilla sidled up to Angel, pressing herself against his arm, her fingers tracing his leather coat. Her voice, sweet and seductive, was barely a whisper. "He's my sire. My dearest, darkest sire."

"Sire?" Goofy drawled, a sarcastic glint in his eye as he looked between Angel and Drusilla. "What in tarnation is a sire, some kinda fancy vampire daddy?"

Spike bristled, his face contorting in anger. "He's the one who made her, you blithering idiot! Her creator, her master!"

Drusilla, seemingly oblivious to Spike's outburst, gently pulled Angel towards Max, her fingers tracing a possessive path up his arm. Her voice dropped to a chilling whisper, meant only for Angel, but loud enough for the terrified boys to hear. "He's my project, Angelus. I'm going to break him, just like you broke me." Her eyes, wide and unblinking, fixed on Max. "I even turned his father and sent him after him, but the boy isn't broken yet." She lifted Max's shirt, revealing the faint, white scar of her name carved into his stomach. "After the powers are transferred to me, I will turn him into my kitten. He won't be able to leave me, and then I'll break him and make him truly mine."

Angel nodded slowly, his gaze still fixed on Max. Then, his eyes flickered to PJ. "What about that one?" he asked, a casual tilt of his head towards PJ.

PJ simply mumbled, "Apparently no one wants me."

Goofy, fuming, threw his hands up in exasperation. "That's it! I ain't waitin' no more! I'm gonna feed!" He started to lumber towards Debbie and Williams.

But Angel was quicker. He reached out, his hand clamping firmly onto Goofy's shoulder. "Hold on, new friend," Angel said, his voice surprisingly calm. "We can share that woman." Without another word, Angel guided Goofy away, and the two vampires disappeared behind the thick curtains, the sound of their footsteps fading as they moved deeper into the crypt, presumably towards Aunt Carol.

PJ watched them go, a knot of confusion tightening in his stomach. Debbie, still chained, hadn't made a sound, hadn't reacted to her mother being taken, to the chilling suggestion of being shared. A cold wave of uncertainty washed over PJ. Was Angel truly playing a role, a long game to save them? Or had he truly reverted to his soulless, evil self? The line between hero and monster had just blurred, leaving PJ terrifyingly unsure.

Interestingly enough, Spike and Drusilla seemed to have lost their immediate interest in Max and PJ. Their attention was fixated on the thick curtains where Angel and Goofy had disappeared. A heavy silence fell, broken only by the faint, unsettling sounds from beyond the partition. Spike and Drusilla exchanged a dark, meaningful look, their faces grim. PJ swallowed hard, a cold knot forming in his stomach. He wondered why the turn of events had suddenly made them look so grim, so devoid of their earlier glee.

Moments later, Angel reappeared from behind the curtains, alone. He wiped his mouth casually with the back of his hand. "That woman was refresh…" he began, his voice a low purr.

He didn't complete the sentence. Spike, with a furious snarl, launched himself forward, punching Angel hard across the jaw. Angel stumbled back, then collapsed to the ground with a grunt, his head hitting the stone floor with a sickening thud.

PJ and Max gasped, the sudden violence shocking them.

Angel lay there for a moment, then slowly pushed himself up, staring at Spike with an unnervingly calm intensity.

Spike glared down at him, his face contorted in a mixture of rage and suspicion. "What are you trying to pull, you bloody fake?" he snarled, his voice rising. "Haven't seen you on the killing fields for ages, haven't heard a peep about you indulging in the good life. And now you just casually waltz in and want to share your meal with a newly sired vampire? You trying to fool us, you bastard?"

Drusilla, her earlier delight replaced by a chilling disappointment, floated closer, her eyes wide and unnerving. She sniffed the air around Angel, a faint wrinkle forming on her delicate nose. "Bad daddy," she whispered, her voice laced with an almost childish heartbreak, "you stink of consciousness."

PJ's blood ran cold. He felt a wave of horror wash over him. Angel was caught. His brief, fragile hope of escape, the sliver of possibility he'd clung to, was now shattered. They were truly doomed.

Chapter Text

The words hung in the air, a final, damning verdict. "Bad daddy," Drusilla whispered, her voice laced with an almost childish heartbreak, "you stink of consciousness." The last flicker of hope in Max’s gut was extinguished. Angel was caught.

Spike didn't hesitate. With a furious roar, he launched himself at Angel. He tackled him, a blur of leather and rage, slamming Angel against the stone floor with a sickening crunch. The brutal surprise attack gave Angel no time to react. Spike was on him instantly, a whirlwind of fists and fury, each blow a testament to his betrayal. "You've been playing us! You bloody fake!" Spike roared, his British accent thick with contempt and a simmering, violent indignation.

Angel caught Spike’s next punch with a hard slap of his palm, twisting the smaller vampire’s arm in a fluid motion. With a grunt of effort, he flung Spike away, sending him sprawling into a pile of dusty skeletons that rattled and scattered across the floor.

As Drusilla glided forward, her eyes wide with a horrifying mix of hurt and malice, Angel’s gaze met hers. “You promised me you would always be wicked,” she cooed, her voice a low, chilling melody. “Like you were wicked with me.”

Angel moved with a grace that was as elegant as Drusilla’s and as brutal as Spike’s. He parried Drusilla’s ethereal attacks with a cold efficiency and met Spike’s rage-fueled swings with a powerful force that sent shockwaves through the crypt. In a flash of motion, Angel spun away from a lunging Spike and with a powerful kick, he sent the small, wickedly sharp ritual knife from the nearby table sailing across the room. It spun end over end, glittering in the candlelight, before it landed with a soft clink right next to Max’s leg.

The glint of the ritual knife on the cold stone floor was a beacon of impossible hope. Max shifted his leg with agonizing slowness, his thigh barely grazing the hilt, nudging it until it lay completely out of sight. His blood roared in his ears as he held his breath, praying that the vampires were too consumed by their rage to notice.

He looked back at the maelstrom of the fight. The three vampires were a blur, a sickening dance of inhuman speed and brute force. Angel was fighting hard, his centuries of experience showing in every parry and kick, but he was outnumbered.

Drusilla and Spike moved in unison. Spike seized Angel from the front, his iron grip clamping around his throat. Drusilla floated behind him, her arms wrapping around his torso. With a horrific, unified lunge, they sank their fangs into his neck, Spike's on the right, Drusilla's on the left.

"Oh God," PJ whimpered, the sound a ragged breath of pure terror.

Max watched as Angel's struggled against the hold the two had on him. The sucking sound of blood being drained was a vile melody, a sound that made Max's stomach twist and churn.

He felt the hard edge of the knife under his leg and a terrible wave of indecision crashed over him. Part of him screamed to use it now, to cut his bonds and get free. The other part was paralyzed by fear. If he tried to use the knife, they would see him. They would let go of Angel and come for him. But if he did nothing, Angel would be deader than he already was.

Angel let out a final, agonizing grunt before going completely limp. Spike and Drusilla pulled their fangs from his neck, leaving behind two perfectly circular bite marks, twin wounds of ultimate defeat. Then, they simply began to drag him out of the room, their hateful snarls and taunts fading as they moved into the darker depths of the crypt.

Max looked at PJ, and with a subtle nod, he dropped his gaze and began to work. He used his foot to nudge the knife over, guiding the blade under his bound hand until he could feel its sharp edge. He began to saw, the blade silently slicing through the coarse fibers of the rope. PJ followed suit, his movements just as careful, finding his own way to cut his bonds.

Moments later, with a final, liberating snap, Max's ropes fell to the floor. He was free. He quickly grabbed the knife and with a swift gesture to PJ, urged him to free Debbie from her chains. The terror was replaced by a cold, searing purpose. He had to save Angel. He crept to the opening where they had disappeared. A low hum filled the air.

Max peered through a tear in the thick, dusty curtain, his breath hitching in his throat. The sight on the other side was a cold punch to his gut. In the dim candlelight, he saw Aunt Carol lying unconscious on the Victorian bed, and at the foot of it, Angel was tied down, his arms and legs bound tightly by ropes. Above him, Drusilla hovered like a predatory insect, a sickening smile on her lips. Her long nails carved a slow line down Angel’s cheek, and as a trickle of blood appeared, her smile bloomed into one of terrifying sweetness.

The sight of it sent a jolt of unadulterated panic through Max. He wasn’t looking at Angel anymore. He was back in that room, on that very bed, helpless and terrified. He felt the cold iron of the swing chains tying his arms and legs, the thick gag in his mouth, the awful helplessness as his shirt was lifted off his stomach. He felt the sharp, agonizing bite of her nails as she etched her name into his flesh, a permanent mark that refused to disappear, a scar that branded him as hers. The pain, the terror, the deep-seated humiliation of being so powerless.

He was not going to let this happen.

His hands tightened around the hilt of the knife. He was not going to stand by and watch. He would not be helpless this time.

Spike swaggered into the room from another door, a rusted metal box held loosely in one hand. His eyes flickered from Drusilla’s sickening work on Angel to the still figure of Aunt Carol on the bed. He tossed the box onto the floor with a loud clang that made Max flinch behind the curtain. The lid creaked open to reveal an array of ancient, gruesome-looking tools, a hook, a rusty saw, and a set of pliers.

"I'm not much of a torture bloke myself," Spike announced, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. He kicked a foot rest against Angel's tied-up body. "I prefer to get it over with, you know? A quick neck-snap, a little drain, and on to the next one. Efficient, that's what I am." He ran a hand through his spiky blonde hair, a condescending smirk on his face. "But for Dru, I'll make an exception. A true artist appreciates her craft."

He knelt beside her, a look of twisted admiration in his eyes. "And you are a proper little artist, aren't you, my sweet? Carving your name into folks' flesh, making them remember you forever. It's a bit much for me, the bloody melodrama of it all, but you have to appreciate the commitment." He picked up a pair of rusted pliers, turning them over in his hand. "Besides, watching you do your work on these pathetic bleeders… I'll admit, it's a good way to pass the time."

Max’s hands tightened around the knife he still held. He watched as Spike handed the pliers to Drusilla. They were so focused, so sure of their victory, their attention completely on the helpless Angel.

Max’s eyes darted around the room, a frantic search for a weakness, an angle, anything. His gaze landed on a large, stone sarcophagus in the corner, its lid cracked and crumbling. It was old, heavy, and very unstable. He looked at the heavy velvet curtains he was hiding behind. He knew what he had to do. With his Slayer-enhanced strength, he could get to that sarcophagus. He could use his knife to dislodge a key support, or push it hard enough, and it would topple over with a deafening crash, drawing all the attention of the vampires. It was reckless and dangerous. But it was also the only chance they had. He would create a diversion, a chaotic moment of surprise. It wouldn't be enough to take them on, but it would be enough to get someone else to Angel.

On cue, Max felt the subtle pressure of movement behind him. He didn't turn, but his peripheral vision caught the shadowy forms of PJ and Debbie approaching him with silent purpose. He looked at PJ, a silent plea passing between them. With a quick glance towards Angel, Max’s eyes asked the question. PJ’s small nod was all the answer Max needed. His gaze then shifted to Aunt Carol, still unconscious on the bed, and then to Debbie, a new, unspoken request in his eyes.

As Max began to move, PJ’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm. PJ’s wide, worried eyes asking, what are you going to do? Max offered a quick, reassuring smile, a thin stretch of his lips that he hoped conveyed more confidence than he felt. He gently pulled his arm free, his resolve hardening.

Then, he moved.

Max burst from behind the heavy velvet. He launched himself towards the massive stone sarcophagus in the corner. With a grunt of effort, he slammed his shoulder into its side, digging his knife into a visible crack in the stone base. The ancient stone screeched, dust exploding into the air as the sarcophagus tilted precariously. With another surge of his Slayer strength, Max shoved, and the colossal lid, already askew, slid with a deafening CRASH onto the floor, sending a cloud of pulverized rock and centuries of decay billowing into the crypt.

The sudden, ear-splitting noise ripped through the air, shattering the tense silence. Spike and Drusilla, startled, whipped their heads around, their eyes blazing with furious surprise. "What in bloody hell?!" Spike roared, his attention immediately diverted from Angel. Drusilla's sweet smile vanished, replaced by a snarl of pure venom. They launched themselves at Max, a blur of predatory speed.

Max glanced at PJ and Debbie, contented as he saw them sprinting toward Angel and Aunt Carol.

As Spike and Drusilla rushed him, Max met their assault with the disciplined moves Debbie had taught him. He ducked under Spike’s wild swing, parried Drusilla’s clawed hand with a swift block, his body moving with a practiced agility. He was fast, but they were faster, stronger. A glancing blow from Spike’s fist connected with his jaw, sending a jolt of pain through his teeth. Drusilla’s open palm slapped him across the ear, the ringing echoing in his head. He absorbed the hits, gritting his teeth, buying precious seconds.

He watched PJ's hands work furiously at the ropes tying Angel's wrists. Debbie, meanwhile, was struggling to lift her unconscious mother without her slayer strength. She glanced at Max, a look of grim determination, and then, with a final, powerful heave, she dragged Aunt Carol out.

Spike's gaze followed Max's, and he noticed PJ’s frantic efforts to free Angel. "Oi! You little rat!" he shrieked, abandoning Max to Drusilla. He lunged at PJ, a blur of furious motion. PJ, though smaller, met him with surprising skill, dodging and weaving, using his own burgeoning Slayer strength to parry Spike’s attacks. But it was clear he was no match for the older, more experienced vampire. Spike landed a vicious kick to PJ’s stomach, sending him sprawling away from Angel.

With eyes burning with a cold, possessive fury, Drusilla seized Max. Her grip was like iron, her fingers digging into his arms. She pulled him close, her face inches from his, her breath, cold and sweet, ghosting over his lips. "My naughty kitten," she purred, her voice a chilling caress. "Soon, you will be mine." With a swift, brutal movement, she tore his t-shirt, the fabric ripping away to reveal his stomach. Her cold fingers traced the white letters in a possessive, agonizing touch.

Max’s chest constricted. His lungs seized. He tried to breathe, but the air felt thin, like ash. His eyes, wide and unblinking, stared past Drusilla, fixed on nothing, seeing everything. His body trembled, an uncontrollable tremor that started in his core and spread outwards. Each shallow, ragged gasp was a desperate attempt to pull air into lungs that felt crushed, to escape a terror that was not just in the room, but deep inside him, a cold, familiar dread that promised eternal helplessness.

Max's eyes caught sight of PJ. His best friend was crumpled on the ground behind Spike in a bloody mess, and Max knew he was running out of time. He pushed the air into his lungs, forcing a shuddering breath that broke through the terror clutching his throat. And with a roar, he used every ounce of his borrowed slayer strength and headbutted her.

Drusilla shrieked, the unexpected force sending her reeling backward. Max didn't hesitate. He snatched a nearby bronze lamp from a table and swung it, the heavy metal clocking her right in the head with a dull clang. As she stumbled, momentarily stunned, he lunged for Angel. With a desperate yank, he ripped the ropes tying the last of Angel's hands, gesturing frantically for him to run.

He then spun on his heel and grabbed a wicked-looking meat hook from the torture box, plunging the sharpened end into Spike's back with a grunt. The vampire roared, his face a mask of pure fury as he whipped around, his eyes blazing with a predatory hunger.

"You've gone and done it now, you little tosser!" Spike growled, grabbing Max by the arms. He hoisted him up and slammed him against the hard floor with a sickening thud, pinning him down. "I'll show you why they called me William the Bloody!"

Spike's head dipped, his fangs sinking into Max's throat. A white-hot jolt of pain exploded through Max's body. He thrashed, his hands clawing at Spike's arms, but the vampire's strength was overwhelming. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He was going to die.

"Spike, no!" Drusilla screamed, her voice a sharp, high-pitched wail. "Don't kill him!"

Spike froze. His fangs remained buried in Max's skin for a second longer, and then he slowly, reluctantly pulled away. The dark rage in his eyes faded, replaced by a cold, calculating emptiness. The ridges in his brow and his pronounced forehead receded back to their human shape. Max felt the cold rush of air on his neck, and a bead of blood slid down his throat. They needed Max and PJ alive for their ritual. And now, they had them. PJ lay a crumpled, unconscious heap behind Spike, and Max's neck was bleeding.

Drusilla knelt beside Max, her eyes wide with a strangely childlike concern. She gently pulled him out from under Spike, resting his head on her lap. Her face hovered over his neck, and her tongue, unexpectedly cold and soft, began to lick the gash on his throat. Max swallowed, the action feeling stiff and awkward. This was, without a doubt, the weirdest and most uncomfortable thing that had happened to him since he'd caught his cousin sneaking out of his room. He did nothing as she continued to lick his wound, the strange sensation both repulsive and a tad comforting.

"Vampire saliva," Spike explained, a smirk on his face as he noticed Max's discomfort. "It heals the wounds, but it leaves the scars."

"Great," Max said in a sarcastic whisper. "More permanent scars."

Drusilla stopped her odd ministrations and placed her cold fingers on Max's cheek, tilting his face so their eyes met. "Feeling all right, kitten?"

Max grimaced. "Must you keep calling me that? I have a cat at home, and I never call him kitten."

She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, her smile returning. "Well, you are going to be my kitten, once I take your powers."

Spike clapped his hands together with a loud smack. "Right then, let's get on with it." He grabbed PJ's unconscious body and flung him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Drusilla took hold of Max's hand and began to guide him out of the room. As they passed the broken sarcophagus, Max saw the knife he had used earlier still dug into the stone base. In a single, fluid motion, he swiftly snatched it, hiding the cool metal against his leg as they walked.

Outside the room, Max saw PJ's unconscious body inside the ritual circle. Drusilla led him to sit next to his friend before she walked to help Spike get the ropes to tie them again. Max glanced at PJ's thrashed body, and he whispered, "PJ?" but his friend was completely out of it.

Suddenly, the heavy crypt door groaned and burst inward, slamming against the stone wall. Max’s head whipped around. Standing in the entrance, their figures stark against the moonlight, were Debbie and PJ’s dad, Pete.

Pete took one step inside, his eyes scanning the room, and then he saw his son. PJ lay unconscious on the ground, a bloodied and bruised wreck. All the bitterness, all the rage, and all the selfish pride that Max had seen in Pete melted away, replaced by a raw, guttural cry of a father's horror. "PJ!" he screamed, his voice thick with a mix of terror and grief. Without a moment's hesitation, he launched himself at Spike.

Spike, his back to the door, spun around with a snarl, but he wasn’t fast enough. Pete, fueled by pure fury, delivered a powerful right hook directly to Spike’s face. The punch, the kind of blow that could fell a man, caught the vampire completely off guard. He stumbled back, his head snapping to the side, a look of pure shock and disbelief on his face.

Drusilla's eyes flashed with renewed malice at Debbie. "Ah, the powerless one," she hissed, her fangs descending as she lunged at Debbie.

Max lunged forward, the knife held tight in his hand. He plunged the blade into Drusilla’s back.

The vampire shrieked, a high-pitched sound of shock and pain. Her body spasmed, and she whipped around to face Max, her eyes wide with a look of pure betrayal. “My kitten!” she screamed, her voice a wounded wail. “After I healed you! After I licked you clean!”

“Licked you clean?” Debbie questioned, her nose scrunched in disgust.

Max flushed. "It's not what you think." He pulled the knife out and scrambled away as Drusilla stumbled backward, clutching her wound. Over his shoulder, he saw Pete, his arms wrapped around PJ's limp body, already moving toward the exit. Max and Debbie ran after him.

They spilled out of the crypt and into the cold night air, the fear and adrenaline still thrumming in their veins. The moonlight revealed a sight that made them all freeze in their tracks: a car, its engine idling quietly, with Williams in the driver's seat. Beside him in the passenger seat, with an unconscious Aunt Carol resting on his lap, was Angel.

"Get in!" Williams screamed, his face strained from the pain of his broken arm, which was held awkwardly in his lap.

Without a second to lose, Pete climbed into the back, his arms still wrapped protectively around PJ's limp body. Max and Debbie scrambled in after them. Williams stomped on the gas, his good arm expertly handling the steering wheel as the car sped away from the horror they'd just escaped.

"Where did you get the wheels?" Max asked, his voice still shaky.

"After Mr. Pete and I escaped earlier, he took me to his used car dealership and we grabbed this car," Williams explained, his eyes on the road. "When we got back, we saw Angel outside the crypt. We formed a plan: he would pretend to be soulless and get you all out one by one. He was able to get Goofy out and went back for Mrs. Miller, but never came back until later with Debbie and her mother."

Angel, from the passenger seat, looked down at Max's unconscious aunt. "They must have heard me knocking Goofy out," Angel said, his voice weak from the loss of blood. "I knew they were suspicious. I had to get out of there and pretend a little more, but they were already on to me."

Debbie’s voice cut through the conversation. "Drop us home before Mom wakes up," she said to Williams, her tone urgent, "then go to the hospital for your arm and PJ."

Max stared at PJ's battered face, the dark bruises and swollen eye a sickening sight that twisted his heart. He noted how Pete held his son protectively to his chest, a pang of profound sadness welling up inside him. He wished more than anything that PJ had been conscious to see his dad's bravery, the way Pete had flown into a rage and punched a vampire for him, the sheer terror and concern etched on his face.

This thought brought Max back to his own loss. "Where's my dad?" he asked Angel and Williams.

Williams didn't turn around. "He... he managed to escape," he said apologetically, "we couldn't stop him."

Angel caught Max's gaze in the rearview mirror. "I will find him," he said, his voice low and reassuring. "I promise."

Pete, who had been silently cradling his son, mumbled under his breath, "I can't believe the Goof is a vampire." He looked up, his eyes meeting Max's, and for the first time, there was no ridicule or hate, only a shared grief. "I'm sorry about your pop, son."

Max lowered his gaze, his throat tight with emotion. "Yeah," he whispered. "Me too."

~*~*~*~*~

Max and Debbie stumbled through the front door of Pete and Peg's home, their arms wrapped around a limp, unconscious Aunt Carol.

"Oh my God! What happened?!" Peg cried, her voice a sharp gasp as she rushed to meet them.

"She fell," Max lied, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue. "Into a pit. And Williams and PJ fell in too. Mr. P is taking them to the hospital right now."

Peg gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her gaze searching their faces in frantic disbelief. "My PJ! Is he going to be all right?"

"He'll be okay," Max reassured her, though the words felt hollow and fake. He wasn't sure if he believed them himself. "He just got a little banged up."

"Please don't mention any of this to my mom when she wakes up," Debbie quickly added. "She's a proud woman and would be mortified."

Peg nodded absently, her mind clearly consumed with worry for her son.

Together, Max and Debbie carried Aunt Carol to Pete and Peg's bedroom and gently laid her on the bed. It was only then that Max noticed his own appearance: his T-shirt was torn to shreds. If they were going to convince Aunt Carol that everything that happened was just a dream and that Max had never left the house, he would need to get the pajamas he was wearing that night.

"I need to go home and get my pajamas," Max said, and without another word, he slipped out of the house. He walked next door and let himself in through his own kitchen door. The smell of something cold and metallic hit him the moment he stepped inside. He saw a shadowy figure standing by the refrigerator, hunched over a plastic bag. It was Angel, and he was drinking blood.

"Is pig's blood as tasty as human's?" Max asked, the question just popping out.

Angel pulled the bag away from his face. "Not even close," he said, his voice hollow. His eyes fell on Max's ripped shirt and the scar beneath it. Max's face burned with embarrassment, and he quickly tried to cover himself, but it was too late.

Angel's expression turned grim. "Careful. Stay out of Drusilla's way," he warned, his voice low and serious. "Once she marks you as her pet, you won't be able to get free."

"She won't catch me," Max said, trying to sound braver than he felt. He cleared his throat. "So, um, you came back?"

"Yes," Angel answered, his face devoid of emotion. It was like talking to a robot.

Max scratched the back of his neck. "Did you, uh, did you find a way to…?" he trailed off, feeling awkward. Asking strangers for favors was something he hated, but at this point, could he even consider Angel a stranger? They had already had each other's backs.

Angel nodded. "I found a demon that could restore your dad's soul."

A flash of pure happiness lit up Max's face. "Really?" The feeling was quickly dissolved as he lowered his gaze to the ugly scars on his bare stomach. "But Dad isn't here now."

"I'll find him. I'm not coming back until I do, but I need my strength first," Angel replied before taking another long swig from the plastic bag.

Max would have offered Angel a mug, but he didn't want blood on their cups. Instead, he quickly headed to his room and grabbed the same pajamas he had worn for training just hours before. He then turned and went back to Pete's house.

~*~*~*~*~

The next morning was a whirlwind of half-truths and frantic lies. Aunt Carol, finally conscious, sat up in bed and immediately demanded to know where Max was, claiming she’d seen him leave in the middle of the night. Max, his heart in his throat, calmly told her he’d been in bed the whole time, insisting she must have been dreaming.

Meanwhile, PJ and Williams were already back from the hospital, but Pete had whisked them away to Goofy's empty house so Aunt Carol wouldn't find out the truth. Williams was in a cast, and PJ, although recovering quickly with his Slayer healing, was in a worse condition and needed more rest. Peg had gone to wait on him in what was now Max's old room. Even Pete stayed by his son's side. Pistol had made him a get-well card with a drawing of a lopsided, purple dragon. Her accompanying gift was a half-eaten bag of her favorite candy.

Max wished he could have seen the look on PJ’s face when he received it, or witnessed the outpouring of love from his family. But he couldn't. He was trapped. Debbie had filled him in on all the details while Max was stuck downstairs, a captive audience to Aunt Carol, who was busy preparing him for another visit from the social services lady, Ms. Jenkins.

Ms. Jenkins sat on the couch across from Aunt Carol. Max sat stiffly on a chair in the corner, staring at his clasped hands, the conversation washing over him like a distant tide.

"It seems the paperwork is all in order, Mrs. Miller," Ms. Jenkins said, her voice brisk and professional. "Everything looks ready for Max's transfer to your custody."

Aunt Carol smiled, a determined expression that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh, that's wonderful news! It's just not right to have a child his age without a proper legal guardian for so long."

"I agree," Ms. Jenkins replied. "The sooner we can get him into a stable, loving environment, the better. Have you decided on a date for his move to New Jersey?"

Aunt Carol answered without sparing Max a glance. "I'm hoping to get him settled in next week. I'm thinking of visiting his school this Monday to get his file and papers. There's a good school right near my house. The education system there is far superior."

Max's stomach twisted into a cold, hard knot. The sudden, overwhelming changes in his life were happening so fast he could barely keep up. He felt like he was a puppet, his strings being pulled by forces he couldn't see, his future being decided by people who didn't know him at all. His home, his school, his friends, all of it felt like it was slipping away, his life being taken apart and packed into boxes by others who believed they knew what was best for him.

"And how is Max adjusting to the idea?" Ms. Jenkins asked, her eyes flicking to him.

Aunt Carol answered for him. "It's all a bit much for him right now, losing his father so suddenly. He just needs a proper home."

Max said nothing. He focused on the patterns in the carpet, on the dust motes dancing in the sunlight, on anything but the two women deciding his entire future. He didn't want to go to New Jersey. He wanted to stay right here, in Spoonerville, where the memories of his dad were still fresh, still real. But no one asked what he wanted.

Ms. Jenkins's voice cut through the silence. "So, Max, are you excited about moving in with your aunt?" she asked, her tone bright and expectant.

"Uh..." Max's eyes darted up. He saw his aunt's face tighten into a frown and quickly lowered his gaze. He felt the words catch in his throat, a heavy knot of fear and deceit. "Yes," he whispered.

The tension in the room was thick and suffocating.

"Max, look at me," Mrs. Jenkins said, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. Max slowly lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. "Is there something wrong?" she asked, her gaze unwavering.

Max's eyes flickered to Aunt Carol again.

"Don't look at your aunt," Ms. Jenkins demanded, her voice sharp with a sudden authority. "Look at me and tell me the truth."

Max swallowed, the lump in his throat as heavy as a stone.

"It's okay, Max," Aunt Carol said, her voice now filled with a feigned patience. "Tell us what you want."

Max looked down again, the carpet suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. "I was hoping I could graduate grade school with my friend PJ," he mumbled.

"But that's three months from now!" Aunt Carol objected, her gentle facade cracking for a moment.

"PJ is the only friend I've ever known," Max confessed, his voice more vulnerable. "I get that I can't stay here forever, but if I can at least finish the school year with him..." He trailed off, the words dying in his throat. His request sounded so stupid, so childish. He knew there was no way his aunt, or the social worker, would agree to it. The weight on his chest grew heavier, a cold, empty feeling of being unheard and unseen.

Aunt Carol’s gentle tone vanished. She wasn't speaking to Max anymore; her words were directed at Ms. Jenkins, a rapid-fire list of objections. "But three months? That's impossible, Ms. Jenkins. I have a job. I have a life in New Jersey. We can't simply uproot everything for three months."

Max's shoulders slumped, his gaze fixed on his neatly tied shoes. He had to keep his shoelaces tied, Aunt Carol had told him again and again, or he would step on them and fall. It was just one more rule in a life that was now filled with them.

He listened as his aunt continued to explain why his request was absolutely ridiculous, her voice laced with an exasperated frustration that made his own bottled anger start to boil. He, too, had a life here. Why didn't that matter? Just because he was a kid and she was an adult, did that mean his life here wasn't just as important as hers?

Ms. Jenkins’s voice cut through his aunt’s protest, sharp and clear. "Mrs. Miller," she said, her tone a firm command. Then, she looked at Max again. "Max. Look at me."

Max was aware of the burning sensation behind his eyes, a hot wave of shame and frustration. He quickly wiped at his face, brushing away the brimming tears before looking up at her. She was watching him, her gaze filled with a quiet sympathy.

"Your aunt is right," she said, her voice gentle. "I understand what you want, but you can only stay here for one more week. After that, you have to move with your aunt."

Panic seized him. "But you asked me what I wanted!" he pleaded, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "I really want to finish sixth grade here!"

Ms. Jenkins let out a long, weary sigh. Beside her, Aunt Carol frowned. "You'll make new friends in New Jersey," she said, her tone a soft chiding.

Max shook his head, a fresh wave of tears welling up. "You don't understand," he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "It was hard enough making friends in Mouseton. PJ was my first and only friend. I just want to finish the school year with him." His head drooped, the defeat so heavy he felt like he would be crushed under the weight of it. "Why is it so hard?" he whispered.

Ms. Jenkins sighed again, her gaze falling on Aunt Carol. "Mrs. Miller, what if Max stayed with the Petes for the remaining three months?" she suggested.

Max's head snapped up. His whole body lit up at the idea. But the hopeful look on his face quickly vanished as his aunt's mouth tightened.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Aunt Carol said, her voice strained with disapproval. "They already have two young children. Their plate is full."

Max remembered Pete saying that exact same thing to him before manipulating him into a life of endless chores. The world felt jaded and unfair.

"Why don't we ask them first?" Ms. Jenkins said. "I've noticed that Mrs. Pete is quite fond of Max."

Max's spirits soared. It was true. Peg did like him. She might just agree to let him stay. Before his aunt could object, Max yelled, "I'll go ask them!" He dashed out of the room and into the hallway, ignoring the protests of both women. He ran inside his own house, yelling a quick "Hi, Debbie, hi, Williams!" as he passed them, sitting in his still-damaged living room. He bounded up the stairs, heading for his room where PJ and his family were.

He stopped short in the hallway, the laughter drifting out of his bedroom pulling him up short. He peered through the opened door, a knot of curiosity and a flicker of something else tightening in his chest.

PJ was propped up on his bottom bunk bed, a plate of cookies balanced precariously on his lap. Pistol was snuggled up by his side, her small head resting on his shoulder, while Peg sat in a chair next to the bed, her hand reaching for a cookie. All three were listening intently to Pete, who was perched at the foot of the bed, regaling them with a story from his used car sales shop.

"So, this guy comes in, see?" Pete was saying, a wide grin on his face. "Big fella, looked like he ate cars for breakfast. Says he wants a 'reliable' vehicle. I show him this beauty, a '78 Gremlin, practically mint condition for its age. Tell him it's got character. He kicks the tires, squints at the engine, and then, he tries to taste the paint job! Said he was checking for 'authentic vintage flavor'!"

PJ, Pistol, and Peg erupted into laughter, their joy echoing through the room. PJ, even with his bruised face, was beaming, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Max’s heart warmed, a bittersweet ache, at the sight of his friend so happy. PJ deserved this, every bit of it. He deserved the warmth and care of his family. Something tugged at Max’s own heart, a memory of the easy laughter and quiet comfort he’d shared with his own dad. And maybe, just maybe, he could have that with his new family.

His heart tightened at the word "new." He didn't really know his aunt and her family. What if Debbie's dad didn't like him? His aunt was already critical of everything he was and everything he liked. What if, after living with him for a while, she decided she'd made a huge mistake and tried to change him into someone he wasn't? Debbie did like him, but she'd be going to college soon. And then he'd be alone, just him and her mom and dad. The thought was a cold, lonely knot in his stomach.

Max knew he shouldn't interrupt the scene in his own bedroom. PJ's laughter was a sound Max hadn't heard enough of lately. He deserved this moment with his family. Max turned to leave, his heart heavy with a familiar pang of loneliness.

"Max!"

He stopped. PJ's voice, clear and bright, called to him. Max peered through the open door, seeing PJ gesturing for him to come in. "We have cookies!" Pistol piped up, her voice full of childish glee. Peg offered a welcoming smile, and even Pete's face held a grin.

Max walked in and stood by the side of the bed. PJ offered him a cookie, and Max took it, listening as Pete began to talk about work again. Max found himself wishing that he could be a part of this family. At least with them, he knew where he stood. He knew they liked him, maybe not Pete, but Max knew what to expect from him. It was a comfortable predictability he hadn't realized he craved.

"Honey, what's wrong?" Peg's voice suddenly broke through his thoughts.

Max snapped out of his trance, looking up to see the entire family staring at him. He swallowed, the words catching in his throat. Insecurity filled him as he stared at the uneaten cookie in his hand. "I... I came over to tell you that the social worker suggested I could stay in your house for the next three months until I finish sixth grade," he said, bracing himself for their reaction, his chest tightening as he stared at the cookie.

"Alright!" PJ yelled, a whoop of pure joy.

Peg was on him in a second, pulling him into a tight hug. "That's wonderful news, sweetheart!"

Max looked between them. "So it's... um, okay?"

Peg pulled back, her eyes shining. "Of course it's okay! Right, Petey?"

The entire family's gazes—PJ's excited, Peg's firm, and even Pistol's questioning—landed on Pete. Pete shrugged with a defeated sigh. "Well, of course you can stay," he said, the words gruff but not unkind. "What's one more mouth to feed?"

Max let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. A wide, genuine smile spread across his face as he accepted another hug from Peg. It was a hug that felt a thousand times better than the forced, stiff ones from Aunt Carol. When she pulled away, he and PJ slapped a triumphant high five. For the first time since his dad died, Max felt like he was exactly where he belonged.

~*~*~*~*~

Monday morning arrived. Max had said his goodbyes to Aunt Carol the night before as she drove back to New Jersey. She’d told him that she would be getting his new bedroom ready for his move in three months. Debbie had assured her mom that she and Williams would be rejoining her school trip, though Max knew they were staying in Spoonerville to train him and PJ for their eventual face-off with Bayanka.

The familiar school building stood before him and PJ. Max hadn't been to school in a week, and every step toward the entrance felt like walking into a spotlight. He was terrified of the sympathetic looks, the whispered questions, and the pitying glances. He felt exposed, like a fragile piece of glass, and he just wanted to disappear.

"Everything's going to be fine," PJ said as he gave Max a gentle push toward the doors.

They walked inside, and as soon as they entered the hallway, the usual morning chatter died. Dozens of eyes followed them, a sea of pitying gazes that made Max's skin prickle. He felt his face grow hot with shame and kept his eyes glued to the floor as they walked toward his locker.

Just as he fumbled with the combination, a small, shy voice cut through the silence. "Hi, PJ."

Max looked up to see Rose Beckenbloom standing before them, her cheeks dusted pink.

"Hi," PJ replied, his voice even more shy than hers. Max rolled his eyes at his friend's bashful demeanor and went back to his locker.

"Hey, Max," Rose said, turning to him. "I'm so sorry about your dad."

"Thanks, Rose," Max mumbled, the words feeling empty and pointless.

She brushed a few blonde bangs off her forehead. "Are you feeling better?" she asked.

"Yeah," Max replied, the lie feeling heavy on his tongue. "I'm living with PJ for now."

Rose's eyes flickered to PJ, and a blush deepened on her cheeks as if she were imagining what it was like to live with him. PJ seized the opportunity, his chest puffing out slightly, and he looked at Rose with an intensity that made Max want to gag. His voice, soft and poetic, filled the quiet hallway as he recited the verses he'd been working on all weekend.

"Your hair is like the sun, so bright,

A star that twinkles in the night.

Your eyes are like the clear blue sky,

And you just make me want to fly."

Rose's face lit up, a grin spreading across it. "PJ, did you write that for me?" she asked, her voice full of delight.

"I hope my first attempt at poetry is okay," PJ said bashfully, looking at her with a hopeful expression.

Rose was over the moon. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. PJ stood there, frozen in place, a small, goofy smile on his face, a look of pure bliss in his eyes.

Max rolled his eyes again, wondering if he had to put up with his best friend being a love-struck puppy for the next three months.

A sudden commotion broke the silence of the hallway. Max and PJ watched as Marty strode up to a smaller kid. With a swift, practiced motion, Marty grabbed the kid’s backpack, upended it, and let its contents spill across the floor. He then snatched the kid’s lunch and walked away.

Max’s hands tightened on the straps of his own backpack. He clutched the brown paper bag containing the lunch Mrs. Pete had packed for him. Marty zeroed in on Max's lunch. He reached out, his fingers already curling around the edge of the brown bag. But then he stopped. His hand froze in mid-air. The sneer on his face vanished, replaced by a look of awkward surprise.

“Oh,” Marty said. “Hi there, Max.”

Max was startled by the complete change in attitude. He stood there, unsure of how to respond.

“I heard about your dad,” Marty said, looking down at the ground. “That sucks, man.”

Max just nodded slowly, the words feeling foreign and distant. “Uh, thanks,” he managed to get out.

Marty turned his attention to PJ and reached for his lunch bag. But PJ held the bag up, his eyes blazing with a defiant glare.

“Not a chance, Frickle-face,” PJ spat, his voice firm.

Marty glared at PJ, but he didn't press the matter. He turned and stalked off, muttering something under his breath.

“I’ll see you later in class,” Rose said with a small clap of her hands before walking away.

“Dude, that was awesome!” Max said, high-fiving PJ. “You stood up to him.”

PJ grinned, a confident gleam in his eyes. “After almost two weeks of fighting creatures of the night, Marty is nothing but a footnote.”

~*~*~*~*~

The scent of freshly painted drywall and polished wood filled Max’s living room. Four days of work by Debbie and Williams had restored the space, but the normalcy felt thin and artificial. Max sat hunched over a textbook, a pencil clutched in his hand.

"It's not fair," he grumbled, dropping his pencil with a clatter. "We're supposed to be Slayers. We fight monsters. Why do we also have to do homework?"

Across from him, PJ sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Tell me about it. I've got a report on the food chain due tomorrow."

Williams set down his teacup. "Right then, you chaps. Time's a-wasting. Finish up your studies. We have to head to the cemetery and resume your practice."

"At least tomorrow's Friday," PJ said. "This week has been way too much. School and homework and training…"

"You boys should be grateful," Debbie said, flicking through the channels on TV. "It's been a slow week. We haven't seen a single vampire for four days."

"Not even Drusilla and William the Bloody," Max said, sharpening his pencil for the tenth time.

PJ looked up, confused. "William the what?"

"William the Bloody," Max explained. "It was something Spike called himself the last time we saw him."

Williams’s gaze sharpened. A grim line appeared on his face. "Blimey," he muttered, more to himself than to the boys. "I've heard that name before. He was given that moniker for the way he tortured his victims. He was famously known for leaving a trail of blood and dismembered bodies behind him for others to discover."

Max's brow furrowed. "But that doesn't add up. He said he wasn't much into torture. He said he preferred to kill his victims on the spot."

"Yeah," PJ agreed, his own confusion evident. "He's more of a 'kill 'em right now' bloke," he quoted, dropping his voice into a decent imitation of Spike's gruff, British accent.

Williams’s expression hardened, his voice dropping to a stern, serious tone. "That, gentlemen, is precisely why we must train you harder. It seems our opponent is far more dangerous than we previously believed. There is a layer of cold-blooded cruelty beneath his surface charm and cynicism. He is not what he appears to be." His glare intensified. "Now finish your homework."

The boys groaned in unison.

Debbie stood and turned off the TV. "Williams and I are heading to the cemetery now," she said. "You boys can follow us right after you finish your homework. Don't be late."

~*~*~*~

Max stared at the words on the page, the ink swimming before his eyes. He and PJ were hunched over their English homework. The poem, Emily Dickinson’s “Because I could not stop for Death,” felt like a cruel irony. He could have stopped for death a dozen times in the last week. In their new lives, death didn't politely slow down in a carriage; it came screaming, with fangs and a mouthful of curses.

“She’s personifying Death,” PJ said with the self-assured authority of a newfound expert. “See? ‘He kindly stopped for me.’ He’s a gentleman. He’s taking her on a journey.”

Max gave him a look. “Dude, relax. You wrote, like, a quarter of a poem for Rose, and now you’re a poetry expert?”

PJ bristled, clutching the book protectively. “I’ve read lots of poetry with Rose! And actually, I’ve always liked poetry. I just… never said anything about it.” He looked away, embarrassed. “My dad always thought it was kind of wimpy.”

“Right,” Max said, crossing his arms. “I’ve known you for months, and you never once mentioned that you liked poetry before Rose.”

PJ shot him a look, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You don’t know everything about me. I’m mysterious that way. Like a dark figure in the night.”

Max snorted, a grin spreading across his face. “Right. A dark, mysterious figure in the night with a massive boy crush on Angel.”

PJ’s face went scarlet. “Take that back!” he yelled, lunging across the couch.

The next moment was a whirlwind of flailing limbs and playful grunts as PJ tackled him, demanding he recant. Max laughed, trying to squirm away from his friend’s hold, the two of them a tangled mess of backpacks and notebooks.

Then, a sudden, violent crack echoed through the house. The front door was knocked clean off its hinges and slammed against the wall. A shadowed figure stood in the doorway, framed by the moonlight. Max and PJ froze, their wrestling match forgotten. They stared at the figure, their breath caught in their throats.

“Williams isn’t going to like this,” PJ quipped, his voice a little shaky. “He spent a whole day fixing that door.”

The shadowy figure took a step into the living room, and as the moonlight from the open doorway caught his face, Max’s heart stopped. It was his dad. Goofy looked like he’d been dragged through a barbed-wire fence and stomped on for good measure. His clothes were in tatters, his face was a collage of bruises, and a thin, sickly pallor coated his skin.

“Dad?” Max whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief.

PJ instinctively reached for a stake, one of the many they were supposed to take with them to the cemetery for training.

Goofy waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t bother. It’s not like I could hurt you anyway.”

“What’s wrong, Dad?” Max asked, his eyes scanning the bruised face. “You look like you’ve been on the wrong end of a rocket-powered blender.”

Goofy scoffed. “Oh, I’ve been blended, alright. By the damn military.”

“The military?” PJ asked, lowering his guard slightly. “Where the heck have you been?”

“I’m just going to sit down,” Goofy said wearily, his body slumping.

PJ stepped in front of the couch. “No sitting until you explain yourself.”

Goofy glared at him. “Relax, you big lug. I told you, I can’t hurt you.” He muttered the last part to himself. “Can’t even hurt a damn fly.”

“What do you mean, Dad?” Max asked, feeling weirded out. He was not used to his dad cursing. He was a man who believed "gosh" was a four-letter word and thought the height of rebellion was putting pineapple on a pizza.

“Let me demonstrate,” Goofy said, his eyes narrowing on PJ. He lunged forward, fangs out and his face shifting, ridges and a pronounced forehead emerging. PJ's startled scream mingled with Goofy's own shriek of agony. Goofy clutched his head, recoiling as if struck by an invisible, massive force.

“What’d you do that for?!” PJ demanded, his eyes wide.

“I’m not going to attack my own kid!” Goofy explained defensively, rubbing his head with a wince.

PJ rolled his eyes. “Oh, so now you actually like him?”

Max stepped between them. “Dad, what’s going on?”

Goofy threw his hands up in exasperation. “Some doggone military fellas caught me. Threw me in one of them blinding white rooms and messed with my head. Said they put a chip in there. Any time I go to bite someone, I get zapped in the skull like some kinda mangy poodle with a shock collar.”

Max and PJ stared at each other, trying to process the absurd new information.

Goofy sank pathetically onto the couch, the fight completely drained from him. He put his head in his hands and let out a sob. “I haven’t eaten in days. I’m so hungry.”

“I’m sure there’s some pig’s blood in the fridge,” Max piped up, trying to be helpful.

Goofy grimaced. "Pig's blood?" He shot Max a disgusted look. "I'm a vampire, not some kinda hog-lovin' critter! What in tarnation is wrong with you?"

“It was good enough for Angel,” Max retorted. He paused, the words triggering a thought. “Hey, Dad, have you seen Angel?”

“The fella in the black leather jacket who looked like Batman?” Goofy asked. "Yep, he's the one who helped me get out. Shame they went and caught him, though," he added with a cruel, evil chuckle.

PJ’s face fell. “Poor Angel,” he mumbled, mirroring Max's feelings about the vampire who had risked his own safety to save Goofy, only to be captured himself.

Goofy aggressively put his dirty boots on the coffee table, right on top of Max and PJ’s homework. “Fine. Where’s that pig’s blood?” he demanded.

Max moved to the kitchen, but PJ grabbed his arm. “Hey, why should we feed him at all?”

Max shook him off. “Because he’s my dad, PJ!”

PJ sighed, defeated. "Fine. I'll go tell Debbie and Williams about the new and improved model of vampire."

Max hurried to the kitchen, grabbing the last couple of plastic bags of pig's blood from the fridge. He paused before heading back, his gaze falling on the mugs in the cupboard. He snagged his dad’s favorite mug, the one with the fishing bobber on it, and carried it into the living room. He poured some of the dark fluid into the mug and handed it to his dad. Goofy snatched it from him, took a sip, and grimaced. "It's cold."

“Do you want me to heat it for you?” Max asked.

Goofy shook his head and continued to drink. Max couldn’t help the small smile that formed on his lips. For a moment, he could pretend there were no vampires and no slayers. It was just him and his dad on a casual night, sitting in the living room, Max doing his homework while his dad drank something that was not animal blood.

Goofy stared at him, studying his face. “Why are you smiling?”

Max shook his head, his eyes misty. "Just glad you’re back, Dad.”

Goofy didn't respond. He simply handed Max the empty mug for more, and Max happily poured him another.

Chapter Text

PJ watched, his jaw tight, as Max unplugged the TV from his living room wall. He then moved to the VCR, pulling the wires free with the same methodical focus. His gaze fell upon the collection of VHS tapes, and he began to sort through them, choosing the ones that Mr. G liked. PJ stared with complete displeasure as Max spared no expense, all to make a vampire's stay as comfortable as humanly possible.

"PJ, come help me carry the TV to the basement," Max said, his voice oblivious to his friend's irritation.

PJ rolled his eyes but went along with it. Together, they carried the TV down the stairs to the basement. With their Slayer strength, it weighed less than a feather.

Goofy was in the corner of the basement, his wrists and ankles secured with heavy chains that had been bolted to the concrete wall. Williams had managed to install the chains before he and Debbie left on a mission to save Angel from a group called the Initiative. It was a piece of information they had to drag out of Goofy, who stubbornly refused to say a word. They exposed him to the scent of garlic and then made him sit in a room while they shined a powerful flashlight into a tiny crucifix they had made out of reflective foil, forcing him to listen to the song "It's a Small World" on repeat. It only took twenty minutes for him to crack.

Apparently, there was a secret military group teaming up with a secret scientist group led by a professor named Walsh. They captured vampires and demons and tamed them by implanting a behavior-modification microchip in their heads that rendered them unable to willingly harm or attempt to harm humans without causing them debilitating pain. The Initiative was stationed in an elaborate facility underneath the UC Sunnydale campus in a small town called Sunnydale.

As PJ and Max lugged the TV down the basement steps, Goofy watched them, a sneer twisting his bruised face. He rattled the chains on his wrists, the sound loud in the quiet room. “Well, look at this. Y’all are making my stay mighty luxurious,” he said. “A man chained to a wall, and now he’s got a television.”

"We have to chain you, Dad," Max explained patiently, as if he were talking to a difficult toddler. "So you don't run away."

Goofy scoffed, his eyes darting around the small, damp space. “You’d think after living in that dump upstairs, you’d be used to staying put.”

PJ felt a wave of anger on his friend’s behalf. Max's face, however, remained impassive, the insult rolling off him without a trace of hurt. "I'll get the VCR and the tapes," he said, turning to head back upstairs.

When Max was gone, PJ moved closer to the vampire. “You know, you could try to be nice,” he whispered, his voice low and urgent. “Max is just trying to make this as comfortable as possible for you.”

Goofy twisted his lips. “Son, I’m a vampire. I ain’t got no time to worry about nobody’s feelings.”

PJ knew that. He saw the coldness in Goofy's eyes, the predatory edge that lay just beneath the surface. He wished Max would see it, too. His friend was trying so hard to see his dad in this monster, and it was breaking PJ’s heart.

Max had been waiting on his dad hand and foot, a loyal servant to a cruel master. He'd gone to the butcher shop himself to buy the pig's blood, then heated it up in the microwave and poured it into a mug. Now, he came down to the basement with a plate of chips and crackers and a small bowl of blood on a tray.

Max sat next to his dad, his eyes full of a hopeful cheerfulness that PJ didn't understand. He dipped a chip into the blood and held it up to Goofy. "See, Dad? This is how you do it."

"You think a fella needs instructions just to dip a chip?" Goofy said, his eyes narrowed in disdain.

Max grinned. "Just try it, Dad."

Goofy took the chip, dipped it, and silently ate it. Without breaking eye contact with the movie Max had put on, he continued to dip and eat, his expression unreadable. Max threw a happy grin at PJ, who returned it with a reluctant smile of his own.

Max stood up, a nervous energy in his movements. "Do you think you're gonna be okay, Dad? PJ and I have to go eat dinner at Mr. P's house."

Goofy gave a grunt, his eyes still glued to the TV screen as he dipped a cracker into the blood.

~*~*~*~*~

PJ watched as Max ate, shoveling food into his mouth so quickly he almost choked.

"Oh, sweetie," Peg said, her voice soft with concern. "Slow down. The food isn't going anywhere."

Pistol piped up from her seat, "That's right, Max! My teacher said you're supposed to chew your food thirty-two times. It's for good die-just-tion!"

"I'm just really excited to get back to my house," Max said, already standing. "PJ and I were going to play some video games."

Peg's brow furrowed. "But it's so late. You boys can play video games in PJ's room."

Max nudged PJ under the table. "Yeah, but, uh, this one game only works on Max's system," PJ stammered, trying to sound convincing. "It's just… better at Max’s house."

Peg sighed. She had been indulging Max ever since his aunt had left, but her patience was wearing thin. "It's close to bedtime, Max."

"Tomorrow's Saturday," Max pointed out. "No school."

"Still, Max, you should sleep at night," Peg insisted.

Max's lips pursed in a thin line. "I was wondering if we could sleep at my house?"

"No! Absolutely not," Peg said, her voice firm. "You boys can't sleep in an empty house all by yourselves."

Max looked at Pete, his eyes wide and hopeful. "Mr. P can keep an eye on us."

Pete choked on his food. "What?" he sputtered.

PJ raised an eyebrow at his dad. Now that Pete was in the know about PJ and Max's sacred duty, he had promised to help them sneak out at night to fight vampires. This was the least he could do. Pete grumbled under his breath, but eventually, he reluctantly agreed to stay at Goofy's house.

~*~*~*~*~

Goofy was lying on his side on the mattress in the basement, still glued to the TV, dipping chips into his bowl of blood.

"Make sure he has a fresh supply of blood and chips every few hours," Max said to Pete, listing Goofy's needs with his fingers. "And if he complains about the show, you can switch it to a different channel, but only once. And make sure the blanket is tucked around his feet. He gets cold."

Pete nodded, looking completely bored. Finally, Max's tone became more hesitant. "Oh, and Mr. P, I know Dad can be a little bit, well, uh, you."

Pete's eyes narrowed into a glare. "Me?"

"But try not to take it to heart, okay?" Max finished.

At that exact moment, Goofy’s voice boomed from the mattress. "Where's the damn chips and blood, you lazy loafers?!" he yelled.

Max jumped. "Coming, Dad!" he yelled back, bounding toward the stairs.

Pete grumbled to PJ. "I wanna strangle your little friend."

"And I wanna strangle his dad," PJ retorted, "but that's a moot point since he's already suffocated himself."

Goofy’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he glared at Pete. "Would you and your fat son lower your voices?" he snarled. "I'm trying to watch my show, and all that thundering around is making the floor shake."

Pete took a step forward, his fists clenching. "Why, you…"

"Come on, Dad," PJ said, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. "You know he’s a neutered vampire, right? Insulting us is all he has."

Max came back down with a tray piled high with chips and a full bowl of blood. Goofy grabbed it, muttering, "Glad you didn't trip with my tray, you clumsy midget," under his breath.

"Aww, thanks, Dad!" Max said with a wide, genuine smile.

PJ rolled his eyes, he'd been doing that a lot lately. "Hurry up, Max. Duty is calling," he said, already heading toward the stairs.

Pete waved them off with a tired smirk. "Happy hunting, boys."

"Wish us monsters, Dad," PJ called back.

~*~*~*~*~

PJ sat on a cold stone bench, scanning the cemetery. The eerie silence was unsettling, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the faint whisper of the wind. In front of him stood Drusilla and Spike's crypt. The gang had planned to take out the vicious couple last Monday, but to their surprise, the crypt was empty, literally. The Victorian bed was gone, so were Drusilla's dolls, and even the large cage was missing. It looked less like they'd been chased out and more like they'd decided to move. PJ hoped that the two had just packed up and settled down in another city.

Max was sitting on a tombstone, swinging his legs impatiently, a wide, almost manic grin on his face. "Come on, where's the vampire?" he said with a giddy glee that grated on PJ's nerves. "I can't wait to go home."

PJ glanced at him, a heavy feeling settling in his chest. He knew he had to say something. He didn't want to hurt Max's feelings, but someone had to give him a reality check. "Max, you do know he's not really your dad, right?"

Max's legs stopped swinging. His happy grin dissolved, and he whispered, "I know."

"Then why are you treating him like he's going to win Father of the Year?" PJ asked, the words coming out sharper than he intended. "You're practically polishing his fangs for him, all for a blood-sucking fiend who insults you every other sentence."

Max frowned. "I know you love that Williams called you pragmatic that one time, PJ, but can you try and see things from my perspective?"

PJ sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Max, I know I can't even try to understand what you're going through…"

"Yes, you can't," Max interrupted, jumping off the tombstone and staring intensely at PJ. "You have your dad and mom and sister. I only had my dad."

Something tugged at PJ, a raw nerve exposed. A surge of anger, hot and unexpected, flared within him. "Oh, so it should've been my dad, right?" he snapped. "Hey, it doesn't matter if my dad died and became a vampire, at least I have my mom and sister!"

Max's eyes widened, and he shook his head frantically. "PJ, that's not what I meant."

PJ scoffed, turning away and mumbling, "Where's that damn vampire anyway?" He scanned the empty cemetery, his anger still simmering.

Max walked towards him, stopping directly in front of him. "PJ, believe me, I'd never wish something like this on you, ever. What I meant was… he's the only one I got."

"He's not," PJ countered, his voice softer now, the anger fading into a quiet sadness. "You have me, and my family, and your aunt, and Debbie." PJ's eyes softened further, a plea in their depths. "You have to accept the fact that your dad is gone."

Suddenly, a vampire lunged out from behind a gravestone. PJ didn't even have to think; he instinctively moved into a defensive stance. Max was right there with him, and their movements were a fluid, practiced dance. Max dodged the vampire's swipe, and PJ was already bringing his stake up, but before he could connect, Max had twisted, plunging his own stake into the vampire's heart.

With a final, satisfying poof of dust, the vampire was gone. Max turned to PJ, his face lit up with a triumphant grin. "So, now we go home?" he said, his voice full of a giddy relief.

"Yeah, yeah," PJ replied, his own tension slowly dissipating.

~*~*~*~*~

PJ sat on the bottom steps of the basement, a quiet observer of the scene. Goofy was sprawled out on the mattress like a king, issuing demands that Max fulfilled without a second thought. Max happily brought Goofy fresh chips and more blood, a blissful smile on his face, while PJ's dad, Pete, sat tiredly beside him, his eyes half-closed.

"Bet it was fun looking after him," PJ mumbled to his dad.

Pete let out a dry chuckle. "Son, I'd rather take on a whole legion of the undead than spend another minute playing butler to that foul-mouthed varmint."

Goofy's voice thundered from the mattress. "I wanna watch Die Hard!"

"We don't have that one," Max said, sounding crestfallen. "But Mr. P does!" His eyes turned to Pete, wide and pleading. "Please, Mr. P, can you go get the tape?"

"Max, it's late," PJ interjected, the exhaustion of the night finally catching up to him. "We're all tired. Let's just call it a night."

Goofy’s head whipped around. "I said I wanna watch Die Hard!"

PJ snapped, "You can watch it tomorrow!"

Max turned his puppy-dog eyes on PJ, and a familiar feeling of defeat washed over him. "Fine," PJ sighed.

"Thanks!" Max squealed happily, then shoved the dirty trays into PJ and Pete’s hands. "You guys can wash these. See you in a bit!"

As they trudged up the stairs, Pete grumbled, "Seems we're not just servants to the undead. We're now slaves to the Goofs."

PJ shook his head. "Max just needs to believe his dad is back," he said quietly. "I tried to talk to him, but he won't listen."

"Poor kid," Pete said, his voice softening. "Having to live with that dreadful woman for the rest of his life… no wonder he's latching on to that ungrateful bloodsucker." Pete sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I suppose I should get that Die Hard tape."

"Thanks, Dad," PJ said, taking the tray his dad held out to him.

Pete just waved him off as he headed out the door. "Yeah, yeah."

PJ finished washing the dishes, a task made even more unpleasant by the dried blood he had to scrub from the bowls. He then placed the clean dishes in the cupboard. He didn't want to go back down to the basement, but he knew he had to keep an eye on Max.

When he reached the bottom of the steps, he saw Goofy propped against the concrete wall, half-reclined on the mattress, his eyes glued to the flickering television. Max was curled up next to him, his head resting on Goofy's chest, sound asleep. A pang of sympathy shot through PJ. He shook his head slowly, whispering, "Oh, Max."

Goofy’s eyes flickered to PJ, a cruel smirk on his face. "This boy's getting heavy. Y'all need to come and get him outta here before I get tired of him."

A wave of pure, hot rage overtook PJ. "Don't you dare wake him up," he hissed, taking a step forward, his hands clenching into fists. "I don't have any emotional attachment to you, so if you hurt Max one more time, I swear I'll drive a stake through your heart."

Goofy's smirk widened. "Really? No emotional attachment?" His voice suddenly changed, the rough Southern drawl melting into the gentle, familiar tone of Mr. G. "Have you forgot the chestnut speech, PJ? Or the time I taught you how to properly weed a garden? Or the time I drove you and Maxie to the Comic-Con?"

PJ's glare didn't soften, but he felt a crack in his resolve. He bit back the rush of memories. "Obviously," he admitted, his voice tight. "I loved Mr. G. He was the dad I always wanted..."

Goofy's laughter ripped through the air, a harsh, humorless sound that cut PJ off mid-sentence. Goofy’s eyes weren't on PJ; they were fixed on a point behind him. "Now this zinger didn't come from me," he said.

PJ turned slowly, his blood running cold. Standing at the top of the basement stairs, a VHS tape in his hand, was his dad.

"Oh, Dad, I didn't mean..." PJ started, the words catching in his throat.

Pete walked down the stairs in a solemn, jaded silence. He handed the tape to PJ, his face unreadable. "This is the Die Hard tape. I'll just go crash in the Goofster's bedroom." He didn't say another word, just turned and trudged back up the stairs, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

PJ stared at the tape in his hand, regret eating at him. His dad would never win "Father of the Year" by any stretch, but he had tried. Tonight, he was a hero, unlike his usual self when Mr. G was still alive. PJ couldn't help but think the change in his dad's attitude was because of PJ being a Slayer. His dad wasn't shy to express how proud it made him feel, even if he didn't like that Max also shared the sacred duty of cleansing Spoonerville's streets from creatures of the night. It was as if Max being a Slayer too made PJ less unique and special in his dad's eyes.

Mr. G, the kind, living version of Max's dad, had always seen PJ's worth without him doing anything special. He'd always come to PJ for advice on how to handle Max's outrageous ideas, and he'd always given him those gentle pats on the shoulder, a sharp contrast to his own dad's bone-crushing smacks. PJ had wondered what it would be like to have Goofy as his dad, a desire he had just spoken aloud for his own dad to hear. It didn't matter now because Mr. G was gone, and PJ did have a dad, a dad he had just hurt deeply.

~*~*~*~*~

Saturday morning arrived, quiet and gray. PJ woke up with a purpose: he was going to make things right. He got up early and, with a newfound energy, started his chores. He made the bottom bunk bed in Max's room where he'd slept the previous night, then went back to his own house to make his bed perfectly. From there, he went downstairs to the kitchen. He cleaned the dishes that had piled up from the night before, humming a little tune as he worked. When he was done, he moved on to the living room, dusting every surface and fluffing every pillow.

As he was mowing the front lawn, he saw his dad walk out of Goofy's house. PJ's heart leaped. He called out to him, a cheerful greeting ready on his tongue. Pete just smiled back, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and then took the morning paper from their yard and went into his own house. PJ dropped the lawn mower's handle in disappointment. He had wanted to please his dad, to show him that he was sorry, that he was trying to make things right. But Pete's smile was a wall, and PJ was standing on the outside.

He trudged back into his house, the happy energy he'd woken up with completely deflated. The front door closed behind him with a soft thud. He walked into the kitchen, where his mom, Peg, was bustling around, humming a tune as she prepared breakfast. She looked up and smiled warmly at him. "There you are, sweetie. Thanks for washing the dishes."

PJ managed a weak smile in return.

"Where's Max?" Peg asked, taking the scrambled eggs from the pan and onto a plate.

"Still sleeping." He had found Max still snuggled up against his dad, though to his credit, Vamp Goofy was sleeping sitting up so as not to disturb Max.

PJ sat down at the table where his dad was already seated, buried behind a newspaper. Pete was silent, a state that was completely unnatural for him. PJ tried to get his attention. "Morning, Dad," he said. Pete just nodded absentmindedly, not even lowering the paper. The food tasted like ash in PJ's mouth. He was quiet, lost in his thoughts, replaying his dad's distant smile.

Just then, Pistol rushed into the kitchen. "Daddy, daddy, daddy!" she yelled, her voice filled with excitement. "My friend Briteny bought the new Totally Hair Barbie, and I want it! Please, please, please, buy it for me, Daddy! Please, Daddy, buy it for me, huh? Huh?"

Pete lowered the paper, a warm smile spreading across his face as he looked at his daughter. "Sure thing, Muffin-cake," he said softly.

As Pistol devoured her breakfast, PJ tried again. "Dad, I…"

"I'm reading the news, PJ," Pete cut him off, raising the paper back up.

PJ’s stomach twisted. This wasn't unusual. He had always been in the background while Pistol got whatever she wanted. But this time, it was different. This time, his dad’s indifference felt like a direct result of his words last night, and it filled PJ with a deep regret.

After they finished eating, Peg handed him a small package wrapped in brown paper. "Sweetie, after breakfast, I need you to take this package to Mrs. Peterson's house. It was delivered to us by mistake." PJ took the package, his heart heavy with disappointment, and glanced at his dad one last time before leaving.

He trudged down the sidewalk, so caught up in his own gloom that he didn't notice the scuffed-up patch of sidewalk until it was too late. His foot caught, and he stumbled forward, the package flying from his hands. It hit the ground and bounced once, twice, rolling into the street before a sudden gust of wind caught it, sending it tumbling down the road and around the corner.

He ran after it, frustration washing over him. He chased the package past a row of quiet houses and across a vacant lot. It finally came to a rest just outside the gates of an abandoned factory. The building was a hulking, skeletal ruin of rusted metal and broken windows, a monument to a forgotten industry. The air around it felt heavy and stagnant.

He pushed the gate open, wincing at the loud, protesting shriek of rusted metal. He walked inside, his heart pounding in his chest. He scanned the area for the package. He saw it lying innocently on the floor, next to a large pile of wooden crates. He took a few steps forward and stopped. His eyes widened. He saw a faint light coming from a large, open area in the middle of the factory. He crept closer, his slayer instincts on high alert, wishing he'd brought a stake with him.

He peered around a stack of crates and gasped. He saw a very familiar Victorian-style bed, complete with the very familiar lace canopy and velvet comforter, right in the middle of the grimy factory. On it were Spike and Drusilla, fast asleep, their arms and legs entwined. They looked so peaceful, so vulnerable. If only he had a stake! He backed away slowly, his eyes still glued to the vampire couple. He was a few feet away when he turned around and saw the package still lying on the floor, but didn't take it. He had to tell someone about what he saw.

PJ didn't stop running until he was back on his street. He crept back into the house, his heart pounding in his chest. He saw his dad alone on the couch, flipping through TV channels. He approached him cautiously, his voice a low whisper. "Dad, Dad, I found Spike and Drusilla. They're in the old factory, sleeping. I'm gonna go get Max."

He turned to leave, but his dad caught him by the collar, pulling him back. "Not so fast, son." Pete leaned in, a knowing smirk on his face. "This is your chance."

"My chance?" PJ asked, confused.

"If you kill two legendary vampires by your lonesome, you'll be a legend yourself," Pete said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "A true warrior, a lone wolf. You’d be the pride of this town, a real hero."

PJ's eyes narrowed. "You mean I should go back to the factory without Max?"

Pete put an arm around PJ's shoulders, pulling him close. "That kid's been holding you back, son. You're a natural, a powerhouse. You don't need a sidekick. You're the main event. What better way to prove it than to take down two of the most dangerous vamps in history, all by yourself? They're sleeping, right? So there's no danger. It’s an easy win, and it’ll show everyone, especially me, what you're truly capable of. You'll be a man, son. And I'll be so damn proud of you."

A heavy, cold feeling spread through PJ's chest. He looked at his dad, seeing the calculating glint in his eyes, the almost manic eagerness that had replaced his usual apathy. It was a cold, hard truth he couldn't ignore: his dad's recent interest in him wasn't about him, PJ, at all. It was about the power, the strength, the Slayer within him. A power that wasn't even truly his. A temporary power forced upon him by a demon, and would soon be taken away from him and restored to its rightful owner, Debbie. The real Chosen One. And then what? Would his dad look at him with that same proud gaze? Or would he revert to his usual distant self, the one who saw PJ as just… PJ?

He walked to his room and grabbed his stake, the weight of his dad's unspoken expectations pressing down on him. As he stepped back into the living room, his dad gave him a thumbs-up, a wide, almost performative grin on his face. "Go get 'em, son!"

PJ nodded numbly and walked out the door. He glanced at Max's house, thinking he should tell his friend about this. But then he heard his dad's voice, sharper now, cutting through the morning air. "What are you waiting for, boy? Go ahead, make your dad proud."

The words were a whip, stinging him into action. With a heavy heart, PJ turned and began the long walk back to the abandoned factory. Each step felt like a lead weight, dragging him down. The morning air, once crisp, now felt thick and suffocating. He was walking into a trap, not for the vampires, but for himself. He was going to prove something he didn't believe, for someone whose approval felt hollow.

He pushed open the groaning gate of the factory, the sound echoing ominously in the vast, empty space. He tiptoed inside, his senses on high alert, despite the crushing weight of his emotions. The air was still and cold, tasting of rust and decay. He moved silently, his footsteps barely disturbing the dust on the concrete floor, making his way to the spot where he'd seen the Victorian bed.

He rounded the stack of crates, his heart thudding against his ribs, half-expecting to see them there, vulnerable and asleep. But the bed was empty. The lace canopy hung limply, the velvet comforter was rumpled, but there was no sign of Spike or Drusilla. PJ's heart sank further, a fresh wave of despair washing over him. Had they left? They couldn't. The sun was shining outside. Had he come all this way, risked all this, for nothing? He spun around, searching the cavernous space, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

Then, from directly behind him, a voice, low and raspy, cut through the silence, sending a shiver down his spine. "Hello there, mate."

PJ froze. He knew that voice. Slowly, he turned. Standing just a few feet away, bathed in the faint, dusty light filtering through the broken windows, were Spike and Drusilla, their eyes glinting with a predatory amusement. They weren't asleep. They were waiting.

He sprang into action, a desperate, adrenaline-fueled rush of defiance. He didn't have a plan, no strategy for fighting two vampires who were faster and stronger than him. He moved on pure instinct, dodging a strike from Drusilla and lunged at Spike. He was a whirlwind of motion, but they were a graceful, deadly dance. His movements, usually fluid and powerful, were hampered by the fear and insecurities that plagued his heart, while they were unburdened, uninhibited, and in complete control.

Spike sent a vicious blur of a fist connecting with his jaw. He felt a sickening crunch, the world spinning. He stumbled backward, and Spike was on him again, a flurry of punches to his stomach, to his ribs, to his chest. Each blow sent a jolt of pain through him, and soon he was on the ground, beaten and bruised, his head aching. He lay there, gasping for air, his vision blurry.

Drusilla sat on the floor next to him, her face a serene, unearthly mask. "Look me in the eyes," she said, her voice a chilling whisper. PJ knew what she was about to do. She was going to hypnotize him, just like she had with his dad. He turned his head away from her, his eyes firmly shut. He felt her hand grab his head, but he held his ground, his muscles screaming in protest.

"PJ, son, are you all right?"

That was his dad's voice. He opened his eyes and turned around. His dad was leaning over him, his face a mask of concern. "Dad," PJ asked, his voice raw with pain, "where are Drusilla and Spike?"

"I didn't see them," Pete said, his brow furrowed in worry.

"Dad, why are you here?" PJ asked, the question escaping him before he could stop it.

"I was worried," Pete said, brushing his large hand over PJ's bruised forehead. "Thought I'd come and lend a hand if you needed it."

PJ felt a lump form in his throat. "You were worried?"

"Of course I was," Pete said, looking him over. "Look at you, they did a number on you, those slimy bloodsuckers."

PJ's eyes welled up with tears, not from the pain of his physical wounds, but from the raw, emotional sting of the moment. He wanted nothing more than to be a boy again, to be buried in the safety of his dad's arms, to feel the comfort of his embrace. But the brutal beating left him unable to move, his body a map of throbbing bruises.

His dad leaned closer, his expression shifting from one of worry to something else entirely. "So," he said, his voice a low, casual rumble. "What's the plan for tonight? Where will you boys go vampire hunting?"

"Tonight?"

"Of course, like every night," his dad said. "Do you think Max will go out to stake vampires on his own? And where would that be?"

"No, I'll get better," PJ said, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. "This isn't as severe as last time. With the Slayer healing, I'll be fine in no time."

"I think it's better if Max goes tonight on his own," his dad insisted, his voice now cold and firm. "You went to face Spike and Drusilla alone, and he didn't help."

A cold feeling of dread washed over PJ. "But Dad," he said, his voice cracking, "you told me to go solo. Max doesn't know I went alone."

His dad's face remained impassive, his eyes fixed on PJ. "Where will you two go tonight? I'll drive you."

PJ stared at him, at the unchanging expression on his face. It was the same look he had given him all morning, the same distant, unfeeling stare that had made PJ's stomach twist with regret. But something was off. He narrowed his eyes, a flicker of understanding cutting through his pain and confusion. "You're Drusilla, aren't you?"

A loud, cruel laugh echoed from the shadows, and PJ's world began to spin. His dad's face morphed, the familiar features melting away into a pale, gaunt face. His eyes, once a comforting shade of brown, now glowed with an eerie, predatory light. Drusilla's serene, chilling face was all he could see.

In the background, a low, guttural laugh emanated from Spike, a sound that was half-amused, half-contemptuous. He stepped out of the shadows, a glint in his eye, and said, "Told you, Dru. This one is smart."

Drusilla's lips curled into a slow, unsettling smile, her gaze fixed on the bewildered PJ. Spike sauntered closer. "See, mate," he began, "Dru's got a proper knack for messing with people's heads. Psychic, she is. Can see right into your noggin and project whatever she fancies."

He gestured toward PJ with a flick of his wrist. "You wanted to see your pa," he said, the amusement still lacing his voice, "and she showed him to you. Simple as that."

Drusilla's face fell into a pout, her lip trembling slightly as she looked from Spike to PJ. "He was supposed to tell us where my kitten is," she whimpered, her voice soft and childlike.

Spike leaned in, trailing light kisses across her face and down her neck. "I'll bring you your kitten, Dru," he murmured, his voice a low promise. He glanced up at PJ, a predatory grin on his face. "We don't need his input. I know where his little friend lives."

PJ swallowed, his chest tightening with fear over putting Max in danger, and the humiliation of realizing how easily he had been captured, how his emotions had been exploited. He had played right into their hands, a mere pawn in their twisted games.

~*~*~*~*~

PJ huddled in the corner, the ropes biting into his wrists and ankles. He was a prisoner in every sense of the word, not just physically, but to the gnawing shame of his own failure. He had been so focused on proving himself and making his dad proud that he had agreed to finish the job without Max. He forgot that alone he was only half a slayer, and that they were the best only when they worked together. He had chosen to impress his dad rather than work with his best friend, and this was the consequence.

Every bruise on his body was a painful reminder of his defeat, but the emotional wounds cut deeper. He hated how easily Drusilla had manipulated him, preying on his deepest desire to reconnect with his dad. He had seen what he wanted to see, and it had blinded him to the obvious trap. Good thing he didn't reveal their hunting spot for tonight. Not that Max would go patrolling without knowing where PJ was.

The humiliation swelled as he was forced to watch Spike and Drusilla go at it like rabbits. What they were doing on that bed was the kind of unspeakable thing he was too young to see, the kind of sight you only encounter with a buddy in your teens, fumbling through channels you weren't supposed to find. Now, they lay sleeping peacefully, and PJ was left alone with his self-loathing. He leaned his head against the cold wall, the exhaustion finally winning over the pain. He hadn't slept more than four hours the night before, and as his eyelids grew heavy, he finally succumbed to a fitful sleep.

PJ stirred, a faint whisper pulling him from the depths of sleep. Someone was calling his name. “PJ,” the voice hissed again, closer now. He groaned, the fog of sleep thick in his head, and mumbled, “Go away, Drusilla. Let me sleep.”

“Shush, you idiot,” a low voice answered.

PJ’s eyes finally focused, cutting through the haze. He saw a face, but not the one he expected. It was his dad’s, framed by the familiar messy hair and a worried frown. His dad glanced over his shoulder, his eyes darting to the sleeping figures on the bed before he returned to PJ, a small pocketknife in his hand. The blade slid through the rough rope binding his wrists, and a sudden rush of blood returned to his hands, tingling and warm.

PJ stared, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm. “Are you really my dad?” he whispered.

“'Course I am, son,” Pete whispered back, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Who else do you know with these devilishly handsome looks?”

PJ’s gaze flickered to the bed. Drusilla was curled up like a cat, her head resting on Spike’s chest. The sight of them together sent a strange mix of relief and disgust through him. He looked back at his father. The smile on his face widened, a genuine, joyful expression. “Dad, it is you!”

Pete just shook his head, a soft, sad look in his eyes. “Poor boy. They must’ve been clunking you on the head a fair few times.” He finished cutting the ropes around PJ's legs and helped him to his feet. PJ’s legs were pins and needles, and he had to stomp a few times to get the blood flowing. Once he could feel his feet again, he and his dad started for the door.

That’s when Spike appeared, leaning against the doorframe, a smirk plastered on his face. “Going somewhere, then?”

"Listen here, you scuzz-muffin," Pete growled, pulling PJ behind him. "You touch another hair on my boy and I'll send you back to the hell you crawled out of, you worthless, chalky-faced, wannabe-tough-guy, a real punk-nugget!"

Spike let out a slow, low whistle, a mocking grin spreading across his face. "My, my, look at the big man." He sauntered forward, circling Pete and PJ like a wolf around its prey. "Tell you what, mate, you're the last thing I was expecting. A hero with a mortgage, a lawn to mow, and a son to embarrass. Should've stayed on the couch with your telly and your cheesy poofs, old man."

Pete snarled, "Why, you half-cooked chicken with a bad hairdo…" and balled his hand into a gloved fist.

"Alright, hold on," Spike said, holding up a hand. "Let's make a deal, shall we? One of you stays, and the other does a runner. And the one who leaves fetches the other boy-slayer."

PJ took a brave step forward. “How about we both leave, and you don’t get killed?”

Spike threw his head back and laughed. He looked at PJ, then at Pete. “And who’s going to kill me? You? Or your old gaffer?”

Pete’s jaw tightened. “I’ll stay. Let my boy go.”

PJ's eyes widened, a wave of fear and panic washing over him. “Dad, no! If you stay, they’ll kill you.”

“I'm not leaving you alone with this guff-bucket, PJ,” Pete said, his voice firm.

PJ grabbed his dad's arms. “It's okay, Dad, they need my powers. They won’t kill me.”

“But they’ll torture and hurt you, they already did,” Pete replied, touching a throbbing bruise on PJ's forehead. “I won’t let that happen.” He looked at Spike, staring him down, a determined look in his eyes. “He goes, and I stay."

Spike smirked, and in a flash, he had PJ by the collar, his face just inches from his. “Alright then, you little sod,” he hissed, his voice dangerously low. “I’ll let you go, but you get back here with your other half in three hours, or your dad’s going to end up just like your mate’s dad. Got it?”

PJ looked at his dad, a knot of terror tightening in his stomach. He didn’t get a chance to say another word. Spike flung him backward, and he stumbled through the doorway and into the dark hallway.

“The clock’s ticking,” Spike said, the dangerous tone of his voice following PJ.

PJ didn’t look back. He started running.

~*~*~*~*~

PJ ran, his lungs burning and his legs aching. The time was 3:30 p.m., and his eyes were stinging with unshed tears. He was too scared, too defeated, to even think straight. All he knew was that he had to get to Max.

He ran onto Max's front lawn, and skidded to a halt. His mom was standing on the porch, her hands on her hips, a look of thunder on her face. "PJ! Where have you been? Max told me he hasn’t seen you all day. Why didn't you take the package to Mrs. Peterson like I told you this morning?" she yelled.

PJ looked at her, his heart pounding in his chest. Peg's angry expression faltered as she took in the sight of him. She noticed the bruises on his face, the cuts on his knuckles, the rips in his jacket. Her face softened, and her voice dropped to a quiet demand. "What's going on, PJ?"

"Mom, please," PJ begged, his voice a choked sob. "I have to get to Max. I'll explain everything later, I promise."

But Peg didn't back down. She took a firm hold of his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. She stared into his tearful eyes, her own filled with a mix of fear and determination. "I know you're hiding something from me," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Do you think I didn't notice how your clothes keep disappearing? The amount of times you show up with new bruises? The broken arm, the time you fell into a pit… I know there's something happening, and I want to know what it is now."

PJ bit his lip, looking down at his feet. "Mom, please… we can't waste time."

"Tell me now, PJ," Peg demanded, her voice rising in pitch.

PJ kept his eyes glued to the ground.

"TELL ME NOW, PJ!" she growled, her voice like a clap of thunder.

PJ squeezed his eyes shut, a defeated sob escaping his lips. He looked up at his mom, the words finally spilling out. "My dad's in danger, Mom." His voice was barely a whisper, thick with tears. "If Max and I don't show up at the factory, Dad will end up like Mr. G."

Peg's face went white. "Dead?" she asked, her voice a fragile whisper.

PJ shook his head. "I'll show you," he said, turning and heading toward the house. "Come on."

PJ led his mom to the kitchen, then down to the basement, his heart pounding with every step. The sight that greeted them was surreal. Max was bent over Goofy, pouring blood onto a sandwich that looked slimy and unappetizing.

Max's head snapped up. He noticed PJ and his mom, and his face went white. He quickly fumbled to cover Goofy with a blanket. In his panic, Goofy's mug slipped from his hand, and the heated blood spilled onto his lap.

Goofy shrieked in pain, a loud, bellowing sound. "What in tarnation, boy! You worthless, clumsy little idiot! You done scalded my privates!"

"Oops, sorry," Max said with a swift glance at his dad. He jumped to his feet and scurried over to PJ, whispering furiously. "Peej, what are you doing?" He glanced back at Peg, who was staring wide-eyed at Goofy. The vampire had yanked the blanket off and was glaring down at his blood-stained pants.

Max noticed the tears in PJ's eyes, and his frown softened. "Hey, what's wrong?" he whispered, his concern immediate and genuine.

"Spike got my dad, Max," PJ said, the words catching in his throat. "He said you and I have to be there, or else they'll turn Dad into a vampire."

Max's eyes widened. "Spike? I thought he and Drusilla left Spoonerville."

"I found them in an abandoned factory this morning," PJ replied, wincing when Max grabbed his arm right where one of his many bruises was.

"This morning? Why didn't you tell me?" Max asked, his tone a mix of hurt and confusion.

"Does it matter now?" PJ retorted, his voice rising in frustration. "Dad's in danger, Max."

Suddenly, a piercing scream echoed through the basement. The boys startled, realizing they had completely forgotten about Peg. She stood frozen, pointing a shaking finger at Goofy.

"G-G-Goofy is a-a-alive!" she stuttered, her eyes wide with shock.

Goofy glared at her, his face a mask of irritation. "What's wrong with you, woman?" he sneered, his Southern drawl thick with contempt. "'Course I'm alive. Just not kicking the way I used to."

"Why does he talk like he's from a backwater swamp?" Peg demanded, her voice trembling.

"Because he's a vampire, Mom," PJ replied.

Peg’s eyes snapped to Goofy. "A vampire?" The word was a horrified whisper.

"And a real handsome one, too," Goofy muttered, his face shifting to his vampire features. He ran a hand over his pronounced forehead. "What's the matter, woman, you ain't never seen a man with a little bit of bite?"

"Excuse me?" Peg said, her voice rising in outrage.

Max rushed to his dad's defense, stepping between Peg and the vampire. "Mrs. P, he's just lashing out because he can't hurt humans. He's got a chip in his head."

Peg looked from Max to Goofy, her face a mask of disbelief. "Did you just tell me my neighbor is a monster, and then try to make it better by saying he's a neutered monster?"

Goofy's eyes narrowed. "Neutered?!" he growled, the word a low rumble in his throat. "Listen here, woman, I'm a lot of things, but the last thing I am is neutered! You and these boys can go jump in a lake! I'll take a stake to the heart over bein' cooped up with y'all!"

"Stop wasting time!" PJ said, grabbing Max's hand and pulling him toward the stairs. "Max, we gotta save Dad!"

"PJ, wait!" Peg yelled, stopping him in his tracks. "Where is your dad? And why should you two save him?"

Max glanced at PJ, his eyes wide. "What exactly did you tell your mom? 'Cause she doesn't seem to know anything."

"I don't have time to tell her what happened in the last eighteen days!" PJ retorted, frustrated.

"You counted them?" Max asked with a raised eyebrow.

"What happened in the last eighteen days?" Peg demanded.

Max nudged PJ. "Then give her the short version." He looked at PJ's mom, his expression serious. "Mrs. P, PJ and I are vampire Slayers. We slay the vamps, ergo, we should go and rescue Mr. P."

"Oh, no!" Peg said, shaking her head. "I am not sending you boys alone to fight some criminal monsters."

"But we've been doing that for the last eighteen days," Max replied, his voice laced with exasperation.

"Not exactly eighteen days," PJ corrected. "The first two days, Debbie did the slaying."

Peg's eyes widened, a look of horror and confusion spreading across her face. "Debbie?"

"We're going off track here!" Max yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. He turned to PJ, his expression urgent. "Tell us what exactly happened."

PJ, who had never been able to "short version" anything, took a deep breath and began to spill the whole story. "I was supposed to deliver the package Mom sent me to Mrs. Peterson, then I lost the package, then I ran after it..."

Max motioned with his hand, urging him to get to the point. "Skip to the important part!"

"Right, right," PJ said, his mind racing. "Spike and Drusilla are now residing in an abandoned factory. Dad said I should go and kill them by myself to have all the glory. Sorry, bud," he said, turning to Max.

Max patted his shoulder. "Don't sweat it, man."

"Anyway, I shouldn't have gone alone because I got the beating of my life by Spike," PJ continued, his voice trembling. "Drusilla played mind games with me, and then… " PJ's lips quivered, and he wailed, "I saw Spike and Drusilla doing it!"

Max's eyes widened with sympathy. "You poor dude."

PJ covered his eyes with his hands and shook his head, a defeated sob escaping his lips. "It was the worst thing I ever seen in my life!"

Goofy scoffed from his place in front of the TV, eating his sandwich. "You'll change your mind when you're older, boy. You'll see. It's a natural thing, like finding a good watering hole."

"Ew, Dad, stop! Now I have mental pictures!" Max exclaimed, a look of horror on his face.

"How do you think you came along?" Goofy said. "You think you just fell out of a cabbage patch? You were a bundle of wailing joy that came from a bundle of..."

Peg pointed a shaking finger at Goofy. "Don't you finish that sentence, Goofy!" she yelled.

Goofy met her glare with a leering smile. "Well now, you got me all flustered, pretty lady. The way you're yelling and carrying on, a fella'd think we already had a roll in the hay."

Peg's eyes widened in disgust. "Why, you sleezy…"

"Priority, people!" PJ yelled, cutting her off. He looked at Max, his eyes wide with urgency. "My dad risked his life for me. I'm not gonna let those jerks turn him into… that." He pointed at Goofy, who was now sloppily mopping up the blood he had spilled on his pants with a cracker, then licking the cracker clean.

"Let's weapon up, PJ!" Max yelled, his eyes alight with a renewed sense of purpose.

"Hold it right there!" Peg's voice was a steel trap, her hands on her hips as she blocked the basement stairs. "I don’t care if you two have been fighting gerbils with pointy teeth for weeks on end, you are not going alone. I'm coming with you."

Max’s face fell. "But Mrs. P, if you came with us, who's gonna watch Dad?"

Peg cringed, her gaze fixed on the vampire who was still licking his finger clean. She pointed a trembling finger at him. "Max, I've known your father since high school. This bad-mannered, ungracious, back-talking abomination is not your dad."

PJ turned to Max. "Told ya."

Max ignored him, turning back to Peg with a desperate plea. "But Mrs. P, you've never come across a vampire before! I mean, one who's not chained and actually dangerous."

"Hey!" Goofy exclaimed, offended.

Max carried on, "You'll be a liability. PJ and I are unstoppable together. You're just gonna slow us down."

"I don't care," Peg said, her voice firm. "I'm coming with you."

"We're talking about a loony she-vamp and a he-vamp named William the Bloody, and that's not a name he got from his stamp collection," Max argued.

Peg shook her head. "Nope. Still coming with you."

PJ took a deep breath. "Mom, what if we're all killed?" he said, his voice quiet but serious. "You saw how things went downhill for Max. Do you want Pistol to live with an Aunt Carol?"

Max glared at him. "Hey, that's my aunt," he said, but then sighed, a look of defeat on his face. "But yeah, he's right."

Peg’s expression softened, a reluctant fear replacing her anger. "I suppose someone should stay for backup," she conceded.

The boys cheered and rushed to gather their weapons. As Max came back with a stake in his hand, he rattled off a list of instructions for Peg. "Make sure you heat up Dad's blood every hour on the hour. He likes it at a very specific temperature. And if he starts complaining about the TV show, you can switch it to another channel, but only once. And make sure the blanket is tucked around his feet. He gets cold."

Peg mumbled, "Swell," as she watched them leave.

~*~*~*~*~

PJ and Max ran through the bustling streets of a Saturday afternoon, the sun still up in the sky a comforting shield. The air was cool and crisp, a welcome relief from the humid dread that clung to PJ's body. He felt it in the throbbing ache of his bruises, in the sharp stab of pain in his ribs with every breath. He was a wreck, a walking roadmap of Spike's fists, but his resolve was a hot, burning coal in his gut. They were going to save his dad.

"C'mon, Peej!" Max's voice was a shot of pure adrenaline. He didn't have a single scratch on him, his boundless energy a stark contrast to PJ’s weary gait. "We're almost there!"

They finally reached the abandoned factory. The sun, their greatest weapon, was still high enough to cast a blinding glare off the broken windows. It was a hulking, skeletal ruin of rusted metal and broken glass. It was perfect.

They slipped inside, the protesting shriek of the rusted gate a sound Spike and Drusilla would surely hear. The factory was a vast, cavernous space, filled with shadows and the ghostly echoes of a forgotten industry. They moved with the practiced silence of veteran Slayers, Max's usual unruliness replaced by a focused calm. He moved with a dancer's grace, his movements fluid and quick. PJ, however, was a step behind him, a limp in his gait. The smallest of movements, the simple act of ducking behind a metal pillar, sent a jolt of pain through him, and he had to clench his teeth to keep from crying out. He caught Max's sympathetic glance and shook his head, a silent message that he was fine.

They crept through the machinery, staying in the shadows and using the massive pieces of rusted metal as cover. They finally found them, a small group huddled around a flickering fire. Pete was tied to a thick pipe with a heavy chain, his hands bound behind his back. His face was a mask of fear, his eyes wide and pleading. He looked so small, so helpless, in the face of the two creatures looming over him.

Spike was pacing back and forth, a cocky smirk on his face. "Tick-tock, Muffin-man," he taunted, a cruel laugh escaping his lips. "Your little hero's not comin' to save you."

"My son's a damn hero, and you're a fudgy-faced, beetle-browed, half-baked ham hock!" Pete spat, his voice trembling.

Drusilla sat on a crate, her head tilted to the side, her eyes fixed on Pete. "He's not a hero," she whispered, her voice like a chilling wind. "He's an insect. And we're going to eat him."

PJ's hands balled into fists, his knuckles turning white. Max sprang into action, a lightning-fast punch that sent Spike flying into a pile of crates. "Get away from him!" Max yelled, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.

Spike stumbled, but quickly righted himself, his face a mask of rage. "Well, look who it is," he sneered, a cruel glint in his eyes. "The dynamic duo. Decided to come to the rescue, did we?"

"Oh, no," Max said, a cheeky grin on his face. "We just came to get the package Mrs. Peterson was supposed to have." Ironically PJ did spot the package on their way in.

The fight was on. Max was a whirlwind of motion, a flurry of punches and kicks that kept Spike off balance. He moved with a speed and agility that surprised even PJ, who had seen him in action many times. He was a furious ball of energy. PJ, however, was a study in controlled fury. He dodged a wild swing from Drusilla and lunged at her, his stake held high. She was faster, a serpentine haze, but his movements were precise and calculated. He managed to land a punch on her jaw, a sickening crunch echoing in the silent factory.

The fight was a chaotic maelstrom of motion and sound. The air filled with grunts, the sharp crack of punches, and the thud of bodies hitting the concrete floor. Max was a whirlwind of fists and feet, his movements a graceful, deadly dance. PJ, however, was a wreck, his body battered and his attacks slow and weak. Spike landed a punch squarely on PJ’s face, a sickening crunch echoing in the vast space. PJ stumbled backward, his head aching, his vision swimming.

Max saw it. He saw the way PJ stumbled, the way he clutched his side. He saw the moment the tide turned, and he knew they had to change tactics. "PJ!" he yelled, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Get your dad out of here! I'll distract them!"

PJ didn't hesitate. He knew what he had to do. He scrambled over to his dad, who was still tied to the pipe. "Dad, come on!" he yelled, his voice raw with a mix of pain and urgency. "We gotta go!"

Pete was a shaking mess, but he nodded, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and relief. He tried to pull at the chains, but they wouldn't budge. "They're too strong!" he cried.

PJ looked around frantically, his eyes landing on a heavy metal pipe. He grabbed it, his hands shaking, and with a grunt of effort, he swung it at the chains. It was a sickening, metallic crunch. The chains broke, and Pete was free.

"Go! Run!" PJ yelled, pushing his dad toward the exit.

Max was still engaged in the fight of his life, keeping Spike and Drusilla at bay. But he was losing. Spike was a seasoned killer, a master of his craft. He landed a vicious kick to Max's chest, a sickening crunch echoing in the silent factory. Max flew backward, crashing into a pile of crates, and lay there, unmoving.

"Go, go!" PJ yelled, his heart in his throat.

Pete grabbed PJ's arm, and they ran for the exit. The sun was their beacon, its rays filtering through the broken windows as they sprinted for the door. They were so close, almost to the safety of the open air. But they weren't alone.

Spike was a flash of motion, a vicious blur that shot toward them. Drusilla was a chilling whisper on the wind. Spike landed a punch on PJ's stomach, and he fell to the ground, a pained cry escaping his lips.

"PJ!" Pete yelled, his voice raw with fear and anger. He turned, ready to fight, but Spike was already there. A vicious punch to the face sent Pete flying into the wall. He hit his head and crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Spike was over PJ in a flash. He grabbed PJ's wrist and, with a sickening crunch, shoved his hand into a handcuff. The other end of the cuff was already secured to the Victorian bed. PJ's eyes widened in horror. He was cuffed to the bed where vampires played footsie and more.

"Looks like you're not going anywhere, mate," Spike sneered, his eyes gleaming with a cruel, predatory amusement.

PJ yanked at the handcuff, the cold metal digging into his wrist. He pulled and twisted, a frantic, desperate effort to free himself, but the cuff held firm. He was trapped. He sank back against the headboard of the bed, his heart a cold, hard knot in his chest. He was alone, at the mercy of two of the most dangerous vampires in the world, and he was terrified. He looked at Max who was now standing next to his dad, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and confusion.

"They got my boy!" Pete yelled, a raw, terrified cry that echoed in the vast, empty factory.

"Go home, Mr. P!" Max yelled, his voice firm and urgent. "I'll get PJ out!"

"But…" Pete stammered.

"If you stay, you're gonna slow me down!" Max urged, his face a mask of fierce determination. "Just go!"

Pete hesitated for a moment longer, a look of profound fear and helplessness on his face, then, with a choked sob, he turned and ran, disappearing into the bright light of an afternoon sun.

As soon as he was gone, Max grabbed his stake, a determined glint in his eye, and rushed to fight Spike. The fight that followed was a strange, almost theatrical dance. Max's movements were a chaotic mix of frantic energy and well-honed Slayer instinct. Spike, however, was a study in brutal efficiency. His was the style of a brawler, a street fighter who had picked up bits and pieces from countless confrontations. He didn't waste a single movement, his every motion a calculated strike, a ruthless combination of parries, feints, and vicious blows. He parried Max's attacks with an almost bored ease, a cruel smirk on his face.

From his spot on the ground, PJ watched, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. He studied Spike's every move, every parry, every feint. From all the times he'd seen him fight, he noticed that Spike didn't rely on one fighting technique. Instead, he utilized a combination of strategies he'd picked up over a century of fighting, making him a truly formidable opponent. He was a master of his craft, a lethal and graceful killer who fought dirty, using every part of his body as a weapon. He was everything PJ wasn't.

The fight raged on for what felt like an eternity, but it was over in a matter of seconds. Spike feigned a lunge, and when Max countered, a swift kick to Max's hand that sent the stake flying. It clattered against the concrete floor, a loud, lonely sound in the silent factory. Max stood defeated, his shoulders slumping in defeat, his eyes wide with shock and fear.

Drusilla's eyes, wide and black, fixed on Max. Her voice was a chilling, seductive whisper. "Look me in the eyes."

"Don't do it, man!" PJ yelled, his heart hammering against his ribs. He tugged on his cuffed hand, the chain rattling against the bedpost. "She'll hypnotize you!"

But it was too late. Max’s eyes glazed over, his body stiffened, and he began to walk slowly, like a puppet on strings, toward the vampire. PJ watched in horror as Drusilla’s lips curved into a cruel smile. She lifted Max's shirt, her pale hand tracing the first letter of her name on his stomach, the "D" a delicate, terrifying script. Then, with her sharp nails, she cut a long, thin line, drawing blood. She leaned down and licked the wound, her tongue a flicking pink, her eyes closed in perverse pleasure.

Next, she bit into her own wrist, a long, crimson line appearing on her pale skin. "Now," she commanded, her voice soft but absolute. "Drink from me."

"No, Max! Stop!" PJ screamed, his voice raw with panic. "Don't do it!"

But Max, trapped in the hypnotic trance, didn't even flinch. He leaned forward and began to lick the blood from Drusilla’s wrist.

In that moment, a desperate, animalistic rage surged through PJ. He tugged at the handcuff, a newfound strength coursing through his veins. The wood of the antique bed frame groaned, then splintered with a sharp crack. The cuff was still attached to his wrist, but now it was free from the bed, a heavy piece of wood dangling from the chain. With a roar, he swung the makeshift weapon, connecting with Spike's head. The vampire let out a startled growl and crumpled to the ground.

PJ didn't waste a second. He rushed to Max and slapped him hard across the face. The sound cracked in the silence. Max’s eyes blinked, the glazed look dissipating as he stumbled back, shaking his head.

"Snap out of it! We have to go!" PJ grabbed his hand and, with a last glance at the fallen Spike and a furious Drusilla, he dragged Max out of the factory and into the sunlight.

They kept running, the golden afternoon light washing over them, a shield against the darkness. They were safe now, or so they thought. Suddenly, Max let out a piercing scream and dropped to the ground, his body convulsing.

"What's wrong?" PJ yelled, dropping to his knees.

Max whimpered, his hands clutching his stomach. "It felt like… like electricity zapping me!"

They scrambled to their feet and tried to run again, but after just a few yards, Max screamed and dropped once more, the same shocking pain rippling through him.

From the factory doors, protected by the shadows, Drusilla's high-pitched laughter echoed. "Oh, my sweet boy," she cooed, her voice carrying across the distance. "You're all mine now. I've finished marking you as my pet. You're linked to me for eternity, my darling. And every time you try to go too far from me, every time you try to leave me… you'll be fried."

Max stared at PJ, his eyes wide with a fear PJ had never seen before. PJ held his terrified gaze, the weight of the moment pressing down on them both.

PJ swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making his voice tight. "What should we do now?"

"You go," Max said, his voice barely a whisper.

"I'm not leaving you alone with those lunatics," PJ shot back, a fierce protectiveness rising in his chest.

"There's no other way," Max insisted, a grim acceptance in his tone. "I need you to find a way to get me out. Besides, they won't kill me because they need you, too, for the ritual."

PJ shook his head, a wave of despair washing over him. "Max, I…"

"Don't worry," Max said, forcing a smile. "I'll be fine."

"You do whatever they want, okay?" PJ said, his voice cracking. "Don't fight them."

Max grimaced. "What if it's something kinky?"

PJ’s mind was flooded with a montage of the nightmarish images of Spike and Drusilla wrestling in bed. He shuddered. "Let's just hope it doesn't come to that."

From the factory doorway, Drusilla crooned, her voice as sweet and terrifying as a lullaby. "Hurry back, kitten, mommy's waiting."

Max covered his face with his hands, a defeated groan escaping his lips. "I hate when she calls me that."

PJ squeezed Max's shoulder, a silent promise in the gesture. "Like I said, whatever they ask you to do, do it. No heroics, okay? These guys are unstable."

Max nodded, then looked at PJ with a small, tearful voice. "Look, I know you don't like him, but would you take care of my dad, please?"

"I promise." PJ's own voice was thick with emotion.

Max's voice trembled. "Make sure you heat up his blood every hour on the hour. He likes it at a very specific temperature. He loves his crackers with his blood. And if he starts complaining…"

"About the TV show I'll change the channel and cover his feet while he sleeps because he gets cold," PJ finished. He tapped his head. "Got it memorized here."

Max nodded and gave a small, defeated wave. "Okay, see ya."

PJ watched his best friend walk with hunched shoulders back toward the factory. His heart pounded with a fear so profound it was almost paralyzing. He looked at Drusilla, who was receiving Max with a terrifyingly excited smile. PJ turned around and ran as quickly as he could. He wouldn't rest until he found a way to get Max out.

Chapter Text

Max walked back towards the gaping maw of the abandoned factory. The golden afternoon light, which had felt so warm and promising just moments ago, now seemed to mock his retreat. Drusilla stood in the doorway, her eyes gleaming with a possessive delight that made Max's stomach churn. He could feel the invisible leash, the electric jolt that had brought him to his knees.

"Welcome back, Kitten!" Drusilla said, sounding like a siren's song, sweet and deadly. She reached out a hand, her long, slender fingers curling around his arm. Her touch was cold, like death itself, and Max shivered. He forced himself not to flinch, remembering PJ's words: "You do whatever they want, okay? Don't fight them."

She tugged him gently, leading him deeper into the cavernous building. The air grew colder, heavier, thick with the scent of dust, damp concrete, and something metallic and faintly sweet that made his nose wrinkle. He tried to keep his expression neutral, his mind racing. New mission: Operation Survive the Psychos. Rule number one: Don't get fried. Rule number two: Don't get eaten. Rule number three: Don't let your bladder betray you.

Just then, Spike emerged from the deeper shadows, rubbing the side of his head. "Bloody little git," he muttered, still rubbing the spot where PJ's cuffed blow had landed. "Thought he was a right tough nut, didn't he? Little sodding tosser."

Spike's eyes flickered from Drusilla, then to Max. A slow, mocking grin spread across his face as he took in the sight of Drusilla's hand still gripping Max's arm. "Well," he drawled, his voice thick with triumph. "Look what the mistress dragged in. You did it, Dru. Boy's stuck for good, ain't he?"

Max's shoulders slumped, and his gaze dropped to the grimy concrete floor, his earlier resolve crumbling.

Drusilla's smile widened, her eyes fixed on Max with an unsettling intensity. She stroked his hair, her touch sending another shiver down his spine. "I'm going to teach my little pet all about being a proper vampire's companion," she whispered. "We'll learn about obedience, and loyalty, and how to make Drusilla very, very happy." Her gaze was unnervingly serene, promising a future Max couldn't even begin to imagine, filled with dark, twisted lessons.

She led him to the center of the vast space, where the incongruous Victorian bed sat like a macabre centerpiece. Around it, scattered on the grimy floor, were her collection of grotesque dolls, their porcelain faces cracked, their glassy eyes staring blankly into the gloom.

"Kitten needs to be comfortable," she murmured and gestured to a worn, threadbare rug beside the bed. "Sit, little one. I like my pets to be… attentive."

Max hesitated for a fraction of a second, his pride flaring. "Sit?" he scoffed. "Is this the part where I roll over and play dead? Because I thought that was your job description."

Drusilla's smile didn't waver, but her eyes seemed to bore directly into his very soul. She tilted her head. "Oh, a spirited kitten," she whispered, her voice a silken thread of menace that sent a shiver straight down Max's spine. "I know exactly how to teach a disobedient pet its manners."

He swallowed hard and sank to the floor, cross-legged, trying to appear as casual as possible. It felt anything but.

She settled back onto the bed, her eyes fixed on him. "Good boy," she praised, her voice saccharine. "Such a compliant kitten. Compliant pets are… rewarded." She giggled, and it grated on Max's nerves.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant drip of water and the faint creaks of the old building. Max's stomach rumbled. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, when he'd snuck a plate of Mrs. P's casserole to his dad in the basement. Goofy had stared at it with disdain until Max demonstrated the "proper" way to enjoy it: by liberally drizzling it with pig's blood. The memory, oddly, made his stomach hurt even more now, and that felt like a lifetime ago.

"So, uh, what's for dinner?" Max blurted out, unable to contain the question. His stomach felt like an angry badger gnawing its way out of his gut.

Drusilla's head tilted, her smile stretching. "Hungry, Kitten?" she purred, and then clapped her hands in a childish manner. "Spike! Our pet is famished!"

Spike sauntered over, a large, bloody slab of raw meat clutched in one hand. He tore off a piece with his fangs, chewing loudly, his eyes never leaving Max. "Right, then. Time for the little bugger to eat." He glanced at the slab of meat. "Me and Dru, we ain't got no use for this stuff. Only proper blood for us." He brought out a greasy rag from his pocket, tossed it away, and it landed next to Drusilla's doll collection, a dark stain blossoming on the porcelain face of a doll. Spike gestured with his chin towards the discarded, greasy rag. "Fetch that. Go on."

Max pushed himself to his feet, ready to move, when Spike's voice, sharp and mocking, cut him off. "You're a pet, aren't you? Pets don't walk on two legs. You fetch that on fours like the animal you are."

Max clenched his teeth, feeling a fresh wave of indignity wash over him. "I thought I was a kitten, not a puppy," he mumbled, unable to resist the jab, "cats don't fetch things."

Spike's cruel smirk widened. "You're whatever animal me and Dru decide you are, boy. Could be a pig next, if you keep up with the smart remarks."

Max wished his stare could burn that smirk off the jerk's face. He had to go along with whatever crap they were going to pull, until PJ found a way to get him out. With fists clenching at his sides, he lowered himself to his knees and crawled towards the rag. He reached to take it with his hand.

Spike tsked again.

Max inwardly cursed.

"Use your teeth," Spike ordered. 

Gross, he thought, looking at the dirty rag, the grease glistening in the dim light. His breakfast was threatening to make a reappearance. You do whatever they want. Easy said, Peej. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then lowered his head, pressing his nose against the fabric. The smell of stale oil and grime was overpowering, and the rough texture of the cloth felt disgusting against his lips as he took it with his teeth. The greasy, acrid taste immediately filled his mouth.

He crawled back to Spike, the rag dangling precariously from his teeth, and looked up at him. Spike gestured with his chin for Max to leave it on the floor next to Spike's feet. Max did so, immediately wiping his mouth with his gloved hand, scrubbing frantically, desperately hoping the horrible taste would go away.

With a casual flick of his wrist, Spike tossed a small, gristly scrap of meat onto the floor near Max. It landed with a wet thud, barely edible, covered in dust from the concrete. "There you go, boy," Spike grunted. "Saved the rest of this piece just for you. Don't say I never gave you nothin'."

Max stared at the scrap, his stomach churning with disgust. "I'm not eating this!" he snapped, his voice tight with revulsion.

Spike raised an eyebrow at Drusilla as he pulled a cigarette and lighter from his pocket. "You need to teach this pet of yours some manners, Dru."

"I've yet to give him his first lesson," Drusilla mused, fiddling idly with a pillow on her bed. "I thought a day of sleep would do us both good. The night is when the fun starts."

Spike crouched in front of Max, the cigarette smoke curling around his head like a sinister halo. "If you don't eat that, I'll stake your old man, then I'll turn your mate into a bloody lawn ornament. And you'll be alive to watch every last bit of it."

Max felt a cold dread settle deep in his gut, colder than any factory draft. He remembered how Spike had beaten PJ to unconsciousness last week, the bruises he'd seen today on his friend. He knew Spike wasn't bluffing. Max looked at Drusilla, who was watching him with an amused, almost expectant expression, her eyes glinting with a morbid curiosity. He let out a suffering sigh, a pathetic sound even to his own ears. Then he knelt, picked up the scrap with his teeth, and, forcing himself to ignore the grit and the metallic taste, put it into his mouth and began to chew. It was the grossest meal of his life.

"Such a good eater," Drusilla observed, her voice dripping with mock praise. "Drusilla's kitten is so eager."

Max swallowed the last bite, choking it down, trying with all his might not to vomit. "It was… delicious," he managed to force out. "Really hits the spot. Five stars."

Drusilla's eyes narrowed slightly, as if she could read his thoughts. "I sense a spark. A little too much spirit." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a low, menacing whisper that sent shivers down Max's spine. "I don't like spirited pets. They tend to break."

Still crouching on the floor, Spike grabbed a fistful of Max's chin, his grip firm, his expression grim. "She's warning ya, boy. Dru's got a special closet for pets who don't know their place. It's dark. And cold. And very, very lonely." He cracked his knuckles, the sound chilling. "And if that doesn't work, there's always playtime with me. And trust me," he added, his voice dropping to a menacing growl, "you don't want that kind of playtime."

Max swallowed, his throat suddenly tight.

"Now, kitten," Drusilla said, her voice returning to its light, airy tone, as if she hadn't just threatened him with unimaginable horrors. "It's time for our nap."

Spike stretched his arms above his head. "Right, the sun's still out. We need our sleep." He glanced at Max, a dismissive flick of his hand. "You," he grunted, nodding towards a dark, cramped space beneath a rickety table covered with dusty tarps. "That's your bed. You sleep there. No noise. No fuss."

Max grimaced. "Gee, thanks," he muttered. "Just what I always wanted: a luxury suite with a rat problem."

Spike's eyes snapped to his. In a flash, he grabbed a fistful of Max's hair, yanking his head back. "If you open that yap again, you will sleep in the rusted-out furnace, boy. Now crawl to your kennel, Kitten."

Max's eyes widened, a fresh wave of terror washing over him. He nodded frantically.

With a final shove from Spike, Max was released. He scrambled, lowering himself immediately to all fours, and began to crawl towards the dark, cramped space beneath the table. The concrete was gritty and cold beneath his palms and knees, sending dull aches through his joints. He reached the edge of the table, the dirty tarp hanging down like a curtain, blocking out what little light there was. He squeezed himself through the narrow opening, the rough fabric brushing against his face, leaving streaks of dust.

Inside, it was a suffocating cocoon of darkness. The air was stale and heavy, thick with the smell of old oil and unseen grime. The low ceiling of the tabletop pressed down on him, forcing him to crouch even lower. His back ached, his knees protested, and the faint rustle of what might be insects skittering in the shadows sent shivers down his spine.

Through a small gap in the tarp, he watched as Spike settled onto the Victorian bed next to Drusilla. Spike pulled her close, his arm wrapping around her, and he began to kiss her arm, slowly, languidly, from her wrist to her shoulder. Drusilla leaned into him, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips. They were a vision of twisted intimacy, locked in their embrace, oblivious to the terrified boy hidden just feet away.

Max squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to witness what had traumatized PJ. He thought of his dad, back in the house, probably waiting for his next hourly blood serving, with crackers, at just the right temperature. Would PJ remember? Would he make sure his dad had his dinner?

He curled into a tight ball, shivering uncontrollably. The cold was unbearable, but the chilling realization of his fate was worse. He prayed that PJ would find a way to break the bond that linked him to Drusilla.

~*~*~*~*~

Max stirred, a dull ache in his neck a testament to the cramped space beneath the rickety table. He'd dozed off, a fitful, uncomfortable sleep, the dusty tarp a poor excuse for a blanket. A soft, melodic hum drifted to him, and his eyes fluttered open. Drusilla.

He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting, and crawled out from his makeshift den. The factory was still shrouded in gloom, but a faint, eerie glow emanated from the Victorian bed. Drusilla was perched on its edge, her pale face illuminated by a single, flickering candle. She looked like a porcelain doll come to life, beautiful and terrifying. Spike was not with her.

"Awake, Kitten?" she purred, her eyes, wide and black, fixed on him. "I've been waiting. Come, sit. Drusilla has so much to tell her new pet."

Max almost sprang to his feet, before his brain slammed on the brakes. He lowered himself to his hands and knees, feeling a familiar flush of indignity, and crawled towards her, the rough concrete scraping against his palms and knees. He stopped at the worn, threadbare rug beside the bed. His special sitting place. He settled there, head bowed slightly.

"Good. Very good. I like an obedient kitten." Drusilla gestured with a delicate hand. "Now, listen closely, love. These are some rules you must abide. Rules to make sure our time together is pleasant."

Max's stomach clenched. He braced himself.

"First, a kitten always crawls. On hands and knees. No more standing. It's so… human." She continued, her voice a soft, almost hypnotic whisper, "And second is about fetching and eating with teeth and mouth only. This works for drinking too."

Max's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

"Third, if you wish to speak, you must tug on my hand for permission. A little tug, like this." She demonstrated, a delicate pull on the air. "And then, if I permit, you may speak. Briefly, of course. Too much noise shatters dreams."

Max's fists clenched in his lap, his gloved fingers digging into his palms. His tongue felt thick and useless in his mouth.

"And finally," Drusilla said, her voice dropping to a low, intimate tone that was far more terrifying than any threat, "I like my coddle time. You will lay on my lap, and I will caress your hair and body. It tingles my soul, if I had one."

Max's face flushed a deep, uncomfortable red. His body stiffened, every muscle tensing. The thought of her cold hands on him, the forced intimacy, made his skin crawl. He felt a desperate urge to bolt, to run until the electric shock fried him, anything to escape this. The sudden surge of adrenaline reminded him of something else. He desperately needed to pee.

"I want my kitten to keep me company at all times," she continued wistfully. "I will tell you stories about my past killings. Such lovely, bloody stories." Her eyes glazed over, a distant, dreamy look on her face. "The screams… the fear…"

She reached out a hand, her fingers, long and skeletal, ruffling his hair. Max flinched, a barely perceptible tremor. Her touch was like a spider crawling on his scalp. He hated it. He hated her.

"And once my kitten has mastered being a good pet," she whispered, her voice laced with a chilling sweetness, "I will make you immortal. I want my little kitten to stay this little forever. Always by Drusilla's side. Always."

All that creepy talk was making Max squirm even more. Okay, here goes nothing. He reached out a hesitant hand and gently tugged at Drusilla's pale fingers. Her bright grin almost blinded him.

"What is it, kitten?" she asked, her voice saccharine.

"Can I hit the john?" Max asked, his voice strained.

Drusilla grimaced, her perfect features twisting in distaste. "We don't want human fluids inside. You can relieve yourself outside."

"Outside?" Max asked, a flicker of hope mixed with dread. "But wouldn't I get electrocuted?"

She tilted her head, her smile returning. "The distance from here to the outside isn't very far. You'll be fine inside the yard. Don't go outside the gate."

Max started to jump to his feet, pure relief flooding him, but Drusilla's eyes flashed, her features momentarily morphing into a terrifying vampire face. Right. Animal. He instantly dropped to his knees and began to crawl, scuttling away from her sight. He kept crawling, moving as fast as he could, until he was outside the main factory building. Once clear of the entrance, he finally stood on his legs, stretching his cramped limbs with a grateful groan. He found a spot behind what was left of a scraggly bush and quickly did his business.

Max observed the desolate yard, the skeletal remains of forgotten machinery looming in the starlight. He looked up at the sky, dark with scattered stars, and wished that PJ was here.

"Psst, Max!"

The whisper came from near the opened gate. Max's head snapped towards the sound. It was PJ, walking cautiously into the yard.

"What do ya know?" Max whispered in awe. "Wishing upon stars does work."

He ran towards PJ, his legs pumping, and threw himself into his best friend's arms. Max buried his face in PJ's shoulder, a wave of overwhelming relief, joy, and terror washing over him. "PJ!" he whispered fiercely, his voice muffled against PJ's shirt. "You came!" He tried desperately to keep his voice low, so Drusilla wouldn't hear him.

"Of course, bud." PJ embraced him back, his whisper barely clear above the night breeze rustling through the decaying factory yard.

Max pulled away, his face alight with a fragile hope. "So, you found a way to get me out of this nightmare?"

PJ's shoulders slumped, the hope draining from Max's face with alarming speed. "Sorry, man. I've been to Garbonzo's, but he said that once you get claimed as a pet, you're stuck with the vampire for the rest of your life."

Max's entire body deflated. "Oh."

PJ looked him over, his gaze sweeping across Max's weary form. "Is it that bad? Did they hurt you?"

"Other than my dignity, no visible bruises." Max forced a cheerfulness he didn't feel, trying to alleviate PJ's worry.

"Look, I tried to contact Debbie and Williams," PJ continued, clearly frustrated. "But I don't know their number in Sunnydale, so Dad drove to Sunnydale to find them. I went to the library, but it was closed. Figured since most of this stuff is written in books, there might be something about vampires and house pets."

Max let out a jaded snort. "I highly doubt the Spoonerville library has anything on that in their card catalog."

"Mom is completely freaked out about this," PJ said, shaking his head. "She wanted to march right in there and get you back home on the spot."

Max's chest swelled, a warmth spreading through him despite the chilling night air.

"She was planning an ambush," PJ added, "but I told her it's useless since you can't leave Drusilla's side. We'll hit the library first thing tomorrow morning and see what turns up. Though with tomorrow being Sunday, I don't think it'll open early. Think you can survive one more day with those loons?"

Max shrugged, forcing a nonchalance he didn't possess. "I'll try my best."

PJ pulled a slightly squashed peanut butter and jelly sandwich from his pocket. "Mom made you this in case you were hungry."

Max's eyes lit up. He snatched the sandwich, tearing into it with a ferocity that belied his earlier claims. He devoured it in seconds, crumbs clinging to his chin.

"They didn't give you any food?" PJ asked, concern etched on his face.

Max, not wanting to worry his friend, quickly fabricated a story. "They did. Spike got us pizza with anchovies and Skittles."

PJ lifted an eyebrow, not convinced, but then his lips twitched into a knowing smile. "VampGoof asked about you."

"Yeah?" Max's heart did a little flutter.

"He wanted to know when the midget was coming home to make him hot blood with marshmallows and a salami blood sandwich," PJ said, his smile broadening.

Max placed a hand on his heart, touched.

PJ glanced over Max's shoulder towards the factory's dark entrance. "Are both of them inside right now?"

Max shook his head. "Just Drusilla. Spike's not in there."

"He must be hunting, then," PJ murmured, an uneasy expression on his face. "Which means he'll be back soon." He looked directly at Max, his voice dropping. "Listen, Max, tomorrow at 4 PM, I'll be here, okay? Try to sneak out then."

Max gave a dry chuckle. "Another bathroom break, squeaked in for 4 PM tomorrow. Got it."

PJ took a deep breath, an uneasy expression on his face. "So, uh, I guess I better go."

Max nodded, feeling a sudden coldness spread through his chest. "Yeah."

PJ squeezed Max's arm. "Be careful. No heroics, okay?"

"Okay, Mom," Max replied with an eyeroll.

PJ turned to leave, then, as if an invisible force pulled him back, he rushed for one last, quick embrace. "4 o'clock, I promise."

Max nodded. "Okay."

He watched PJ slip out through the gate, the darkness of the yard seeming to swallow him whole.

Max did the shameful crawl of the defeated back to Drusilla. He peered hesitantly around the doorframe to find her… well, being Drusilla. She was meticulously poking out the eye of a poor, innocent doll. "Naughty," she purred, a chillingly sweet note in her voice. Max swallowed, his throat suddenly sandpaper-dry.

Apparently satisfied with her doll-based discipline, Drusilla flopped back onto the bed. "Come, my pet," she cooed, patting the mattress beside her. "Coddle time!"

Right. Max thought. Because nothing says 'I'm a mature, independent individual and not your emotional support teddy bear' like snuggling up with a centuries-old vampire who just committed doll-mutilation.

He crept towards the bed, eyeing the space she'd indicated on her lap. He cautiously ventured to rest his head on her thigh, figuring he could at least maintain some semblance of dignity if he was only partially on her. Big mistake. Before he could even brace himself, she scooped him up like he was a reluctant housecat. He ended up cradled against her chest, arms dangling, legs dangling, in the full shame of the newborn baby carry. Thank the cosmic deities no one was around to witness this mortifying spectacle.

Drusilla began to hum, gently stroking his hair, then scratching behind his ears, much like a human might do with a feline companion. She even tried to give a playful little jiggle.

This must be how Waffles felt. All those times Max had scooped him up, held him like a baby, tickled his tummy when all he wanted was to be left alone to shed on the couch. A profound, newfound empathy for his cat bloomed in his chest. Waffles, old boy, if you ever felt this degraded, I sincerely apologize.

The degrading hour was over when Spike sauntered back into the room, a terrified teenage girl clutched in his grasp. Her eyes were wide with a terror that mirrored Max's own.

"Fed off her boyfriend," Spike announced, a cruel grin spreading across his face, "and she's all yours, Dru."

Drusilla's eyes glittered, and she pointed a long, delicate finger at the threadbare rug in the corner. "Kitten, to your spot."

Max scrambled, his body automatically obeying, but his eyes stayed fixed on the girl. She was the picture of teenage angst, dressed in black leather and dark makeup, her short black hair streaked with defiant pink highlights. She was trembling, a silent sob catching in her throat.

Before Drusilla could even begin her saunter towards the girl, Max's hand shot out, grabbing a heavy shackle from a nearby pile of chains and shackles. He swung it, connecting with a sickening thud against Spike's head. Spike grunted and stumbled backward, releasing the girl.

"RUN!" Max screamed, his voice cracking.

The girl didn't hesitate; she bolted. Spike snarled, about to give chase, but Max was already swinging another shackle, forcing Spike to dodge. All those grueling training sessions with Williams in the cemetery were finally paying off.

Drusilla's gaze, when it landed on Max, was like an arctic blast, colder than any winter night. He felt himself shrink, sinking deeper into the threadbare rug, ducking his head as if to disappear.

Before he could process anything, a rough hand tangled in his hair, yanking his head back, and then he was thrown roughly to the ground. Spike grabbed a belt and raised it. Max braced for impact, but Drusilla's voice cut through the air, cool and detached.

"He denied me my meal, Spike. He won't mind being a substitute."

Max stared up at her, a strangled sound escaping his lips. "You're gonna kill me?"

Drusilla's smile was unsettlingly sweet. "Of course not, kitten. But I am going to feed on you. Just a little sip of your blood."

A scream caught in Max's throat as she moved. Her hand was surprisingly strong, grasping his chin, tilting his head. Then her teeth sank into his neck. A searing pain, quickly followed by a strange, dizzying warmth, spread through him. He struggled, desperate to escape, but Spike's grip was iron on his arms, twisting them behind his back, holding him still. Max thrashed, his vision blurring, the room spinning. He felt himself growing lighter, weaker, the world fading to a dull hum until, mercifully, everything went black.

~*~*~*~

Max's eyes fluttered open, but no light greeted him. He was in absolute darkness, the kind that pressed in on him, suffocating and complete. His hands were tied tightly behind his back, the rough rope biting into his wrists, and his ankles were bound just as securely. He tried to stretch, to alleviate the cramps seizing his muscles, but the space was too small. He was crammed into a box, a dark, suffocating coffin barely large enough to hold him. A wave of dread washed over him as he remembered Drusilla's first warning, her hushed threat of a closet.

A bone-deep chill seeped into him, making him shiver uncontrollably. The air was stale, thick with dust and the metallic scent of old iron. He pushed against the unseen walls with his shoulders, then his knees, but there was no give. He was trapped. He tried to summon the Slayer strength to tear the ropes. He strained, his muscles burning, but it was no use. Must be the blood loss.

He wished he could feel his neck, right where Drusilla had bitten him. He was sure she'd licked the wound clean, just like last time, when Spike had taken his share. The wound throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that mirrored the emptiness in his stomach.

Hours crawled by in the suffocating blackness, each minute stretching into an eternity. He drifted in and out of a restless doze, haunted by images of darkness and confinement. Then, a thin sliver of light pierced the gloom, growing slowly as a door creaked open. Drusilla's pale face appeared, framed by the darkness, her eyes wide and black in the dim light. She smiled, a slow, unsettling stretch of her lips that made his heart pound against his ribs.

"Awake, Kitten?" she cooed, her voice echoing strangely in the small space. She reached in, her long, pale fingers, cold and strong, tearing at the ropes around his wrists. The bindings snapped with surprising ease, and Max's hands fell forward, numb and tingling. Then she moved to his ankles, the ropes giving way just as swiftly.

"Come, love," she purred, her gaze fixed on him. "Crawl out to your rug."

Max pushed himself forward, his limbs stiff and protesting after hours of confinement. His knees cracked, and his hands, scraped raw from the earlier struggle with the ropes, stung against the rough concrete. His muscles screamed with cramps, his back felt knotted, and his head spun with each labored heave. He stumbled out of the closet, blinking rapidly in the faint, dusty light of the factory, gasping for air that felt thick and heavy in his lungs. He crawled towards his rug beside the Victorian bed, his body moving sluggishly, like a rusty machine. Finally, he collapsed onto the rug, his chest heaving.

"Water!" he choked out. Now, lying sprawled and gasping on the rug, he felt spent, his limbs heavy and unresponsive.

Drusilla stood over him, a slender, imposing shadow. "Sit," she ordered, her voice sharp, devoid of its usual whimsical lilt.

Max groaned, every muscle in his body protesting. He attempted to push himself up, his arms trembling violently. His head swam, and his vision swam with it, but he forced himself to rise, his body shaking with the effort, until he was slumped in a wobbly seated position.

"What did we say about speaking?" Drusilla's voice was a low, dangerous hiss.

Max's eyes darted to her, then quickly down to his lap. He remembered the rule: tug for permission. His fingers fumbled to reach her hand. He managed a weak tug.

Drusilla nodded. "Yes, Kitten?"

"Water," Max croaked, his voice raw, his throat aching with thirst.

Drusilla's lips curved into an unsettling smile. "Ah, yes. A thirsty kitten. Go fetch the bowl, love. The one from your bed." She gestured towards the rickety table.

Max pushed himself back to his hands and knees, his arms and legs feeling like lead. Each crawl was a painful effort, his exhausted body protesting every inch of the way. He reached the dark space, fumbled for a metal bowl, and wrapped his fingers around its cold rim, pulling it out.

As he turned to go back, Drusilla's eyes, fixed on him, narrowed subtly. The unspoken rule clicked into place. With a grimace, he released the bowl, lowered his head, and clamped his teeth onto the cold metal. The taste of rust and grime filled his mouth. He then began the slow, agonizing crawl back to Drusilla, the bowl clanking faintly against the concrete with every reluctant movement. Finally, he reached the worn rug, gently nudging the bowl onto it with his nose.

Drusilla held a pristine plastic bottle of water, the kind purchased from a corner store, or more likely, stolen. With a delicate flourish, she uncapped it and poured a small amount into the bowl, the liquid sloshing temptingly. Max's eyes fixated on it, his thirst an agonizing torment. He reached out to grab the bowl, desperate to bring it to his lips.

"No, no, no." Drusilla pushed his hands away. "A kitten drinks like a kitten. With your tongue."

Max's stomach knotted with humiliation, but his thirst was a roaring fire. He leaned forward, his face hovering over the bowl, and extended his tongue. The cold water touched his parched mouth, a minuscule relief. He lapped at it, like a cat, the small sips barely doing anything to quench the desperate dryness. The process was agonizingly slow, his tongue cramping, his throat still burning.

Frustration boiled over. His pride, already in rags, finally broke. With a desperate lunge, he attacked the bowl, pushing his face down into the water, sucking it in with loud, ungraceful gulps. The cold liquid rushed into his mouth, overflowing, some spilling down his chin. He drank, oblivious to everything but the sweet, life-giving water, sucking it down as fast as he possibly could, until the bowl was empty.

A cruel laugh echoed above him.

Still panting from his desperate gulping, Max looked up. Spike was looming over him, his eyes glinted with cold amusement, clearly relishing Max's disgrace.

"Enjoying the council pop, whelp?" Spike sneered, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from his clean coat. "While you were playing in that dark little cupboard of yours, me and Dru had a proper feast."

Max's gaze flickered to Drusilla, who merely smiled serenely, her eyes distant, as if reliving a pleasant memory.

"Two of them," Spike continued, a chilling nonchalance in his voice. "Couple of children. Fresh. Screaming." He took a step closer, his voice dropping, though the disdain remained. "All your fault, that. One girl, that's all we needed, but you had to interfere, didn't you? Had to be the big hero. Ruined it for the little kids, you did."

Max's head dropped, guilt twisting his chest. He remembered the scared teenager, her wide, terrified eyes. He couldn't have just stood by and watched.

Spike pulled out a cigarette, flicking it to life with a casual flourish. The momentary flare of the lighter illuminated his cruel smile. "Oh, and we ran into your mate, too," he added, almost as an afterthought, exhaling a plume of smoke.

Max's head snapped up, his heart leaping into his throat. PJ. Panic clawed at him.

"Yeah, little hero tried to stop us," Spike chuckled. "Thought he was a right Slayer, he did. No match for me and Dru, though. Barely slowed us down, the little gnat."

Max's hand shot out, grabbing Drusilla's. He tugged, his fingers desperate, his gaze pleading.

"Yes, kitten?"

"Is PJ okay?" Max croaked, his voice raw with fear.

Spike let out a mocking laugh, joined by Drusilla's unsettling giggle. "If by ‘okay' you mean alive," Spike drawled, his eyes gleaming. Max's insides twisted. How bad was PJ's condition? PJ had to have escaped. He had to. If they'd captured him, they would have brought him back here. For the ritual.

"Morning's coming, Kitten," Drusilla purred. "Time to sleep. You don't get dinner for being naughty."

Not that Max wanted their little piece of raw meat anyway. The peanut butter and jelly sandwich PJ had given him was enough.

"Crawl to your sleeping place, love," Drusilla commanded, a delicate gesture towards the rickety table.

A cold dread settled in Max's stomach. He felt trapped, the thought of squeezing himself back into that tiny, suffocating space after hours in the closet was unbearable. His chest tightened, a desperate urge for open space, for air, for anything but confinement. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and tugged on Drusilla's cold, smooth fingers.

"Yes, kitten?"

"Could I sleep on the rug?" Max whispered.

Drusilla's eyes hardened. "No. A kitten sleeps in its own place. My rules are very clear."

With a heavy weight settling on him, Max pushed himself back to his hands and knees. His limbs felt stiff, his muscles screamed from the earlier prolonged confinement. He crawled towards the table, the shadows beneath it seeming to deepen, to swallow him whole.

He reached the edge, the dusty tarp hanging down like a shroud. He hesitated, taking a shallow, ragged breath. Then, with a sigh that felt like it came from the depths of his soul, he squeezed himself through the narrow opening. The rough fabric scraped against his face, leaving streaks of grime. Inside, the darkness was absolute, thick and suffocating, pressing in on him from all sides. He couldn't stretch, couldn't even shift comfortably. The air was stale, heavy with the smell of old oil and unseen decay. He was back in his cramped, miserable box.

Tears finally began to gather in the corners of his eyes, blurring the oppressive darkness. He squeezed them shut, trying to hold them back, but a single, traitorous drop escaped, tracing a hot path down his temple. It was all too much. The two kids Spike claimed were his fault. And PJ, hurt, beaten, all because Max had interfered. His body throbbed with a dull, persistent pain, reminding him of his helplessness.

"Oh, sweet kitten," Drusilla's whimsical voice drifted to him. "I love the exquisite perfume of salty tears, a fragrance of sorrow, so beautifully bittersweet."

Then Spike's rougher voice cut through the darkness. "Right, that's enough of that blubbering, boy. Save it for your mummy. Nobody wants to hear a cryin' whelp."

Max's entire body stiffened. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, digging his nails into his palms. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. He took a shaky breath, forcing the tears back, clenching his jaw so hard his teeth ached. He would not cry. Not for them.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max stirred, the familiar ache in his neck and limbs a grim reminder of his cramped sleeping quarters. He was still in the suffocating darkness beneath the table, but a new sound had pierced the oppressive silence. It was Spike's voice, low and surprisingly… soft. Not angry, not mocking, but almost melodious.

Max carefully shifted, trying to peer through a gap in the dusty tarps. A faint, eerie glow from the Victorian bed showed Spike sitting at the edge, a worn-out piece of paper clutched in his hand. Drusilla was still draped across the mattress, seemingly fast asleep.

Spike read from the paper, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet factory. There was a strange, almost wistful sadness in his tone, a vulnerability that mismatched the cruel brawler Max knew. "My heart expands,'tis grown a bulge in it," Spike recited, his voice rough but tinged with an unexpected melancholy, "inspired by your beauty, effulgent."

Effulgent? Max frowned. What does that mean?

Spike continued, his voice wavering slightly with emotion, reading more lines Max couldn't make out, something about longing and beauty. Then, abruptly, the wistful tone vanished. Spike's face contorted, a flash of pure rage replacing the sadness. With a snarl, he crumpled the paper into a tight ball and hurled it across the floor with surprising force. It landed with a soft thud near a stack of rusted barrels. Spike then turned, pulled the covers over himself, and seemed to fall back into a deep sleep.

Max waited, barely daring to breathe. The faint light filtering through the grimy windows indicated that morning was truly here now. He could hear the distant sounds of the town stirring, a world away from his dark prison. When he was sure Spike was asleep, he pushed himself out from under the table, crawling on hands and knees, his eyes fixed on the crumpled paper. Each crawl was a silent prayer, each creak of the floorboards a potential betrayer.

He reached the paper, his heart thumping against his ribs. He carefully picked it up, feeling the rough texture of the crumpled page. He folded it as small as he could and slipped it into his pocket, a strange, inexplicable urge to keep it overriding his fear. Then, with the same quiet movements, he crawled to his rug, settled himself, and pretended to be waiting patiently for Drusilla to wake up.

A few hours later, Drusilla woke up. She offered Max some water, pouring a pitiful amount into his bowl, which he lapped at with a mixture of desperate thirst and quiet humiliation. Then came a piece of raw meat, tossed onto the floor, which he gnawed at with his teeth, the taste of blood and grime now sickeningly familiar.

After his delightful breakfast, Max was finally granted a reprieve for his desperate bladder. He was allowed to crawl outside to his not-so-bushy bush in the factory yard which he dubbed "bathroom". The sun was bright, and it was only then, squinting against the glare, that he realized he didn't have a watch. It was highly unlikely that his vampiric hosts owned anything as pedestrian as a timepiece. Great, he thought, so my grand escape plan hinges on guessing what time it is and hoping PJ has better luck with punctuality than I do with bathroom breaks. His new strategy: annoy Drusilla with incessant requests for "bathroom time" until PJ eventually showed up, or until he was electrocuted trying. Whichever came first.

Hours passed, and now it was time for coddling. Max's stomach clenched as Drusilla patted her lap. He crawled over, glancing at Spike asleep on his side, and laid his head on her lap. Her fingers, cold and long, began to play with his hair, which made his skin prickle.

"Once upon a time," Drusilla began, her voice a soft, hypnotic purr, "Drusilla met a prince. Such a handsome boy. He had eyes like summer skies and a smile that could melt the winter snow." Her fingers twisted a lock of Max's hair. "But Drusilla decided his heart would look much better… outside his chest. All red and beating, like a little bird, before Drusilla squeezed it into a delightful, squishy pulp." She giggled, a breathy, chilling sound.

Well, that's one way to end a first date. Max managed to keep his face relatively neutral, but inside, his imagination was working overtime, picturing a prince with a gaping hole where his ticker should be. He wondered if the prince had also been forced to fetch a greasy rag beforehand.

The greasy rag reminded him of Spike, which, in turn, jogged his memory of that odd word the vampire had said earlier that morning. Hoping Spike was still in deep sleep, Max tugged on Drusilla’s hand. She paused her gruesome tale, her fingers still tangled in his hair.

"What is it, kitten?" she asked.

"What does… effulgent mean?" Max asked.

Drusilla's brow furrowed for a moment, then cleared. "Ah, effulgent. It means shining brightly, radiating light. Like a glorious star, or… Drusilla's lovely new pet." She smiled, a flash of white teeth. "Why is kitten asking about this word?"

Max hesitated. Admitting he'd been eavesdropping on Spike's private poetry recital felt risky. But curiosity won out. "I heard Spike say it," Max admitted, "when he was reading some… poetry."

Drusilla's eyes widened. "Oh, my darling, Spike was a poet, once. When he was human. A sensitive soul."

Max's jaw dropped. Spike? The chain-smoking, leather-clad, knife-wielding brute who threatened to turn his bud into a lawn ornament? A sensitive poet? The idea was so wildly incongruous, so fundamentally wrong, that Max almost laughed. It was like finding out a pit bull crocheted doilies.

Drusilla sighed wistfully. "His poetry was truly… bloody awful. So bad, in fact, they called him William the Bloody."

Max felt a bubble of laughter welling up inside him. William the Bloody… because of bad poetry! He clamped his lips shut, trying to stifle the giggles that threatened to burst forth. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, shaking with suppressed mirth, picturing Spike in a frilly shirt, reciting verses about sunshine and daisies. And they thought that name was for being some kind of gruesome medieval torturer, not for inflicting literary pain.

Drusilla resumed her gruesome narrative. This time, she spoke of her encounter with Alfred, Lord Tennyson. "Now that was a truly great poet," she mused, her voice taking on a rare, almost reverent tone, as she described her attempt to kill him.

All the talk of poetry reminded Max of his own poet best friend. 4 o'clock. It could be 4 o'clock right now. The time for PJ's promised return. He tugged on Drusilla's hand again.

"Yes, kitten?" she asked, a hint of irritation in her voice.

"Can I go to the bathroom?" he asked, trying to sound as innocent and urgent as possible.

Drusilla's eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding her face. "You went already, love. Just a short while ago."

"Humans go a lot," Max insisted, trying to sound convincing. "Or did you forget?"

Drusilla scoffed. "I've been dead for more than a century, darling. I don't remember the… minutiae of human body functions." Her gaze hardened. "But Drusilla will lessen your intake of water, if that means kitten will need the facilities so often."

Max tried hard not to roll his eyes. Lessen my water intake? He hadn't even finished half the water in that bottled water she had, thanks to how little she already allowed him to drink. Well, that plan backfired spectacularly, he thought sarcastically, already feeling the familiar prickle of thirst returning.

Max crawled out from the factory, blinking against the harsh sunlight. He scanned the factory yard, his heart thumping, searching for any sign of PJ. And then, thankfully, a head of familiar hair peered cautiously from beyond the rusted gate. Relief washed over Max, but it was quickly replaced by a fresh wave of alarm. PJ looked awful. A nasty cut marred his eyebrow, and his left eye was swollen shut, a horrifying purplish bruise blooming around it. His lip was split, too. Max wondered what other bruises lurked beneath his friend's clothes.

PJ hissed, his voice filled with frustrated anger. "Where have you been? I've been waiting for half an hour!"

Max hissed back, just as angry. "I don't have a watch, and neither do they!"

PJ reached into a small backpack, pulling out a sandwich and a bottle of water. "Here. We thought you'd need it."

Max snatched the offerings, eating and drinking like a starving wolf. He devoured the sandwich in mere seconds, washing it down with gulps of cool water. As he ate, PJ spoke, his voice low and urgent. "Mom and I are going to attack before the sun sets. So, you need to brace yourself."

Max nearly choked on his last bite. "Did you find a way to undo Drusilla's hold on me?"

PJ shook his head, a grim line to his mouth. "No. But we figured if we killed Drusilla, you'll no longer be linked to her."

Max smacked his forehead. "Of course! Why didn't I think of that?"

"Okay, we'll be back soon," PJ said, already turning to leave.

Max quickly shoved the empty bottle and sandwich wrapper at him. "Get rid of these so the vamps don't see them!"

PJ nodded, tucking them away. "We'll be back in half an hour or so. Try not to get killed."

Max managed a weak smirk. "No promises, but I'll try to keep all my limbs attached. You know, for future pizza-eating competitions."

PJ smiled back and then left.

Max walked back into the factory. The darkness inside seemed to wrap around him, heavier than before. He pushed the door shut behind him and froze. Spike was standing there, right in front of him, his arms crossed, a menacing sneer twisting his lips.

"Thought you could pull a fast one, did you?" Spike said, his voice low and dangerous, "Meeting your little half-Slayer git of a mate out there?"

Before Max could even think of an excuse, Spike lunged. A strong hand clamped around Max's arm, yanking him up. Max yelped as he was dragged across the concrete floor, past the ominous Victorian bed and Drusilla's chilling doll collection, until he was thrown roughly into a corner. He hit the cold wall with a thud, pain lancing through his shoulder.

Drusilla sat up on the bed, her eyes wide. "What did Kitten do?" she asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and soft anger.

"He was plotting, Dru!" Spike snarled, his eyes burning with fury as he stared at Max. "Plotting with his bloody mate to take us down!" Spike's hand went to his belt.

Max stared back, fear warring with a sudden, fierce defiance. He saw the glint in Spike's eyes, the predatory gleam that promised pain. The belt slid free from the loops, a thick strip of leather in Spike's hand. Spike moved, the belt whipping through the air towards Max.

Max's hand shot out, and he caught the belt mid-air.

Spike angrily pulled on the belt, but Max's hold was firm.

A newfound strength, fueled by the peanut butter and jelly sandwich PJ had just offered him, coursed through him. He was a Slayer. He would not allow a stinking vampire to belt him like some disobedient dog.

"Oh, you wanna fight, do you?" Spike sneered, his eyes widening in surprise for a split second before they narrowed with pure malice.

Max yanked, pulling the belt from Spike's grip. He swung it wildly, a desperate, clumsy arc that smacked Spike across the arm. The vampire snarled, leaping forward. Max scrambled back, his eyes darting around the dusty factory floor, searching for anything. His gaze landed on the degrading metal water bowl near his rug. He snatched it up, its cold, hard surface surprisingly heavy, and flung it. It clanged against Spike's shoulder, making the vampire snarl louder.

Spike kicked out, a swift, brutal blow to Max's ribs that sent him sprawling. Pain exploded in his side, stealing his breath. He gasped, rolling over, his fingers scrabbling against the rough floor. His hand connected with something soft and greasy, the rag Spike had made him fetch. Without thinking, Max snatched it up and, with a surge of disgust-fueled adrenaline, flung it at Spike's face. The greasy fabric slapped against the vampire's cheek.

Spike roared, swiping the rag away, his face contorted in a mask of fury. Max scrambled to his feet, weaving, ducking, desperately trying to avoid Spike's furious swings. There were rusted gears, discarded tools, and piles of broken machinery scattered around, so many things he could use in this desperate fight. He saw a loose metal pipe near a stack of crates, but Spike was too close. The vampire landed a solid punch to Max's gut, doubling him over. Max gasped, feeling the bile rise in his throat, but he refused to go down.

He pushed off the floor, launching himself at Spike's legs in a desperate tackle, trying to trip him. Spike stumbled, surprised, but quickly regained his balance, kicking Max away like a bothersome fly. Max hit the wall again, his head snapping back, stars exploding behind his eyes. He coughed, his body screaming in protest, but he glared at Spike, refusing to show weakness.

Then, Drusilla was there. She moved with a terrifying grace, her pale hand reaching, long fingers gripping Max's face, turning his head. Her eyes were suddenly inches from his own. "Look into my eyes, Kitten," she whispered, her voice a soft, hypnotic command.

Max knew what she was doing. He squeezed his eyes shut with every ounce of willpower he had left, twisting his head away, fighting against her cold grip with a desperation born of pure terror.

Suddenly, a discord of shouts and a blinding flash of light erupted from the factory entrance. Max barely had time to register it before PJ and his mom burst in, looking like a suburban special ops team. Peg wielded two super soakers taped together with duct tape, and without a moment's hesitation, she began to spray Spike and Drusilla.

Water, lots of it, splashed over the vampires. Wherever it touched, smoke hissed and curled upwards, and they recoiled with guttural snarls, scrambling for cover amidst the machinery. Max blinked, his mind racing. Holy water. Of course! Peg was shooting them with holy water!

PJ, meanwhile, stood poised with a small crossbow, its string taut. He fired. The bolt whizzed across the cavernous space and thumped into Drusilla's arm. She shrieked, a high-pitched sound of agony that echoed off the metal walls.

"Focus, PJ! Point to her heart!" Peg bellowed, her voice surprisingly strong.

PJ reloaded, aiming again. But before he could fire, Spike, still steaming, roared, "You lack-brains! If you kill her, your little friend there will die!"

PJ froze, the crossbow bolt aimed but unreleased. Max's chest heaved, his eyes wide with alarm, staring at Spike.

"What do you mean?" Peg demanded.

Regaining some of his sneering composure, Spike pointed a finger at Max. "The boy's linked to her by blood. He's her pet for eternity. Her death means his death. The bond's too strong, a bloody permanent connection. If she goes, he goes. Poof!"

Max felt two pairs of horrified eyes, PJ's and Peg's, snap to him. He saw their understanding dawn, the dawning horror in their gazes.

"You're lying!" PJ choked out, his voice raw with desperate disbelief. "You just want to stop us from killing her!"

Spike lifted his hands, a mocking shrug in his posture. "By all means, kill her, and see for yourself."

PJ's tormented gaze traveled from Drusilla, still steaming from the holy water, to Max, who lay bruised and beaten in the corner. Max met his friend's eyes, a flash of shared, gut-wrenching despair passed between them.

"If we can't kill her," Peg said, her voice dangerously low, "we can at least kill you." She aimed her super soaker, unleashing another torrent of holy water at Spike, who snarled and vanished into the next room, dissolving into the deeper shadows. Peg snapped, "Let's follow him, PJ!"

PJ lingered, his body half-turned towards the room Spike had fled to. But his eyes remained fixed on Max. His brow was furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. A flicker of something akin to profound grief crossed his face, followed by a fierce, helpless frustration. It was a look that promised a hundred unanswered questions, a silent apology for a battle he couldn't win. He clenched his jaw, then turned and rushed after his mom.

Max's stomach plummeted, colder than the concrete floor. His future now felt like a closed casket. The walls of the factory seemed to press in on him, tighter than the closet. His shoulders sagged, his head bowed, and a profound, crushing despair settled over him, heavier than any physical blow. He was truly trapped.

Drusilla stood before him. "Bad kitten," she chided.

Max offered no resistance. All resolve abandoned him now that his fate was sealed. He didn't fight when her cold fingers expertly tied his wrists together in front of his chest. He didn't protest when she bound his ankles with rough ropes. He simply watched, numb, as she finished. Then, she lifted him by the waist and flung him into the small, cold closet. The door swung shut, plunging him back into darkness.

This time, Max didn't try to stop the tears. They came streaming down his face. He lowered his head to his tied hands, his entire body shaking with sobs. Everything crumbled onto him: the humiliation of being treated like an animal, the suffocating small space he was forced to sleep in, the gnawing hunger and thirst, the horrifying thought of never seeing the outside world unless it was for a bathroom break. He felt himself shrinking, felt the edges of his humanity fraying. With time, he knew, he'd start believing he was an animal. Drusilla wanted to break him the same way Angel had broken her, and in the crushing darkness, Max was terrifyingly sure she was close.

~*~*~*~

Time passed, Max's sobs dissolved into hiccups, then into a numb silence. He sat where he was, a trembling heap in the suffocating darkness, nothing heard but the ragged, shuddering breaths of his heaving chest.

Suddenly, the closet door creaked open, spilling a sliver of dim factory light into his prison. Max blinked, expecting Drusilla, but instead, a familiar, gangly silhouette filled the doorway.

"Dad?" Max whispered, the word thick with longing and disbelief.

Goofy glared down at him, his brow furrowed. "There you are! Took you long enough, boy. No one around to give me my grub. Had to chew on my own ear for a bit, and that ain't right. Told that little blathering girl to set me free to find you."

A fragile warmth seeped into Max's hollow heart. "You… you were looking for me?"

Goofy scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Clearly those idiots got me cheap pig's blood. They don't bring ‘em from the shop that you do. Tastes like rusty nails, it does."

"How did you even find me?" Max asked, his voice still hoarse.

Goofy tapped his nose with a long finger. "Vampire sniff." He knelt, his long fingers surprisingly deft as they tore through the ropes binding Max's wrists and ankles. "Now, let's go get them proper pig's blood."

Max looked down. "I can't," he mumbled.

Goofy's head tilted. "Why the hell not?"

"If I get far from Drusilla, I'm gonna get zapped," Max explained, his voice flat. He stared at a tiny ant scuttling between his worn sneakers. "Kinda like you if you stepped on this ant."

Goofy followed his gaze, then looked back at Max. "Then kill that nut."

"If I killed her, I'd die too," Max said, the words heavy with resignation.

Goofy scoffed. "Who said that?"

"Spike did," Max replied.

Goofy shook his head, a look of exasperated disbelief on his face. "They're lying, you doltbrain. They're vampires, they're not known for being honest joes."

"You're a vampire too," Max shot back.

Goofy paused, then grinned. "But I don't want you dead."

Max perked up.

"I need the good pig's blood. And you're the only one who knows where to get it."

Max's face drooped. Right. Of course.

Goofy snapped off the leg of a nearby rickety chair, the wood splintering with a sharp crack. He handed the makeshift stake to Max. "Now you kill her."

Max stared at the rough piece of wood in his hand, then at his dad. "I'm the one to kill her?"

Goofy gave him a perplexed look. "Aren't you the Slayer?"

Max took a deep breath and then crept from the closet, the splintered chair leg clutched in his hand. He peered out into the main factory floor. It was dark now, the last vestiges of daylight having faded, leaving the vast space cloaked in deep shadows. A cold gust of wind swept through the open entrance, carrying with it the scent of damp concrete and something else, something cloying and sweet, Drusilla's perfume.

She was outside in the factory yard, standing motionless amidst the rusting machinery, her back to him. Goofy lingered just inside the factory opening, his current chip situation rendering him useless. Max took a shaky breath and started to move, the broken chair leg feeling both flimsy and impossibly heavy in his grip.

He approached Drusilla, each step deliberate. The wind shifted, and she slowly turned, her head tilting. Her nostrils flared delicately. "I smell my kitten," she purred, her voice a low, dangerous growl. Her eyes fixed on him, instantly spotting the makeshift stake. Her lips peeled back in a snarl, revealing glinting fangs. "Bad kitten! You got out of the closet!"

She lunged, a blur of pale limbs and dark fabric. Max swung the chair leg. It connected with her arm, and she hissed, but her grip was like iron as she seized his wrist, twisting the stake from his hand. She threw him to the ground, pinning him easily. Her face descended, fangs bared.

"Naughty, naughty kitten," she whispered into his ear. "Drusilla will turn you now. Keep you little, keep you mine, forever." Her fangs stretched, poised to pierce his jugular.

Suddenly, a blur of long limbs and a surprisingly solid thud sent Drusilla sprawling away from him. Max blinked, disoriented, then saw Goofy standing over Drusilla's prone form, his fist still extended. Goofy stared at his hand, then at Drusilla, a look of astonishment on his face. "Well, I'll be," he drawled, his eyes wide.

His gaze met Max's, and in that moment, a crucial realization hit Max. Dad wasn't electrocuted. The chip in Goofy's head was designed to stop him from hurting humans, just humans. That meant vampires and demons were fair game.

Goofy must have came to the same realization. "I can hurt the demons," he whispered. Drusilla rose to attack him, but then he punched her in the face, exclaiming, "I can hurt the demons!"

Goofy waved Max over. "Well, come on, boy! Let's show this loon what happens when you mess with my s… pig's blood provider!"

Max scrambled to his feet, snatching up the splintered chair leg. This wasn't just about survival anymore. This was about vengeance.

They moved as an awkward, unexpected team. Goofy threw clumsy but effective punches that sent Drusilla reeling. Max darted in, swinging the makeshift stake. Drusilla snarled, her movements becoming less graceful, more desperate. She swiped at Goofy, claws extended, raking across his arm, but he just grunted, shaking off the blow. Max saw his opening.

Drusilla turned, snarling, her eyes blazing at Goofy, leaving her side exposed. Max lunged, the broken chair leg aimed with a precision he hadn't known he possessed. He put all his anger, all his humiliation, all his Slayer strength into one powerful thrust.

The rough wood splintered into her chest. Drusilla gasped, her eyes widening in shock. A low gurgle escaped her lips.

"This," Max screamed, his voice raw with fury, "is for the crawling! For the hand-tugging! And for Coddling Time!"

Drusilla let out a final, choked shriek that quickly dissolved into a dry, crumbling whisper. Her body began to pixelate, to crack, to disintegrate before his eyes, turning into a fine pile of dust that scattered on the dusty concrete.

Max hugged himself, waiting for his own body to turn to ash. But nothing happened. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he was alive. His dad was right. They had been lying.

He stood over the spot where Drusilla had been, the chair leg still clutched in his hand, his chest heaving. He stared at the pile of dust where Drusilla, his tormentor from the second she'd carved her name into his stomach, had disappeared. Conflicting emotions warred within him: a profound sense of relief, a lingering disgust, and a strange, hollow emptiness where his terror had once been.

A large, calloused hand rested on his shoulder. Max looked up. Goofy smiled down at him. "Now," he said, "can we get that pig's blood?"

Max choked out a laugh, a sound that was half-sob, half-relief. He threw his arms around his dad, clinging to him. Goofy groaned. "Oh, c'mon, you humans and your sentimental squishing."

Max hugged him tighter, burying his face in his dad's coarse shirt. "Thanks, Dad," he whispered, the words heartfelt.

Goofy patted him awkwardly. "There, there. Now, pig's blood."

Max pulled back, a new resolve setting in. "First," he said, looking towards the factory entrance. The echoing sounds of struggle and distant crashes suggested the fight had moved outside the yard. "We have to help PJ and Mrs. P kill Spike."

Goofy groaned dramatically, a string of curses escaping his lips under his breath, something about "dang-blasted bloodsuckers" and "no peace for the wicked."

Chapter Text

PJ slammed the refrigerator door shut, a huff escaping him. It wasn't enough that PJ had painstakingly prepared a gourmet blood smoothie, complete with a hint of organic kale - for iron, obviously- , but VampGoof had merely sniffed it, declared it "too green," and then launched into a twenty-minute monologue about Max's superior technique for adding just the right amount of maple syrup to his pig's blood. PJ was sure it was just the vampire's twisted way of missing Max, but it still grated.

He grabbed his worn backpack, checking the contents: two stakes, a small vial of holy water, and his trusty crossbow. His mom was already waiting by the door, arms crossed, a frown on her face.

"You're not going alone, PJ," she stated, her voice firm.

PJ sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "Mom, we've been over this. I told you I've done it a few times already. Managed to stake a couple of vamps on my own, remember?" He tried to sound confident, but he knew how much she worried. It had taken a lot to convince her tonight, a full-blown argument that had ended with him promising to be extra careful. He knew she loved him so much, and that was why she was making it so difficult for him to do his duty as the Slayer. Every solo patrol from now on would feel like a battle on two fronts: against the creatures of the night, and against his mom's fierce protectiveness.

As he slipped out into the cool night air, the familiar weight of his crossbow in his hand, PJ couldn't shake the image of Max. He wondered if Max was alright. He'd looked so shaken when PJ had seen him hours ago, masking his fear with his usual sarcastic bravado. And the way Max had attacked that peanut butter sandwich, devouring it like he hadn’t eaten in days, twisted PJ’s heart. He just hoped Max was holding up, waiting for him.

He stood near the factory, every fiber of his being screamed at him to just go inside, to unleash his rage on the monsters holding his friend hostage. But he knew he couldn't. Without a clear idea of how to undo the insidious bond between Max and Drusilla, he couldn't risk his friend's life. He was trapped between a fierce desire for revenge and the terrifying uncertainty of Max's fate.

Be safe, Max, he thought as he moved through the darkened streets close to the factory, his senses on high alert. The glow of a streetlamp ahead illuminated two small figures near an old oak tree in the park, a boy and a girl, both looking a couple of years younger than him. His internal alarm blared.

He quickened his pace, his voice firm when he reached them. "Alright, you two. Go home. Right now. It’s not safe out this late."

The boy looked up, startled. He was clutching a small, decorated box. "We’re just burying our time capsule! We did it with our friends today."

The girl, a gap-toothed grin on her face, puffed out her chest. "And we were the bravest to come bury it at night!"

PJ couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Right, because burying it in the morning with all your friends there isn't easier and convenient." 

The boy nudged the girl. "It’s more fun to bury it at night, right, Willa?"

"Right, Alex!" the girl chirped.

"Look," PJ sighed, "bury it fast, and then I’m walking you home."

Alex glared at him, crossing his arms. "You’re a kid too. What do you do alone by yourself this late at night?"

PJ leaned against a tree, adjusting the crossbow strap on his shoulder. "Me? Oh, I’m just out here auditioning for the night shift at the local monster extermination service."

A sudden, unnatural chill swept through the park, extinguishing the distant streetlamp with an audible pop. The air grew heavy, thick with a scent like old roses and something metallic. PJ’s blood ran cold. He spun around, crossbow raised, his heart hammering against his ribs.

From the deepest shadows beneath the ancient oak, two figures materialized as if conjured from the night itself. Drusilla, her pale face a ghostly mask, her eyes wide and unblinking. And beside her, Spike, his familiar sneer already in place. They hadn’t made a sound, simply appeared.

"Run!" PJ yelled, his voice cracking, shoving Alex and Willa behind him. "Go! Now!"

Alex and Willa hesitated for a split second, frozen by the sudden, chilling appearance of the strangers.

"Oh, what pretty little morsels," Drusilla purred, her voice a silken thread, her gaze fixed on the two children.

Spike chuckled. "Looks like the little Slayer’s got himself some company."

PJ fired. The crossbow bolt whizzed past Spike’s ear, embedding itself in the tree trunk with a thud. Spike merely grinned, flashing his fangs. PJ reloaded frantically, his hands shaking, his eyes darting between the two vampires and the terrified children.

"Run, you idiots! Run!" he screamed, pushing Alex and Willa harder.

Spike moved with terrifying speed, a blur of dark leather. He was on PJ in an instant, a fist connecting with his jaw. PJ’s head snapped back, stars exploding behind his eyes, and he stumbled. He tried to swing the crossbow like a club, but Spike was too fast. The vampire twisted, slamming PJ against the tree trunk, knocking the wind out of him. PJ gasped, his vision blurring, trying to fight, but Spike’s strength was overwhelming. He felt a brutal knee connect with his stomach, doubling him over.

As PJ crumpled, Drusilla glided past Spike. Alex and Willa tried to bolt, but Drusilla was quicker. Her long, pale fingers, like spider legs, wrapped around Alex’s arm. The boy let out a terrified whimper.

Spike hauled PJ up by his shirt, forcing his head back against the tree. "Watch, little hero," he snarled, his face inches from PJ’s, his breath cold and stale. "Watch what happens when you interfere."

PJ’s vision swam, but he couldn’t look away. Drusilla’s face, serene and beautiful, descended towards Alex’s neck. Alex whimpered again, his eyes wide with terror. PJ thrashed against Spike’s iron grip, screaming, "No! Leave him alone!"

Drusilla’s fangs sank into Alex’s neck. A strangled cry escaped the boy’s lips, then a soft, wet gurgle. His small body went limp in Drusilla’s arms, his head lolling. Willa, standing frozen beside them, watched in horror, her eyes wide, a silent scream trapped in her throat.

Drusilla pulled away, a thin trail of blood on her chin. She looked at Alex’s lifeless form with a dreamy, contented sigh, then, with a casual flick of her wrist, she tossed his small body aside like a discarded toy. Her gaze then drifted to Willa, her eyes gleaming with renewed hunger.

"Another one, darling?" Spike asked, his voice a low rumble, still holding PJ captive.

Drusilla nodded. She grabbed Willa by the arm and flung the terrified girl towards Spike. Willa landed with a thud near PJ’s feet. Spike knelt, his eyes fixed on the trembling girl. PJ thrashed again, his body weak, tears streaming down his face as Spike’s fangs descended towards Willa’s neck, right there, inches from him. Willa’s scream was cut short, a sickening slurping sound filling the night.

It was a nightmare, a horrific tableau of death and helplessness playing out before PJ's eyes. The warm, sticky blood on his face, the sound of the girl’s life being drained, the guttural satisfaction from the monsters… it was too much. PJ’s insides twisted in a knot of guilt and despair.

Spike finally pulled away from Willa, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at Drusilla. "Right, Dru. Let’s take the little Slayer back to the factory." He looked at PJ, his lips a redder color from Willa's blood. "Good thing you were close by, we didn’t want to stray too far. Didn't want your little mate fried if Dru went a long distant away from him."

But before they could move, a furious roar ripped through the night. "You leave my son alone, you wackos!"

Peg burst into the clearing, not with a crossbow, but with two massive water guns, glowing faintly in the dim light. She didn't hesitate. Streams of holy water erupted from the nozzles, drenching Spike and Drusilla. They shrieked, smoke rising from their forms, their faces contorting in agony. They stumbled back, hissing, retreating into the deeper shadows, unable to withstand the relentless spray.

Peg rushed to PJ, dropping the water guns with a clatter, her face contorted in horror as she took in his battered state, the blood, the lifeless children on the ground. "PJ! Oh, my baby!" She pulled him into her arms, holding him tight.

PJ buried his face in his mom’s shoulder. He sobbed, deep, gut-wrenching sobs, the tears mixing with the blood and grime on his face. "Mom," he choked out, his voice thick with anguish, "I should've saved them. I should've..."

Peg ran a soothing hand over his hair, saying through her own tears, "Honey, this is bigger than you. You can't save everybody…"

"I'm the Slayer," PJ said, pulling away from her just enough to look at the tragic scene around them, his eyes wide and vacant, fixed on the small, still forms. His hands clenched into tight fists, trembling uncontrollably. A low, guttural growl rose in his throat, a sound of pure, helpless fury, before it broke into another wrenching sob. He dropped to his knees amidst the debris, his shoulders shaking. "It's my responsibility."

Alex and Willa's small bodies lay tragically on the cold ground, their brightly decorated time capsule box forgotten beside them. PJ looked at the disturbed earth where they had so excitedly planned to bury it, their hopes and dreams neatly packaged within.

"Mom," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion, "I... I want to bury it for them."

With her face streaked with tears, Peg looked at him, her eyes mirroring his pain. Without a word, she nodded. While she went to call the police from a nearby pay phone, PJ picked up the time capsule. He knelt by the freshly dug hole, the earth cold beneath his trembling fingers, and carefully placed the box into its final resting place.

~*~*~*~*~

His mom walked him into the house, the kitchen light spilling out, warm and inviting. Pistol met them, giggling, a smear of something red on her cheek.

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! Vamp Mr. G is a riot!" she shrieked, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "And I tried dipping crackers in blood, and it tasted yummy!" Pistol’s bright eyes landed on PJ’s battered face. Her giggling stopped abruptly. Her small hand flew to her mouth. "P-PJ?" she whispered, her voice tiny and scared. "What… what happened to PJ? Is it the British Mafia?"

Peg turned, her eyebrows shooting up. "The British Mafia?"

PJ sighed. "Long story, Mom."

Peg led him to his dad's couch in front of the TV, gently pushing him onto it. She returned with the first-aid kit and began to clean the cut on his eyebrow. "I still think we should go to the hospital, PJ," she fretted, dabbing antiseptic on his swollen eye.

"Nah, Mom. Slayer healing powers will take care of it soon enough," he said numbly. "Max and I have had worse."

Peg winced, a flicker of sadness in her eyes. "I just… I wish you boys had kept me in the loop. I could have helped."

"We were told to keep it a secret from everybody," PJ mumbled, wincing as she cleaned his split lip. "None of us were supposed to know about it, except Debbie and her watcher."

As Peg continued to treat his wounds, Pistol padded in, holding out her juice bottle. "Here, PJ," she offered, her big eyes full of solemn concern. PJ took it, his fingers brushing her small hand, and a wave of profound gratitude washed over him. He had his mom, his sister, a safe home. A pang of guilt twisted in his gut as he remembered Max’s words from the night before: "You have a dad and a mom and a sister. I only had my dad." And now his dad was an asshole vampire.

The sight of Drusilla and Spike tonight had scared PJ more than any encounter he’d ever had with them before. The thought of Max, alone with them in that grimy factory, haunted him. He wanted to storm back there, to drag Max out, to pull him back to safety, even if it meant fighting a battle he couldn't win.

When Peg was finally done patching him up, she looked at him, her eyes soft. "How about we all sleep in my room tonight?"

Pistol’s face lit up, all traces of fear gone. "Yippee! Yes, Mommy, yes! A slumber party!"

PJ nodded, a small smile touching his lips.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The park was bathed in an eerie, blood-red light, and the sickly-sweet scent of old roses hung heavy in the air. Alex and Willa stood frozen, their small faces pale with terror, their eyes wide and pleading. PJ tried to move, to shout, to lunge forward, but his limbs were leaden, rooted to the spot. He was a statue, a horrified witness trapped in his own skin.

Spike loomed over Willa, fangs glinting. Drusilla glided towards Alex. PJ screamed, but no sound escaped his throat. He saw the flash of teeth, heard the sickening wet gurgle from Alex, followed by Willa's cut-off shriek. Blood seemed to spray in slow motion, coating the leaves of the ancient oak tree. He watched, helpless, as their small bodies crumpled, then faded into dust, leaving only faint outlines on the grass. Spike and Drusilla turned to him, their eyes glowing, their faces smeared with crimson, laughing, a sound that twisted into a deafening roar in his ears.

PJ shot upright in bed, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs, sweat slicking his skin. He was breathing in ragged, desperate gasps.

"PJ? Honey, what is it?"

His mom's voice cut through the lingering terror. He felt her arms wrap around him, pulling him close, her familiar scent a comforting anchor. He buried his face in her shoulder, trembling.

"What's wrong with PJ?" Pistol's small voice came from next to his mom, tiny and scared.

Peg tightened her hug around PJ. "He'll be fine, sweetheart. Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep."

PJ clung to his mom, the phantom screams of Alex and Willa still echoing in his mind, the horrifying image of their demise burned behind his eyelids. His mom held him, patting his back, her steady presence slowly coaxing him back from the edge of the nightmare.

~*~*~*~*~

The 6 PM sun was PJ and his mom's only ally, a golden barrier keeping the vampire fight contained within the factory walls. Once Spike and especially Drusilla were eliminated, Max would finally be free. PJ burst through the factory entrance, his mom right behind him, a discord of shouts and the blinding flash of light from her rigged super soakers erupting into the cavernous space. The sight of Spike and Drusilla ignited a cold, burning hatred in PJ's gut. They were going to pay. He was going to make them pay.

His suburban mom had transformed into a righteous warrior. She wasted no time. Streams of holy water erupted from her duct-taped super soakers, drenching the vampires. Smoke hissed and curled upwards wherever it touched their skin, and they recoiled with guttural snarls, scrambling for cover amidst the machinery.

He stood poised, his small crossbow taut, his aim steady despite the tremor in his hands. This was for Alex and Willa. He fired. The bolt whizzed across the cavernous space and thumped into Drusilla’s arm. She shrieked in an agony that echoed off the metal walls and brought a grim satisfaction to PJ’s churning stomach.

"Focus, PJ! Point to her heart!" his mom shouted, her voice surprisingly strong above the chaos.

PJ reloaded frantically, his eyes locked on Drusilla. One more shot. One more for Alex and Willa. One more for Max. But before he could fire, Spike, still steaming from Peg’s relentless holy water assault, roared, "You lack-brains! If you kill her, your little friend there will die!"

PJ froze, the crossbow bolt aimed but unreleased. His gaze snapped to Max, who lay bruised and beaten in the corner, his eyes wide with alarm, staring at Spike. A cold dread, worse than any fear for himself, twisted in PJ's gut. His desperate need to save Max slammed into him, overriding everything else.

"What do you mean?" Peg demanded.

Spike pointed a finger at Max. "The boy's linked to her by blood. He's her pet for eternity. Her death means his death. The bond's too strong, a bloody permanent connection. If she goes, he goes. Poof!" He finished with a mocking flourish, his eyes glinting with malicious triumph.

"You’re lying!" PJ choked out, his voice raw with desperate disbelief. "You just want to stop us from killing her!"

Spike lifted his hands, a mocking shrug in his posture. "By all means, kill her, and see for yourself."

PJ’s tormented gaze locked onto Drusilla, who still steamed faintly from the holy water, then flickered desperately to Max, lying helpless and broken in the corner. No, no, no! Did this mean Max could never be saved? Was he truly stuck, forever bound to this monster? His best friend, his entire life, glued to the whim of a malicious vampire? Despite the burning hatred for Drusilla that seared his very soul, despite the consuming rage for Alex and Willa, PJ knew, with agonizing clarity, that he couldn't risk Max’s life. Not now. Not like this. This time, PJ wouldn't be able to save Max. There wasn't a way. The brutal truth settled over him like a suffocating shroud, heavier than any physical blow.

"If we can’t kill her," his mom said, her voice dangerously low, a new target in her sights, "we can at least kill you." She aimed her super soaker, unleashing another torrent of holy water at Spike, who snarled and vanished into the next room, dissolving into the deeper shadows. Peg snapped, "Let’s follow him, PJ!"

PJ lingered for a heart-wrenching moment, his body half-turned towards the room Spike had fled to. But his eyes remained fixed on Max, still huddled miserably in that corner. His friend looked beaten. PJ couldn't begin to fathom the horror Max must have faced, alone in the company of brutal, centuries-old vampires. The only thing that must have kept him going was the desperate hope that PJ would find a way out for him. PJ clenched his jaw, a bitter taste in his mouth. Sorry it had to end this way, Max. Sorry I can't save you. Then, with a heartbroken sigh, he turned and rushed after his mom, a grim promise echoing in his mind: this wasn't over.

The chase was a brutal, chaotic ballet through the decaying heart of the factory. Peg sprayed holy water with relentless precision, her super soakers hissing like enraged serpents. Spike, a whirlwind of curses and desperate dodges, snarled, his leather jacket smoking wherever the blessed liquid touched. PJ moved with a grim determination, his crossbow bolts thudding into metal, narrowly missing his target.

The initial skirmish in the main hall had sent them careening into a labyrinth of disused machinery. Pipes, rusted and dripping, formed a treacherous maze. Broken conveyor belts snaked across the floor like petrified snakes. Shadows clung to every corner, offering fleeting cover for the agile vampire.

"Come here, you coward!" Peg yelled. She rounded a towering, defunct press, her twin streams of holy water forcing Spike to scramble back, his face contorted in a mask of agony.

Flanking his mother, PJ fired a bolt that ricocheted off a metal beam near Spike’s head. The vampire roared and lunged, a swift, predatory strike aimed at Peg. But she was quicker, sidestepping with a surprising agility, her spray catching him full in the face. He shrieked, stumbling back, clutching his eyes.

Just then, a new, chilling presence entered the fray. Drusilla appeared from the shadows, her eyes fixed on Peg with a cold, predatory gleam. "You hurt my Spike," she hissed.

Drusilla moved with a terrifying grace, her pale hands lashing out, claws extended. Peg met her with a fierce determination, her holy water streams forcing Drusilla to dance back, hissing. PJ, caught between the two vampires, fired another bolt at Spike, who was now recovering, his eyes blazing with renewed malice.

The factory became a stage for their desperate struggle. They crashed through stacks of rotting crates, sending splintered wood flying. They slid across oil-slicked concrete, dodging furious blows and deadly sprays. Peg moved with an unexpected ferocity, her aim unwavering, her focus absolute. PJ watched her, a surge of profound admiration swelling in his chest. His mom was a genuine warrior, facing down two ancient, powerful vampires with nothing but courage and a pair of glorified squirt guns.

Then, with a disheartening click, Peg’s water gun ran dry. A second later, the other one sputtered, a pathetic dribble of water the last it could offer. Drusilla seized the moment and delivered a vicious kick to Peg’s chest. Peg cried out and flew backward, a ragdoll propelled through the open factory doors, landing with a sickening thud somewhere in the yard outside.

PJ was about to bolt, to rush to his mom’s side, when a vice-like grip seized his arm. Spike kicked him hard in the stomach. PJ gasped, the air knocked from his lungs, and he landed against the cold, grimy wall with a painful thud. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Drusilla stride out of the factory, heading straight for his mom.

“Mom, watch out! Drusilla…!” PJ yelled, but his warning was cut short. Spike’s fist connected with his jaw, a sharp, brutal punch that sent stars exploding behind his eyes. Spike grabbed him by the collar, hauling him up close, his fangs glinting. “Now I got you, mate,” he sneered.

Fueled by a desperate surge of adrenaline and terror for his mom, PJ lunged forward, headbutting Spike hard. The vampire grunted in surprise, his grip loosening just enough. PJ tore free, scrambling to his feet, and burst out of the factory doors, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The late afternoon sun had vanished, swallowed by dark clouds that threatened a sudden rain shower. PJ found his mom in the factory yard, not cowering, but fighting. She had somehow wrenched a heavy, discarded metal pipe from the debris, swinging it with surprising force. Drusilla darted and weaved with eerie grace, but Peg met her with grim determination, the pipe a clumsy yet surprisingly effective weapon, clanging loudly against the vampire’s dodging form.

PJ didn't need to see Spike to know he was there. A prickle on the back of his neck, a shift in the air, and PJ instinctively ducked, dodging the furious punch that would have shattered his jaw. He reeled back a couple of steps, his hand darting to his backpack, snatching a stake. Right here, right now, he vowed, his blood boiling. You die.

Spike lunged, grabbing PJ’s hand that clutched the stake, twisting, trying to wrench the weapon free. PJ kneed Spike's groin with all his might. The vampire recoiled, a pained hiss escaping his lips. PJ didn't hesitate; he pounced, raising the stake, ready to plunge it home when a heavy weight suddenly slammed into him. Drusilla had just tossed his mom at him to stop him from killing Spike.

PJ grunted, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He scrambled up, pulling the metal pipe from his dazed mom’s grasp, and swung it with all his might. The pipe connected with Spike’s head with a sickening thud, sending him stumbling back several feet. PJ didn’t wait. He shoved the small bottle of holy water from his backpack into Peg's hand. "Mom!" he yelled, and she, understanding instantly, rushed towards her abandoned double water guns. PJ spun, covering for her, swinging the metal pipe in wide, arcing blows, forcing the two vampires to keep their distance.

Peg snatched up her guns, aiming with grim determination. She pointed one at Spike and squeezed the trigger, unleashing a furious spray of holy water. Spike shrieked, his skin smoking, and he scrambled backward, fleeing out of the factory yard and onto the street.

"You’re not getting away!" PJ yelled, his voice hoarse. He saw Drusilla standing at the factory yard gate, a pale, still sentinel.

"Why isn’t she following us?" Peg asked, her voice tight with confusion, still spraying Spike, forcing him further away from the factory.

"She can’t!" PJ yelled back, running after them. "She can’t step far away from Max or he’ll get electrocuted!"

The fight spilled outside the factory yard, a desperate dance under the clouded sky. Once Peg’s water gun sputtered empty, Spike spun and lunged at her. But before he could reach her, PJ launched himself forward, the heavy metal pipe a blur in his hands, swinging it with all his might. Spike snatched the end of the pipe, his grip like iron. He twisted, using PJ’s own momentum against him, and sent the boy flying. PJ spun through the air, hitting the thick trunk of an old oak tree with a jarring thud that knocked the breath from his lungs.

He lay there for a moment, dazed, staring up at the gnarled branches above him. Then, with sickening clarity, he recognized the tree. This was it. The oak tree. The place where the horrors of last night had unfolded. Flashbacks slammed into him: the glint of moonlight on metal, the sudden, desperate struggle. He heard Alex’s whimpers, raw and terrified, and Willa’s strangled scream, sharp and final. His chest began to heave, an uncontrollable, gasping breath. The air felt thin, suffocating. His vision blurred, the edges of the world closing in, and a cold sweat broke out on his skin. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, trapped in the chilling echo of screams only he could hear.

No. Not now. PJ squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to focus on the cold bark against his back, the distant clang of the pipe. He took a shaky, deliberate breath, then another, pushing the images back, fighting for control. He was here. Now. Alex and Willa were gone. But his mom was still fighting. He had to calm down. Slowly, painstakingly, the panic receded, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

PJ pushed himself up from the base of the oak tree, his muscles screaming in protest, but the cold dread of his mom being out there, alone with Spike, overrode the pain. He scanned the park, the dim light and the beginning drizzle obscuring his view. He couldn't see them, but he could hear them, the distinct clang of metal against something hard, a low snarl, a grunt of effort. The sounds were distant, moving away from the factory.

He followed the noise, his heart hammering against his ribs, pushing through the deepening gloom. The drizzle had turned into a steady downpour, slicking the ground and blurring the world into a watery haze. The sounds led him towards the edge of the property, near the main road, where a large street excavation ran parallel to the pavement, a deep, muddy trench dug for new pipes or cables.

There they were. His mom swung the metal pipe she must have snatched from Spike. She moved with a raw, untrained ferocity, her hairdo coming undone, strands plastered to her face. Spike darted, weaving, his vampire speed a terrifying blur, but Peg met him blow for blow, the pipe a clumsy but effective extension of her will. It clanged against his dodging form, forced him to recoil, even made him grunt in frustration. PJ watched, a surge of profound, aching admiration swelling in his chest. His mom was holding her own against a centuries-old vampire, fighting with nothing but sheer guts.

PJ grabbed a thick, sturdy branch from a nearby bush, tearing it free with a surge of Slayer strength. He stripped off the smaller twigs, sharpening the end against a jagged rock, his eyes never leaving Spike. He was going to end this. Now.

The fight raged on through the sheeting rain. Spike lunged, a vicious sweeping kick aimed at Peg's legs. Peg dodged, but her foot caught on a loose piece of rebar sticking out from the edge of the street excavation. She stumbled, falling backward, her cry lost in the drumming rain. Spike, seizing the moment, brought his foot down in a powerful stomp, aiming to crush her.

PJ watched in horror as his mom, and then Spike, disappeared over the edge of the excavation, plummeting into the muddy depths with a sickening thud.

“Mom!” PJ screamed, his voice raw, choked by the sudden terror. He scrambled to the edge of the trench, peering down into the rain-lashed darkness. The downpour was relentless, turning the excavation into a muddy, churning pit. He couldn’t see anything. “Mom! Are you there?!” His heart plummeted, a cold, empty void opening in his chest. He’d lost her. He’d lost his mom. The thought was a searing brand, worse than any physical pain.

Time seemed to stretch as PJ scrambled along the treacherous edge of the excavation. The darkness, compounded by the relentless downpour, swallowed the depths below, making it impossible to see more than a foot or two in front of him. "Mom!" he yelled, his voice raw, hoarse from fear, the word snatched away by the wind and rain. His mind raced, churning with horrifying images: splintered bones, a pale, still face submerged in mud, the chilling silence of a life extinguished. Every second was an eternity of agonizing dread.

Then, a shape emerged from the gloom below, clambering up the muddy incline, splattered with mud but moving. "Mom!" PJ cried again, relief flooding him so intensely his knees almost buckled. He rushed to her, pulling her into a tight, desperate hug, feeling the sting of tears prick his eyes as he buried his face in her wet shoulder.

Peg patted his back, her breath still coming in ragged gasps, rain plastering her hair to her face. "Spike's gone," she said, her voice hoarse but firm over the drumming rain. "Suddenly, he just… looked horrified. And left. Vanished." She looked back at the muddy pit, a puzzled frown on her face, rain streaming down her face like fresh tears. "Just like that."

PJ didn't have time to ponder Spike's sudden, baffling disappearance. A distant shout, thin but familiar through the downpour, cut through his daze. "PJ!"

He whipped around. Through the blurring sheet of rain, he saw them: Max, a smaller figure next to the lumbering form of his dad, rushing towards them. PJ's heart gave a happy, dizzying leap. "Max!" he yelled, surging forward, mud squelching under his shoes.

The two friends met in a bone-crushing embrace. PJ lifted Max effortlessly off the ground, squeezing him tight, clinging to him as if he were the last solid thing in the world. He felt Max’s trembling, the lingering tension in his friend's body, but Max was here. He was free.

Soaking wet and exhausted, Peg joined the hug, pulling Max into her own fierce embrace. "Oh, Max! You’re alright!"

PJ pulled back slightly, his hands still gripping Max’s shoulders, rain plastering their clothes to their bodies. "How did you… how did you manage to leave?" he stammered, his voice thick with emotion. "What about Drusilla?"

Despite his soaking, battered appearance, Max managed a cocky smirk. "I killed her."

PJ stared, shocked. "You… you did?"

"Where’s Spike?" Max asked, looking around.

"He just left, looking scared," Peg replied, wiping rain from her eyes.

Goofy stepped forward, his face barely visible through the curtain of rain. "He sensed her death."

PJ frowned, completely bewildered. "What in the heck are you talking about?"

Goofy’s gaze was fixed on Max. "When my boy here staked Drusilla, I felt it right here." He thumped his chest with a wet hand. "She was my sire, see? I can feel her death. She was also Spike’s sire. He must’ve felt it too." Goofy’s eyes then narrowed, a familiar, exasperated glare settling on Max, rain streaming from his brows. "Now, how about them good pig’s blood, boy?"

~*~*~*~*~

Convincing Goofy that the butcher shop was, in fact, closed at 8 PM was a harder fight than expected, made even more difficult by the increasing, pounding rain. Max had to shout over the deluge, trying to explain the concept of "business hours" to a newly turned vampire whose only thought was fresh pig’s blood. By the time they finally steered him toward home, PJ, soaked to the bone and shivering, just wanted to collapse.

But peace wasn't waiting. As they approached the front door, the heavy rain pounding around them, a familiar figure stood silhouetted against the porch light. Spike. He was there, slumped against the doorframe, his shoulders shaking, shielded from the relentless downpour by the gable above. As they got closer, PJ saw it clearly: tears streamed down Spike’s face, glistening in the faint light. He was genuinely grieving.

PJ shared a panicked look with his mom, the cold rain still dripping from their hair. Pistol was inside. The immediate fear for his little sister slammed into him, but then reason took hold. Spike couldn’t get in without an invitation. Pistol was most likely safe.

Spike lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with a raw, savage pain. "Which one of you… which one of you killed her?" he snarled, his voice thick with anguish and fury. He pointed a trembling finger at Peg. "I was fighting you. It wasn't you." His gaze swept over PJ, Max, and Goofy, a chilling accusation in his tear-streaked face. "It was one of you three."

PJ glanced swiftly at Max. He knew his friend had endured his fair share of trauma over the past three weeks; he didn't need any more danger or torment. PJ couldn't let Spike’s wrath fall on him.

Before Max could even open his mouth, PJ stepped forward. "I did," he declared, his voice steady despite the tremor in his gut. "I killed Drusilla."

Max gasped, starting to object, but PJ cut him off, a defiant set to his jaw. "I went back to the factory. Saw her busy with her dolls," he lied, improvising wildly, "and finished her. She didn't even notice."

Spike roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated rage, and lunged. He was a whirlwind of grief-fueled fury, but four was more than one, especially in the pouring rain. Peg swung the empty water guns, Max executed the martial arts moves Debbie had taught him, and Goofy, surprisingly agile despite the downpour, delivered a clumsy but powerful punch that sent Spike staggering. The fight was quick and brutal on the front lawn, mud churning underfoot. They ganged up on him, pushing him back, forcing him away from the house.

Eventually, soaked to the bone and bruised, all four of them ran towards the front door. As PJ reached for the doorknob, he paused, remembering Goofy had never stepped a foot inside his house after being turned. "VampGoof," he shouted, his voice cutting through the loud, heavy rain. "Come in."

Goofy dashed into the house, a relieved sigh escaping him as he finally gained shelter from the relentless rain. Spike ran towards the house, launching at PJ, but slammed against the invisible barrier of the door. He glared down at PJ, his face inches away from him. "This isn't over, little Slayer! I'll make your life hell!"

PJ slammed the door shut in Spike's enraged face, the thud echoing through the house. He shivered, his soaked clothes clinging to him, dripping puddles onto the carpet. Turning, he saw his mom already heading upstairs, calling Pistol's name. Goofy was in the living room, stripping off his sodden clothes with a relieved sigh, leaving a trail of wet fabric. And then there was Max, glaring at him, his hair and clothes just as drenched.

"Why did you lie to him, PJ?" Max asked, crossing his arms in anger, his voice tight. "Why did you tell him you killed Drusilla?"

PJ peeled off his soaked jacket. He reached out and clapped Max on the shoulder. "You've been through enough, bud. I've got this."

Max immediately shoved PJ's hand off. "But now he's going after you."

"Told you, I've got this," PJ said, a hint of impatience in his voice.

"And I don't?" Max asked, sounding offended, his eyes narrowed.

PJ let out an exasperated sigh. "For God's sake, Max, I'm giving you a much-needed break. You've been through hell and barely had time to breathe."

"And you didn't?" Max pointed out, gesturing to their equally bedraggled states.

"I didn't lose my dad, I'm not going to be taken away to another town by my distant aunt, I didn't have a psycho vamp carving her name on my stomach and forcing me into pet slavery," PJ rattled off, noting how Max's face drooped with each example. He then clasped Max's shoulder again, squeezing gently. "I'm trauma-free, buddy. Let me have this one."

~*~*~*~*~

PJ leaned against the doorframe of Max’s room, watching his friend emerge from the bathroom, a towel wrapped precariously around his waist. Max’s hair was damp, clinging to his forehead, and his skin, though still showing faint bruises, had a healthy flush. He looked more refreshed than PJ had seen him in days.

Still in the towel, Max practically dove onto the bottom bunk of his double bed, burying his face in the pillow. "Aww, a bed," he sighed, his voice muffled. "I miss sleeping on a bed."

PJ shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "Dude, put some clothes on and don’t get that bed wet. Guess I’m sleeping in the top bunk tonight." He frowned slightly as Max hugged the pillow, snuggling into the mattress with an exaggerated groan of contentment. "Gee, where did they have you sleep?"

Max’s voice was muffled. "Better left unsaid."

PJ’s gaze fell on the pile of Max’s discarded clothes on the floor. He nudged them with the tip of his shoe, then, using just two fingers, picked up the wet, dirty shirt and pants, holding them at arm’s length. "I’ll put these in the laundry," he said, wrinkling his nose slightly.

"Wait!" Max yelled, scrambling up, clutching the towel to his naked body. He fumbled, trying to get his hand into the pocket of the discarded jeans, but his fingers met only wet, clinging fabric. PJ, curious, reached in himself, his fingers closing around a tiny, wet and crumbled piece of paper.

"Aw, it got wet," Max sighed, looking dejected.

PJ carefully uncreased the damp paper. "It's okay," he said, squinting. "I can still read the writing." He frowned. "What's that?"

"That’s Spike’s poetry," Max explained, a strange mix of disdain and amusement in his voice.

PJ scoffed. "Spike? Reads poetry?"

"No," Max corrected, rolling his eyes. "He writes poetry."

"That’s even less likely," PJ muttered, beginning to read the lines, his brow furrowing in concentration. "’My heart expands ’tis grown a bulge in it / inspired by your beauty, effulgent.’" PJ paused, a look of genuine surprise on his face. "Wow. He’s really good."

Max snorted, rolling his eyes again. "Joke’s on you. He stinks. And I’m guessing by that look of profound literary appreciation on your face, you stink too."

PJ defensively clutched the poem. "What do you know about poetry? This is a masterpiece!"

Max laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound that PJ hadn’t heard in a while. "The entire 19th century laughed at him for his poetry! They called him William the Bloody because of his bloody awful poetry!"

PJ’s eyes widened. "Is that how he got that nickname? Man, Williams is gonna feel stupid when we tell him." He stared at the poem again, a new perspective dawning. "Man, who would’ve thought that Spike was a sensitive soul." He looked at Max. "I’m a sensitive soul too. Do you think I’m going to end up a cool gangster if I get turned into a vampire?"

Just then, Peg walked in. "Boys, I know you’re exhausted after tonight, and I thought I’d write you a note to skip school tomorrow." Her gaze softened as it fell on Max. "I can write one for PJ, but Max, I’m afraid if I write you a note, it’ll get to your aunt, and then she’ll take you to New Jersey right away. I think it’s better if you went to school tomorrow."

Max nodded with a grimace.

"I’ll go too," PJ exclaimed.

His mom pointed at the bruises still marring his face.

"Don’t worry, Mom," PJ said, touching his swollen eye. "They might fade by tomorrow. Slayer healing and all." He gave Max a side hug. "Can’t let my buddy face the horrors of the existential terror of standardized testing and the dreaded oral presentation alone."

~*~*~*~*~

PJ and Max stumbled out of math class, the quadratic equations and trigonometric functions swirling in their heads, more confusing than any vampire lore.

"Man, I swear Mr. Johnson's trying to turn us into math vampires," Max muttered, rubbing his temples. "Sucking the life out of our brains with all those numbers."

PJ chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, and I bet Drusilla would have loved the concept of an 'imaginary number.' Probably would've tried to make it her pet."

"Too early to joke about that, Peej," Max said with a grimace.

"Sorry, man."

Their lighthearted banter was cut short as a couple of boys from their grade, Kevin and Scott, rounded the corner, spotting PJ's swollen eye and split lip.

"Look who it is! Unicycle Boy!" Kevin sneered, nudging Scott, who snickered. "Still trying to tell us that story about the killer squirrel, PJ?"

Scott piped up, "Yeah, everyone knows you just fell off your bike, tough guy!"

PJ’s jaw tightened, but before he could retort, Max stepped forward, planting himself squarely between PJ and the bullies. "At least he's brave enough to try something new," Max said, his voice low and firm. "Unlike you guys, who probably get dizzy just spinning in a chair."

Kevin scoffed. "What are you, his bodyguard now?"

"Something like that," Max shot back.

"Hey, PJ, still wet your pants at the sight of Marty?" Scott chimed in, taking another shot, a sneer twisting his face.

Max rolled his eyes. "Says the boy who soiled his pants when the school mascot showed up in the cafeteria last Halloween. You thought it was a real bear, didn't you, Scotty?"

Scott's shoulders hunched in shame, and he quickly turned, shuffling away down the hall, with Kevin following close behind.

PJ smiled at Max. "Thanks, man."

"Anytime, my man," Max replied, bumping his shoulder. They then launched into their secret handshake: quick fist bumps, finger wiggles, and a final, mutually agreed-upon "explosion" that sent their hands flying apart.

Their moment was cut short as a warm voice called out. "Max!"

Principal Pennypacker, her usually perfectly styled blonde hair pulled into a tight bun today, was approaching them. Her sensible shoes clicked softly on the linoleum, a reassuring rhythm rather than an ominous one. She stopped in front of them, her gaze gentle yet direct behind her spectacles.

"Max," she began, her voice soft but clear, "I've scheduled you for an appointment with the school counselor every Monday and Wednesday, starting today." She offered a small, sympathetic smile.

Max blinked, bewildered. "Why?"

Ms. Pennypacker adjusted her glasses, pushing them higher up her nose. "Honey," she said kindly, "school policy dictates that any child who experiences a significant loss of a parent must speak with the school counselor. It's just a way for us to make sure you're getting the support you need." Her eyes held genuine concern. "She's expecting you. Don't keep her waiting, dear."

She then turned her gaze to PJ, her brow furrowing slightly at his bruised face. "Should I be worried?" she asked.

"It's a unicycle accident, ma'am," PJ said, flashing her an awkward, lopsided smile.

"Hmm," she hummed, a flicker of suspicion in her eyes. Despite her lingering doubt, she gave them a gentle nod, then turned and continued down the hall, her bun bobbing slightly with each step.

Max stared at PJ in horror. "A counselor? What the heck would I say to her? Everything in my head is vamp-related."

PJ shrugged. "Talk to her about your dad."

Max blinked. "My dad is a vampire."

PJ thought for a moment, then clapped Max on the shoulder. "Easy, dude. Talk about your aunt. That’s plenty of trauma that doesn’t involve vampires." He grinned weakly, trying to lighten the mood.

"Good point." Max groaned. "This is the last thing I wanna do! Hey, wait for me until I'm done?"

"Sure thing, bud," PJ said, giving a thumbs-up. He leaned against the cool, brick wall outside the counselor’s office, idly plucking at the hem of his shirt. He watched other kids walk by, excitedly talking about next week’s school dance, things PJ would have been fussing about if he wasn't burdened with Slayer duties and staking vamps on a nightly basis. Time seemed to stretch, and soon the hallway was empty. He glanced at his watch for the tenth time, wondering how long these "trauma sessions" usually lasted. Max had been in there forever.

Just then, Rose turned the corner. Her short blonde bowl cut, adorned with two small, colorful snap clips holding back strands from her face, framed a shy smile as she saw him. A warmth spread through PJ’s chest, pushing away the lingering chill of the hallway.

"Hey, Rose," he said, pushing off the wall, trying to sound casual. Maybe he could ask Rose to the dance. That was, if Spike didn't kill him first.

"Hey, PJ," she replied, her cheeks coloring slightly. "Waiting for someone?"

"Yeah, Max." He nodded towards the frosted glass of the counselor's door. "Counselor duty," he supplied. An awkward silence settled between them, charged with unspoken words, the air thick with the unspoken invitation hanging between them. Then, remembering the now barely damp, crumpled paper in his pocket, PJ decided to risk it. "Hey, check this out." He pulled the small, folded sheet from his pocket and carefully unfolded it, handing it to her. "I know it's a little wrinkled and smudged, but you can still read the words."

Rose took the paper, her eyes widening as she read the lines. "Oh my god!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine excitement. "PJ, where did you get this?"

PJ shrugged, trying to project an air of nonchalant coolness. "Oh, you know. I’m just a collector. Of anything poetry." He hoped, fervently, that she wouldn’t ask about his extensive "collection," which currently consisted of this single, somewhat-stained scrap. He was a complete fraud.

Rose, however, was too engrossed in the poem to notice his unease. "This is incredible! This is… this is a rare piece, isn’t it? Written by the failed poet, William Pratt!" She looked up, her eyes sparkling.

"William Pratt?" PJ echoed. Was that Spike's full name?

"Yes!" Rose practically bounced on her toes. "He was a not-so-known poet from the 19th century. I’m obsessed with that era because I just love romantic poetry. I know of him. He lived with his mother and was considered very close with her. Very devoted."

PJ grinned. "Is that 19th-century talk for ‘he was a mama’s boy’?"

Rose giggled. "Yep."

"Well," PJ said, a sudden impulse taking over. He watched her careful handling of the paper, the genuine appreciation in her eyes. It was clear this piece meant something to her. "Here. You can have it. It’s an authentic piece. Written by William Pratt himself." This time, PJ wasn’t lying; it really was.

Rose’s eyes went wide. "Really? Oh my god, PJ!" She beamed, her face lighting up. Without a moment’s hesitation, she leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek. "Thank you!" she breathed, clutching the paper to her chest as she practically floated away down the hall.

PJ stood there, a tingling warmth spreading across his cheek, a dazed smile on his face. He watched her go, then slowly reached up to touch the spot where her lips had been. He was alone again, the quiet of the hallway settling around him. The momentary distraction faded, and he was left once more wondering: when would Max finally finish with the counselor?

He decided to head to his locker, needing to swap his math textbook for English. The hallway was quieter now, most students already in their next class. He spun the dial on his lock, the familiar click echoing slightly in the silence. When he pulled the door open, his eyes immediately fell on something small and out of place on the bottom shelf. A used cigarette butt.

Spike.

A jolt of fear, cold and sharp, shot through him. This was a warning. Spike was here.

Just then, a muffled scream cut through the quiet. PJ slammed his locker shut and darted towards the sound. It led him to the boys' locker room. He pushed the door open, his heart pounding. Marty was slumped against the wall, pale as a sheet, clutching his neck. A dark, rapidly spreading stain bloomed on his shirt.

PJ dropped to his knees beside him. "Marty? Are you okay?"

"Damn you, Jeff, it's all your fault, you dweeb!" Marty looked up, tears welling in his eyes.

"Me?" PJ asked, bewildered.

"A punk guy did this," Marty gasped, his voice reedy. "He said I should deliver a message for you. He says he's going to hurt you just like you hurt him."

PJ frowned, his mind racing. Hurt me just like I hurt him? Was this about Drusilla? Spike was grieving, that much was clear. This was his twisted revenge.

Suddenly, a chorus of high-pitched yells erupted from the hall outside. PJ scrambled to his feet and rushed out. Several girls stood huddled together, pointing wildly, their faces etched with terror.

"He... he took her!" one of them shrieked, tears streaming down her face. "A creepy guy with too much gel on his head! He kidnapped Rose!"

PJ’s heart plummeted, hitting the floor with a sickening thud. He says he's going to hurt you just like you hurt him. Spike had taken Rose. He’d kill her to punish PJ. The thought was a cold, paralyzing dread. He spun around, darting for the outside doors, but then he remembered: it was still sunny. Spike couldn't have escaped the building. He had to be here.

PJ rushed back into the school, sprinting down hallways, pushing open classroom doors, his eyes frantically scanning every corner, every shadow. Students and teachers stared at him, confused and sympathetic, but PJ didn't see them. He only saw Rose’s terrified face, superimposed over Alex and Willa’s.

"Peej! What's wrong?"

It was Max, emerging from the counselor's office, his expression concerned. PJ stumbled to a halt in front of him, tears finally overflowing, stinging his eyes. "Spike," he choked out, the word thick with anguish. "He kidnapped Rose. He's... he's going to punish me. Just like I killed Drusilla. He's going to kill her."

Max’s eyes widened, and then without another word, he turned, joining PJ in the frantic search. They had to find her.

PJ darted down the English wing, yanking open classroom doors. Empty. He burst into the library, its hushed atmosphere a stark contrast to the storm raging inside him. Rows of silent books seemed to mock his urgency. Spike wouldn't be here, not with all this light. He needed darkness.

"Max! This way!" PJ yelled, his voice strained, his breath catching in his throat.

Max, right behind him, was just as pale, his eyes wide with shared panic. "Where are you going?"

"Somewhere dark," PJ gasped, his mind racing. "Somewhere... hidden."

A piercing scream suddenly echoed from the gym corridor, followed by a chorus of panicked shouts. They sprinted towards the gym, the shouts growing louder, more frantic. They burst into the main hall, a chaotic scene unfolding before them. Students were scattering, pointing towards the boys' locker room, their faces etched with pure terror. Teachers, their expressions grim, were trying to usher children away, their voices sharp with urgency.

Principal Pennypacker was at the forefront of the chaos, her usually composed demeanor fractured by alarm. Her blonde bun, neat just hours ago, now had a few rebellious strands escaping. She spoke into a walkie-talkie, her voice firm, despite the tremor in her hand. "Code Red! Code Red! All students to nearest classrooms! Lock down! Lock down!"

PJ and Max pushed through the frightened throng, making their way towards the locker room entrance. A few teachers tried to intercept them, their faces grim.

"Boys! Get to your designated shelter areas!" a stern history teacher commanded, blocking their path.

"We have to find him!" PJ pleaded, trying to push past.

"Do you know the person who hurt Marty?" the teacher pressed, his eyes narrowing.

PJ and Max exchanged a frantic look.

"A dangerous abductor!" Max said, his voice surprisingly steady for the situation. He pointed at PJ. "His dad read about him in the newspaper yesterday."

"He took Rose," PJ choked out, his voice thin with terror. His hands were clammy, trembling uncontrollably, and he felt a cold knot of dread tightening in his stomach, making it hard to breathe. He wanted to run, to scream, to punch through the wall.

"We'll find her," the teacher said, his voice softening slightly, though his stance remained firm. He reached out, gently but decisively guiding PJ and Max back into the stream of students, preventing them from leaving. "Now you boys have to stay with the other students. It's for your own safety."

PJ leaned close to Max, his voice a tight whisper. "We have to get out of here. We have to find Spike before he kills Rose."

Max's eyes now held that familiar, distant glaze PJ knew meant an idea was forming. Max scanned the crowded hallway, his gaze flicking over the panicked students, then landing on Kevin and Scott, who were trying to blend into a group near the water fountain. A sly smirk touched Max's lips.

"Hey!" Max yelled, his voice cutting through the rising murmur of the lockdown, pointing dramatically at Kevin and Scott. "It's them! They're the ones who stole the fire alarm key last year and broke into the gym after hours!"

Kevin and Scott froze, their eyes widening in pure terror. The history teacher, distracted by the sudden commotion and the mention of such serious infractions, immediately turned his attention to the accused boys. "What? Is this true, young men?" he demanded, taking a step towards them.

Seizing the opening, Max grabbed PJ's arm. "This way!" he hissed, pulling PJ through the momentary gap in the teacher's attention. They melted into the surging crowd, their escape going unnoticed amidst the unfolding chaos and the teacher's focused interrogation of two very unfortunate, very red-faced bullies.

They rushed into the boys' locker room. The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and something metallic. Marty was still slumped against the wall, a small group of teachers around him, one pressing a wadded-up towel to his neck. A male nurse, alerted by the initial scream, was already kneeling beside him, his expression grave.

PJ and Max stood right in front of Marty. "Did you see where he went?" PJ demanded, his voice urgent.

"Boys! You need to get to class now!" a female teacher exclaimed, her voice sharp with urgency. She began to usher Max and PJ outside.

"Where did he go, Marty?!" PJ yelled over his shoulder, looking at Marty, who was huddled on the floor, shaking like a scared rabbit, tears streaking his face.

Outside in the hall, PJ saw Max give him the signal. PJ shook his head, a silent protest, but Max insisted with his eyes. In unison, both boys stepped hard on the teacher's feet. She was wearing heels and let out a surprised yelp, nearly tripping. Max grabbed PJ's arm and they were off again, sprinting down the hallway.

As they passed the locker room, PJ called out, "What about Marty?"

"He's a useless chicken!" Max replied without breaking stride. "I know where Spike is."

"Where?" PJ yelled back.

"The one place we didn't check, and it's dark," Max said grimly. "The boiler room."

The boiler room. Of course. Dark, isolated, rarely visited. A perfect lair for a creature of shadow.

As they ran through the hallways, filled with creeped-out students being herded into classrooms by anxious teachers, they heard Ms. Pennypacker’s voice bellowed over the intercom. Her tone was calm, despite the underlying tension. "Students, remain in your classrooms. All external doors are now secured. Faculty, report any suspicious activity. Police are on their way."

Max tugged on PJ’s arm, pulling him towards a less crowded staircase. "Boiler room is in the basement, right?"

"Yeah," PJ confirmed, taking the stairs two at a time. The basement was a labyrinth of maintenance tunnels and forgotten storage rooms, accessed by a single, often-locked door near the cafeteria.

As Max and PJ reached the basement door, a figure stepped out from the shadows of the cafeteria entrance. It was Ms. Davies, the school counselor, a kind but firm woman with intelligent eyes.

"Ms. Davies!" Max said, trying to sound normal, though his voice was strained. "We're... we're just checking things out."

"Max, I understand this is incredibly difficult for you," she said softly, her voice brimming with professional empathy. "Another traumatic event, so soon after your father's… passing. This isn't the right time for acting out. You must not put yourself in danger." Her gaze then shifted to PJ, a frown settling on her face as she took in his bruised eye and cut lip. "And dragging your friends into these... situations... isn't healthy, Max."

"Right, Ms. Davies," Max mumbled, nodding passively.

Ms. Davies then placed a gentle hand on PJ’s shoulder. "If you need to talk, you know where my office is."

PJ offered a timid nod, trying to avoid her sympathetic gaze.

Ms. Davies ushered both boys to the nearest classroom, firmly ordering them inside. Max and PJ stepped into a room filled with huddling fourth graders hiding under their desks, their terrified teacher cowering among them.

"Oops, wrong class," Max whispered with a grin.

PJ peered back out into the hallway; the counselor was gone. "All clear," he muttered to Max.

The boys bolted out, making a dash for the basement door.

As they descended, the sounds of the school grew muffled, replaced by the distant rumble of machinery and the faint, earthy smell of damp concrete. They reached the basement corridor, a dim expanse illuminated only by bare, flickering bulbs that cast long, dancing shadows.

They continued down the dim corridor, the air growing warmer and heavier with each step. A low, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through the floor – the unmistakable sound of the boiler room. It was close. PJ instinctively reached for the familiar weight of his crossbow, only to remember he hadn't brought it to school. It had never occurred to him he'd need a vampire-slaying weapon for a math class.

They reached a heavy, metal door, steam leaking from around its edges in faint wisps. A stark red sign above it read: "DANGER: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY." This was it. PJ looked at Max, a silent question passing between them. Max nodded, his face resolute. He was ready.

PJ pushed the heavy metal door of the boiler room open a crack, peering into the humid, thrumming darkness. The air inside was thick with the scent of hot metal and something else – something cloying and sickly sweet. He nudged the door wider, and he and Max slipped inside.

Their eyes, adjusting to the gloom, immediately caught sight of a small, crumpled piece of paper lying on the grimy concrete floor, directly beneath a dangling pipe. It was stained, slightly damp, but unmistakably familiar. The same paper PJ had given Rose just hours ago.

PJ’s stomach lurched. They had been there.

He knelt, snatching it up, his fingers trembling slightly. "It's Spike's poem," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I gave it to Rose," he explained to Max.

The boiler room was a labyrinth of pipes and shadows. PJ and Max moved cautiously, their eyes straining to pierce the gloom. The air grew heavier, thick with the smell of old rust and cigarettes.

A low growl vibrated through the humid air, a sound of simmering rage. PJ and Max spun around, coming face to face with Spike. He looked even worse for wear than earlier; his gelled blonde hair was a chaotic mess, plastered to his forehead, and a cigarette dangled unlit from his mouth. There was no amusement in his gaze, only a grim, furious intensity that spoke of grief transmuted into a cold, lethal resolve. PJ could feel it, Spike was twice the vicious vampire now.

Before PJ could react, Max charged.

"Max, wait!" PJ hissed, but it was too late. Spike met the attack with chilling efficiency, grabbing Max and throwing him into the dark maw of an open maintenance tunnel. Spike held a heavy, rusted wrench in one hand, and with a swift, brutal motion, he slammed it against a nearby pipe. A deafening clang reverberated through the room, followed by a loud, grinding screech. The heavy, reinforced door to the maintenance tunnels, which Max had just entered, slammed shut with a final, echoing thud. A thick, steel bar slid into place with an ominous click.

"Max!" PJ screamed, lunging for the door, rattling the heavy metal. It was locked. He pounded on it, a frantic, desperate sound in the echoing space. "Max! Are you okay?"

"Oh, don't fret, little Slayer," Spike said dryly. "Your mate's quite accustomed to imprisonment. He's been locked in a tiny closet twice now, for hours on end. This little cubbyhole is practically a ballroom by comparison." He took a slow, deliberate step closer, his eyes fixed on PJ, a grim resolve replacing his earlier rage. "Besides, I've got something far more interesting to show you."

Spike turned and gestured with his head towards a darker corner of the boiler room, where the rhythmic thrumming of the machinery seemed to intensify. "Come along, Slayer. Your bird is waiting."

PJ's eyes darted around the oppressive heat of the boiler room, searching desperately for Rose. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the pervasive smell of hot steam. His gaze finally landed on her, slumped in a forgotten corner, secured by an intricate system of ropes. One thick rope, dangerously taut, ran from her bindings up to a precarious-looking lever on the wall. A single pull, or perhaps the snip of a blade, and she would plummet into the churning machinery below.

"Spike, please," PJ pleaded, his voice cracking, the image of Rose's limp form twisting his gut. "Let her go. Kill me instead. It's not her fault Drusilla died. It was me."

Spike’s eyes narrowed as he moved with a predatory slowness towards a cluster of thick pipes. He yanked a length of heavy chain from a hook, then, with brutal efficiency, bound PJ’s wrists and ankles, securing him to a cold, grimy pillar. The metal bit into his skin, cold and unyielding.

"Oh, I'll kill you, little git," Spike snarled, his voice a low growl of pure malice. He stepped back, admiring his handiwork. "But not yet. First, you're going to watch her die. Make you feel the pain of losing her, just like I have with my Dru." He took a step towards Rose, his eyes burning with vengeful fire. "And then," he promised, his gaze flicking back to PJ, "I'm going to kill you."

PJ’s brain screamed, desperately searching for an opening, a distraction, anything to stop Spike. As Spike moved towards Rose, a desperate thought sparked in PJ's mind. It was a long shot, but he had to try.

"Why the hell do you care about Drusilla so much?" PJ yelled, his voice echoing in the confined space. "She thought you were a bad poet!"

Spike froze, recoiling as if struck. He whirled back to PJ, his eyes unreadable, a mixture of shock and wounded pride.

PJ pressed on, emboldened by the reaction. "I read your poetry, Spike," he confessed, pushing the truth out. "And I think it's great."

Spike stared at him, his gaze unblinking, an inscrutable expression on his face.

"If she loved you," PJ continued, trying to sound genuinely empathetic, "she would have loved everything about you, right? The poetry, everything." He paused, letting that sink in. "But I noticed she's always been more drawn to Angel. It's clear she loved him so much. She loved that he tortured her, that he drove her mad. She wanted to follow in his footsteps and do the same to Max." PJ leaned into his bindings, his voice dropping to a serious, earnest tone. "Spike, listen to me. She doesn't deserve your loyalty. She was never loyal to you."

Spike let out a scream, a raw, tormented sound that tore through the boiler room. "I know!" he howled, his voice cracking, filled with a profound, shattering anguish. "None of them cared about me! All of them... mum, Cecily, and also Dru!" He slammed his fist against a pipe, a hollow clang reverberating through the room. "I tried to be whatever they wanted. I was never enough!"

"I know how it feels," PJ said softly, the words escaping him without thought.

Spike looked at him, his gaze suddenly piercing, filled with a shared, aching vulnerability. "Your girl doesn't fancy you either, then?" he asked, a bitter, knowing edge to his voice.

PJ felt a blush creep up his neck. "Not what I meant," he quickly corrected, shifting uncomfortably. "I meant not being enough. That's me and my dad. Sometimes."

Spike slowly sank to the grimy boiler room floor, his earlier rage dissolving into a fragile vulnerability. PJ’s chained heart eased with a profound sense of relief, the immediate threat momentarily receding.

"Mum was ill," Spike rasped, his voice raw, echoing softly in the mechanical hum of the room. "She was quite close to death's door, you see. After Dru made me the monster I am today, I, in my boundless affection, turned my own mother into a vampire as well." He stared into the middle distance, his eyes wide and vacant, reliving a particularly painful memory. "She said such dreadful things... I shall never quite forget her words... All she desired was to take her leave from me. She claimed she'd had to be nice when she was human, but truly, she merely wished to be rid of me. And my poetry, well, she thought it utter twaddle."

PJ listened, a horrifying understanding dawning on him. He remembered when Goofy had spewed those cruel, cutting words at Max after his transformation. Angel had explained it then: it wasn't Goofy speaking, but the demon inside him, twisting memories, using old pains against Max. The demon inside Spike's mum must have done the exact same thing, dredging up every unspoken resentment, every buried frustration, to wound Spike in the most profound way imaginable. It was a vicious, soul-crushing torment designed to break a new vampire, turning their love into a weapon against them.

Still slumped on the floor, Spike looked up at PJ, his gaze piercing. "You write poetry too?"

PJ shifted uncomfortably against his chains. "Uh, just started dabbling, you know. Rose is the real poet."

"What's the poem you've written?" Spike demanded.

PJ felt a blush creep up his neck, suddenly awkward. He cleared his throat. "Okay, so… it goes like this: 'Your hair is like the sun, so bright, / A star that twinkles in the night. / Your eyes are like the clear blue…'"

"Oh, shut your yap, that's awful!" Spike interrupted, a look of pure disdain on his face. He glared at PJ. "You're no judge of poetry if you've written that. They're all right about mine. Mum, Cecily, and Dru." His voice dropped, a hint of vulnerability returning. "Did Dru really say she hated my poetry?"

"She told Max that," PJ confirmed, quietly.

"She always preferred Angelus," Spike continued, a bitter edge to his tone. "She liked his way better than mine, the torture, the manipulation. I'm not that bloke."

"Good for you," PJ said, genuinely.

Spike suddenly stood, his eyes hardening, the raw grief giving way to a cold, predatory glint. "That's why I'll murder your bird and then you right now."

"No!" PJ blurted out, a desperate thought springing to mind. "Because… because that's torture. And you're not torture-guy. You're kill-them-on-the-spot-guy. I think it's better if you let Rose go and then just killed me. I'm the one who killed your… bird."

Spike took a step towards him, a slow, deliberate movement. "I'm a vampire," he growled, a dangerous glint in his eye. "I should like torture. You see, I'm gonna try it now. See what all the fuss about."

PJ stared at him, fear gripping his chest.

Spike’s eyes swept around the grimy boiler room. His gaze landed on a workbench, littered with tools. He picked up a pair of heavy, rusted pliers, their jaws stained with what looked like old grease. A slow, chilling smile spread across his face as he walked back towards PJ.

"Let’s see now," he murmured, testing the grip of the pliers. "Where shall we begin?"

PJ stared, wide-eyed, his mind screaming in silent protest. He thrashed against the chains, but they held him fast. Spike reached down, seizing PJ’s hand, his grip surprisingly firm. He removed PJ's white glove, then took hold of PJ's thumb. With a deliberate, sickening twist, Spike positioned the rusty pliers, clamping down on PJ’s thumbnail. PJ let out a guttural scream, torn from his throat as the world exploded in white-hot agony. He felt the nail tear, a sharp, searing pain, followed by a wet, ripping sensation as it slowly peeled back from the quick, the blood blooming instantly beneath the mangled flesh. He squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body convulsing against the chains, sweat beading on his forehead as he fought the overwhelming wave of nausea.

Spike watched, his eyes gleaming with a terrible satisfaction. "Ah," he breathed, a look of profound realization on his face. "Now this is rather… invigorating. Why did I never get into this… torture thing before?" He savored the moment, relishing the visible agony on PJ’s face. He moved to the next finger, pliers poised.

PJ gasped, gritting his teeth, fighting to remain conscious through the waves of excruciating pain. The next nail was gone, then another, each one a fresh wave of blinding torment. Through the haze of his agony, PJ forced out words, his voice ragged. "You're… you're enjoying it now," he choked out, droplets of sweat beading on his forehead, "because… because there's something personal in hurting me." He looked at Spike, his eyes defiant despite the tears forming in their corners. "Unlike your other victims. There's no personal attachment with them."

Spike paused, his hand hovering over PJ’s mangled finger. He stared at PJ, his expression shifting from sadistic pleasure to something akin to genuine surprise. A long, silent moment passed between them, broken only by PJ’s ragged breathing and the thrumming of the boilers.

"You know," Spike said slowly, a strange, thoughtful glint in his eyes, "you could be a poet, Slayer. You're very observant."

The searing agony in PJ's fingers was a blinding, all-consuming fire. Each nail ripped away was a fresh explosion of pain, forcing involuntary cries from his lips. Spike worked with deliberate slowness, his eyes gleaming with a twisted fascination as he extracted another nail, blood blossoming vividly against his pale skin.

"Remarkable," Spike mused, holding up the tiny, crimson-tipped crescent. He examined it with detached curiosity, then gazed at PJ, his expression one of profound discovery. "I never truly appreciated the… intricacy of human suffering. Drusilla always said I lacked the artistic touch for torture. Perhaps she simply lacked a proper muse." He leaned closer, his voice a low, chilling whisper. "You, Slayer, are quite the inspiration."

He moved to PJ's other hand, removed his glove, and gripped firmly. "As the Bard himself once penned," Spike began, his voice taking on a morbidly theatrical cadence, "‘I have been here before, / But when or how I cannot tell; / I know the grass beyond the door, / The sweet, the sweet pain that I know so well’." He savored the lines, then punctuated the last word with a sharp, wrenching pull. PJ screamed, the sound echoing off the metal walls, lost amidst the rumbling of the boilers.

"No, no, no," Spike tsked, a mocking frown on his face. "Such a discordant note. We must achieve harmony, Slayer. A symphony of agony." He continued his gruesome work, pulling another nail. "Or perhaps this speaks to you more: ‘To be, or not to be, that is the question: / Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer / The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, / / Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, / And by opposing end them?’ You see, you haven't truly suffered, not yet. This is just the overture."

PJ’s world narrowed to the vise-like grip of the pliers, the searing tears in his eyes, and Spike's chilling monologue. Each word, each agonizing pull, was a fresh torment. He fought against the blackness threatening to consume him, forcing himself to remain conscious, to remain defiant.

Just as Spike raised the pliers for another attack, a loud clang reverberated from the now-open maintenance tunnel door. The heavy steel bar that had secured Max had been wrenched aside.

"Max!" PJ choked out, relief warring with terror.

Max burst into the boiler room, his face pale with alarm. Behind him, Principal Pennypacker marched in, her blonde bun now severely disheveled. Beside her strode Coach Miller, a solid, powerfully built man, his expression one of grim readiness.

Spike, his pliers still poised, surveyed the new arrivals, his face twisting into a furious snarl. "Well, what do we have here, then?" he hissed, his eyes blazing with renewed malice. "A bleedin' rescue party. You think you can stop me, do you?" His gaze fixed on PJ, then swung to Max, a predatory glint entering his eyes, colder than the metal in his hand.

"Oh, I'm going to kill Dru's kitten, alright, but not just yet, little Slayer." He gestured towards Rose with a contemptuous flick of his wrist. "First, you're going to watch her die. Slowly. You'll see the life drain from her eyes." His eyes locked onto Max, a chilling promise in their depths. "And then, after you've watched your love take her last breath, I'm going to kill your mate, right in front of your very eyes, just to twist the knife a bit deeper."

He took a slow, deliberate step closer to PJ, a wicked, possessive gleam replacing the grief in his eyes. "And then, Slayer, once you've truly suffered the agony of losing everything you hold dear, I'm going to take you. I'll keep you, see. My very own pet Slayer. And every single day, I'll remind you of what you lost. I'll torture you, I'll hurt you, and I'll make sure you die a slow, agonizing death. No quick stake for you, mate. You'll wish for it."

A cold, unyielding rage, sharper than any fear, settled deep in PJ's gut as Spike's chilling promises echoed through the boiler room. PJ’s gaze flickered to Max, seeing the desperate urge to confess the truth about Drusilla in his friend's eyes. But PJ knew Max understood the brutal calculus: if Max confessed that it was him who staked Drusilla, Spike would kill PJ on the spot, purely to inflict more pain on Max. That terrifying realization was why Max hesitated.

"Alright, you!" Principal Pennypacker commanded, stepping forward, her voice surprisingly steady, despite the raw threat hanging in the air. "Let the boy go! The police are on their way, and you are surrounded!"

Coach Miller moved with a surprising speed for a man his size, spreading his arms protectively in front of Max, stepping between him and Spike. He nodded at PJ. "Just let that boy go. This isn’t worth it."

Spike scoffed, a sneering, dismissive sound. "Police? Adults? You think this is some schoolyard scuffle?" With a terrifying speed, he grabbed a handful of sharp, discarded metal shards from the workbench. He flung them with deadly accuracy. One whistled past Coach Miller’s ear. Another embedded itself with a sickening thud into Principal Pennypacker’s shoulder. She cried out, clutching the wound, stumbling backward.

Coach Miller, however, didn’t flinch. He continued his advance, his face set in a grim mask. "You won’t hurt any more kids," he growled.

Spike’s eyes blazed with a manic fury. He lunged, faster than any human could react, grabbing Coach Miller by the throat. He slammed the burly man against a pipe, his fangs extending, poised to strike.

"No!" Max screamed, a raw cry tearing from his throat. He threw himself forward, a wild, desperate tackle that caught Spike off guard. The vampire staggered, releasing Coach Miller, who crumpled to the floor, gasping for air.

Spike roared, turning his full, savage attention to Max. He backhanded Max across the face, sending him sprawling.

Spike descended on Max, his blows swift and brutal. Max, still recovering from his earlier ordeal, fought back with desperate ferocity, dodging, weaving, trying to land a hit with the broken chair leg he still clutched.

"Coach! My hands! Free me!" PJ yelled, straining against the chains, the metal biting into his raw wrists and where his nails had been cruelly removed, blood welled and dripped. He watched, helpless, as Spike slammed Max against a hot boiler, the hiss of steam mingling with Max’s grunt of pain.

Still gasping for air, Coach Miller looked at PJ, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. Principal Pennypacker was slumped against a wall, clutching her bleeding shoulder, her face pale. Rose lay unconscious, dangerously close to the whirring machinery.

"Forget my hands. Get Rose out!" PJ screamed, his voice hoarse, his eyes locked on Coach Miller. "Get her out of here! Now!"

Coach Miller seemed to snap out of his daze. He glanced at the unconscious girl, then at the raging battle between Spike and Max. His eyes hardened with resolve. He scrambled towards Rose, his movements surprisingly quick, carefully untangling her from the perilous ropes.

Meanwhile, Spike had Max pinned, his fangs extending, a triumphant snarl on his face. "Time to say goodnight, Kitten!"

PJ roared, a primal sound of pure, unadulterated rage. He twisted, pulled, strained against his chains with a strength born of desperation and hatred. The metal groaned. One of the links, weakened by the earlier struggle, stretched, then snapped with a sharp crack. PJ tore his hands free, ignoring the searing pain from his raw wrists and bleeding fingertips where his nails had been. He ripped his ankles free, stumbling forward, his body screaming in protest.

His gaze darted around the grimy space, searching for anything – anything that could end this. His eyes landed on a rotting wooden crate pushed against a far wall, likely forgotten storage. He lunged for it, tearing off a thick, splintered piece of wood, jagged and pointed enough to be a makeshift stake. He moved with a speed he didn’t know he possessed, fueled by the burning images of Alex and Willa, of Rose’s limp form, of Max’s suffering.

Spike was just about to bite Max’s neck, his fangs glinting.

"Spike!" PJ roared, his voice thick with venom.

The vampire paused, turning his head, his eyes blazing with annoyance. That was all the opening Max needed. With a desperate surge of adrenaline, Max kicked out, catching Spike in the stomach. Spike staggered back, momentarily off balance.

PJ didn’t hesitate. He lunged, the heavy piece of wood held like a spear, all his grief, all his fury, all his desperate need for vengeance channeled into one singular, brutal thrust. He aimed for the heart, the place where the life of the monster resided.

The wood plunged deep into Spike’s chest.

Spike gasped, his eyes widening in shock, then in a horrifying realization. Blood, black and viscous, welled up around the jagged wood. He looked at PJ, a flicker of disbelief, then a flicker of something akin to recognition, in his dying gaze.

"This," PJ snarled, his voice raw, tears streaming down his face, "is for Alex. And this," he twisted the wood deeper, a visceral, sickening crunch, "is for Willa!"

Spike let out a final, gurgling shriek, a sound of pure, agonizing dissolution. His body began to crackle, to burn, to disintegrate from the inside out. He dissolved into a pillar of dust, a fine, grey ash that swirled momentarily in the humid air of the boiler room before settling on the grimy floor, leaving behind only his leather jacket, a silent, empty husk.

PJ stood over the swirling dust, the heavy pipe still clutched in his bleeding hands, where every nail had been cruelly removed. A searing, throbbing pain pulsed from his mangled fingertips, an agony that now mingled with the residual adrenaline coursing through him. His chest heaved, his body trembled uncontrollably. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant hum of the boilers and his own ragged breathing. It was over. Spike was gone.

He looked at Max, who slowly got to his feet, his eyes wide, staring at the pile of dust. Max was bruised, exhausted, but alive.

"He’s… he’s gone," Max whispered, disbelief in his voice.

PJ nodded, unable to speak, the taste of victory bitter on his tongue.

Principal Pennypacker, her shoulder still bleeding, but her eyes sharp with a mixture of fury and relief, hobbled over to PJ and Max. Coach Miller, having safely carried Rose out of the boiler room, returned, his face grim.

"Where did he go?" the coach asked, his voice rough. "Did he escape?"

PJ and Max exchanged a tired stare, unsure how to answer.

"Boys," Ms. Pennypacker began, her voice strained but firm, "what in the world were you thinking? Running off like that? Facing a dangerous man on your own?" She gestured, her gaze falling on PJ’s mangled fingers. "Look at you, PJ! And Max, you were locked in there!" Her voice rose with exasperation, a clear sign of her frayed nerves. "This was incredibly reckless! Incredibly foolish!"

PJ and Max hung their heads, letting the torrent of the lecture wash over them.

Ms. Pennypacker sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire school. She ran a hand through her disheveled hair, then looked at them, her expression softening. "However," she continued, her voice lower now, filled with genuine emotion, "I… I don’t know how to thank you. You saved Rose. You saved the school. And you were there for each other." She managed a weak, grateful smile. "Thank you, boys. Thank you for your… bravery."

As Ms. Pennypacker, with Coach Miller’s support, guided them upstairs, the sounds of the school began to change. The earlier whispers of fear had transformed into a rising murmur of excitement. As they reached the main floor, the hallway was no longer empty. Students, released from their lockdown, lined the corridors, their faces alight with a mixture of awe and admiration. Teachers stood among them, their expressions a mix of relief and pride.

Then, a cheer erupted. A wave of applause swelled, growing louder as PJ and Max walked down the hall. Kids were clapping, some even stomping their feet. A few teachers wiped away tears.

"We saw it all, boys!" Mr. Henderson, the science teacher, called out, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Caught the whole fight in the boiler room on the safety cameras! Incredible!"

PJ and Max walked, side by side, through the cheering throng. The pain in PJ’s hands, the aches in his body, the lingering horror of the past few hours, it all faded into the background, replaced by a warmth that spread through his chest. For once, they weren’t the weird kids, the outcasts, the ones who saw things no one else did. They were heroes. They were finally getting the recognition and respect they’d always desired for something the whole school had witnessed. The cheers echoed in the halls, a triumphant anthem.

Chapter Text

The graveyard was alive with the sounds of combat. Max ducked under a sweeping claw, the wind of its passage ruffling his hair. He spun, driving his stake into the vampire's shoulder. The creature hissed, but it was a solid hit, enough to make him recoil. PJ, meanwhile, was similarly engaged with another vampire among the headstones, the sounds of their struggle blending with Max's own.

Max moved with a newfound confidence. The vampire lunged again, his eyes burning with malice. Max feinted left, drawing the attack, then rolled right, aiming for his exposed side. He was about to deliver a decisive blow when the vampire landed a brutal kick to his chest.

Max gasped, the air knocked from his lungs, and he fell backward, landing hard on his spine amidst a scattering of loose stones. The vampire bounced, his eyes fixed on Max's throat, preparing for the kill.

Not today, pal. Max saw a broken headstone nearby, its jagged edge pointing skyward. If he could just roll, use the vampire's momentum against it… he'd bait him into lunging, then shift, impaling him on the stone. It was a risky, brilliant maneuver. He began to shift his weight, his muscles tensing, preparing for the precise moment.

But before he could execute his plan, something plunged into the vampire above him. The creature shrieked, a high-pitched, agonizing sound, and then, with a violent shudder, exploded into a cloud of dust and ash.

PJ stood over him, dusting off his jeans, a faint cloud of vampire residue clinging to his clothes.

"PJ," Max said in annoyance, pushing himself up.

PJ looked down at him, a smug grin on his face. "You're welcome, buddy."

Max glared. "I was handling it."

PJ patted his shoulder, a gesture that made Max's blood boil. "It's okay. I've more experience slaying vampires on my own."

Max's jaw tightened. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, indignation flaring.

PJ shrugged. "I just meant that after your dad died and when you were at the factory, I had to go slaying solo. And I managed to stake vampires on my own. That's all."

"Hey," Max shot back, a fresh wave of resentment coloring his tone. "I can go on vamp-slaying missions solo!"

"Why would you?" PJ asked, a genuine question in his voice.

Max grabbed PJ's ungloved hand, revealing his bandaged fingertips, each one carefully wrapped in sterile gauze and medical tape. The raw skin where his nails had been brutally plucked was starkly visible at the edges of the dressings. "Maybe you should take some rest while I do the job. I know about the nightmares you have at night."

PJ snatched his hand back, wincing slightly. "Max, I'm fine. As I've proven just now, I can still stake two vampires in one night. Fingernails or not."

"Still, you should…" Max began, frustrated, but PJ shushed him, holding up a hand.

"Shhh. Did you hear that?"

Max listened, straining his ears. A faint rustle, a soft scrape of stone, somewhere in the deeper shadows of the graveyard.

"I think we have another vampire to slay," PJ whispered, already adjusting his grip on his stake.

Max held up his hands. "Leave this one to me." He crept through the dense shadows of the cemetery, moving like a phantom among the tombstones. His eyes, now sharper in the gloom, caught sight of a tall, dark figure standing motionless near a crumbling mausoleum. Another vampire. PJ had been right.

He lunged, stake held ready. But as he closed the distance, something about the figure, a familiar stillness, a particular set to the shoulders, made him hesitate, just a fraction of a second too late to stop his momentum completely. He halted inches from the figure, his stake nearly touching its chest.

"Angel!" Max hissed, lowering his weapon, a wave of shock and disbelief washing over him. He spun to PJ, who was approaching cautiously. "PJ, you almost made me stake Angel!"

PJ shrugged, unapologetic. "But I was right about the vampire part," he countered, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

Angel simply regarded them, his expression unreadable, a silent sentinel in the shadowy graveyard.

"Hey, Angel, you're back," Max said, a flicker of genuine relief in his voice.

Angel nodded.

"So, Debbie and Williams managed to save you?" PJ asked, relief evident in his tone as well.

Angel nodded again, his gaze distant. "We just arrived at your house." He turned his piercing eyes on PJ. "Your mom told us you two were in the cemetery."

"What was it like in that Initiative base?" Max pressed on, his curiosity overriding the lingering tension.

Angel's face remained impassive, but a weariness touched his eyes. "I was trapped in a cell. Taken for examinations and experiments." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, yet the words painted a disturbing picture.

"Did they put a chip in your head too?" PJ extended an arm. "Pinch me."

Angel reached out and gave PJ's arm a firm pinch.

PJ yelped.

Angel remained impassive.

"I guess not," PJ commented with a grimace, rubbing his arm.

Max looked at Angel, hesitant. "That demon… the one who grants souls… did you find him?"

Angel's gaze was steady, unwavering, as he met Max's anxious eyes. "I did," he replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

Max's face lit up with profound happiness. "Really? So Dad can get back his soul?"

Angel's expression remained stoic. "It's not as simple as that," he explained. "Your dad must go through a series of Demon Trials, proving his worth to the demon Lloyd."

PJ scoffed. "I doubt VampGoof would want to do that. All he cares about is food and TV." He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "He's kinda turning into my dad."

"Leave my dad to me," Max declared. "I'll convince him. Now where's that demon?"

"Africa," Angel stated, his voice flat.

"Oh," Max said.

~*~*~*~*~

"Forget it, Max, there's no way I'm allowing you to go to Africa," Peg said, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument.

"But Mrs. P," Max begged, grabbing the hem of Peg's blouse. "I have to go with my dad! I'm the only one he listens to. Angel won't be able to handle him."

Peg scowled. "Cesar Millan won't be able to handle your dad."

"See?" Max insisted, seizing on her words. "I must go."

Peg shook her head, prying her blouse from Max's desperate clutch, and pivoted towards the kitchen. Max latched onto her leg with a tenacity usually reserved for toddlers avoiding bedtime. She ended up inadvertently skidding him across the linoleum, a human mop trailing behind her. The rest of the family - Pete, PJ, Pistol, Angel, Debbie, and Williams - formed a silent, curious, and unhelpful audience.

Peg finally reached the kitchen counter and, with a grunt of effort, managed to peel Max off her leg like a stubborn limpet, setting him upright on his own two feet. "Maxie-kins, what about your aunt? If it gets to her that you're in Africa instead of going to school…" Her voice trailed off, the unspoken threat of New Jersey hanging heavy in the air.

"But Mrs. P," Max pleaded, stepping closer, his voice full of desperate urgency. "Dad listens to me. I can talk him down from a blood rage, I can convince him not to eat the mailman. Nobody else can connect with him like I can. If I don't go, he'll just end up causing more trouble, or worse, he'll fail these trials and be a soulless jerk forever! Don't you want him to be okay?"

Peg watched him, her expression softening with understanding, but her resolve remained unyielding. "I understand, sweetie. I really do. And I know how much you care about your dad. But Africa is too far away, and it's not safe for an eleven-year-old, even one who's faced down vampires." She shook her head, her gaze firm. "My answer is still no."

Max opened his mouth, but no words came. His shoulders slumped, and he slowly turned away, defeated.

The audience outside the kitchen looked at him expectantly when he walked out. He shook his head no. They nodded solemnly. Debbie walked to him and gave him a side hug. "It'll work out," she said. "We just have to convince your dad."

"Yep, that's about as easy as teaching a dog algebra," PJ commented.

~*~*~*~*~

"Dad," Max began, his voice firm, "we need to talk about Africa."

Goofy grunted, sprawled on his mattress in front of the flickering TV in the basement, a half-eaten bag of pig's blood chips beside him. "Africa? What in tarnation for? Ain't nothin' but sand and lions out there. And I ain't much for sand in my fangs."

Max shook his head at his dad's baffling ignorance. "Dad, Africa is a whole continent with countries! There's Egypt and Morocco and…" Max paused, racking his brain for more examples. "Point is, this demon could be in a fancy hotel in Egypt with tickets to see the pyramids!"

Goofy took another slow bite of his chips. "I bet it's in a cave."

"That's ignorant, Dad," Max retorted, exasperated. He turned to Angel, who stood silently nearby. "Where is that demon in Africa, exactly?"

Angel's expression remained neutral. "A cave."

Goofy cackled, a triumphant "Ha!" filling the basement.

Max rolled his eyes at his dad's self-satisfaction. "The point is, Dad, there are Demon Trials. To get your soul back. So you can be... you again."

Goofy finally turned, his eyes wide with mock horror. "My soul? Why would I want one of them bothersome things back? All that angst and moping around. You seen Tall, Dark and Hunk over there? He walks around looking like a thundercloud just rolled into town. Always brooding, always sighing dramatically."

"He's not 'brooding,' Dad, he's got centuries of guilt!" Max argued, throwing his hands up. "And you need your soul! You can't just be... this!" He gestured vaguely at the mattress, the chips, the TV.

Goofy took a long, exaggerated gulp of pig's blood. "This here is the good life! No more bills, no more rush hour, no more Pete taking advantage of me. I can eat all the pig's blood I want, watch all the reruns I please, and nobody tells me to brush my teeth! Who needs a stinking soul when you got cable and a bottomless bag of chips?" He patted his distended belly. "And ain't nobody gonna tell me what's good for my unlife now, not some fancy-pants demon, and certainly not some angsty, brooding Dracula wannabe."

"Dad, think about it!" Max pleaded, desperation creeping into his voice. "Don't you miss being able to go out in the sun? Don't you miss not wanting to bite people?"

"He still won't be going out in the sun," Angel said, giving Max a knowing look.

Right. Max thought. He must have subconsciously associated the soul with his dad becoming human again. If his dad became human, there would be no adoption, he wouldn't have to move to New Jersey, and he could still live in his house and be with PJ. And best of all, he'd still get his dad back.

"You got this all topsy-turvy." Goofy scoffed, shaking his head. "Getting a soul ain't gonna make me sparkle in the daylight, now is it? Still a vampire. The sun still turns me to toast. And as for the biting, well, a fella's gotta eat, ain't he?" He patted his belly. "Besides, these Demon Trials sound like a whole lot of fuss for something I ain't even sure I want. All that 'proving your worth' business. I'm already worthy! Why, just yesterday I cooked a five-course meal entirely out of stale bread and blood! Took me a whole minute!" He beamed, clearly proud of this non-sequitur. "No, sir. This here's my paradise. You go on and be all heroic and soul-searching. I'm gonna watch some infomercials and enjoy my retirement."

Max stared at his dad, exasperated. How could he argue with that logic? It was undeniably Goofy, yet terrifyingly vampire.

He trudged up the basement stairs, Angel silently behind him. He pushed open the living room door and found a strange tableau. Williams, Debbie, and PJ were huddled around the coffee table, which was covered with an assortment of peculiar items: dried herbs, a small, ornate bowl, and what looked suspiciously like a shrunken head. They were murmuring intently, their heads close together.

"What are you guys doing?" Max asked, his voice still tinged with the lingering annoyance from his conversation with his uncooperative dad.

PJ looked up, his face smudged with something green. "It's a locating spell," he explained, carefully sprinkling a pinch of shimmering dust into the bowl.

Williams adjusted his monocle. "Indeed. I was fortunate enough to gather the necessary ingredients from a rather quaint magic shop in Sunnydale. With these, we shall finally be able to locate Bayanka."

Debbie sighed wistfully, her gaze fixed on the swirling contents of the bowl. "I just wish we can find her. It's been almost a month without my Slayer powers."

A month? That's it! Max pondered. It felt like a lifetime.

Williams cleared his throat, then began to chant, speaking in an ancient language that hummed with unseen power. He moved his hands over the bowl, the herbs within beginning to smoke, a thin, ethereal mist rising. The shrunken head seemed to pulse faintly. The air in the room grew heavy, crackling with an unseen energy. The spell was intricate, a weaving of intent and arcane knowledge. Williams recited verses that spoke of distant lands and hidden pathways, of tracking the essence of a powerful spirit across vast distances. He poured a shimmering liquid from a small vial, and as it hit the smoking herbs, a faint, glowing image began to form in the mist above the bowl. It swirled, coalesced, then solidified into a hazy, swirling map.

Slowly, a distinct continent appeared in the glowing mist: Africa. A small, pulsing dot shimmered somewhere deep within its vast expanse.

Williams narrowed his eyes at the location. "She's in Namibia."

Debbie's face broke into a wide grin. "It's a sky trip for all of us!"

Max's heart leaped. Debbie needed him and PJ around to get back her Slayer powers. This was it. This was his chance to go with his dad. He was going to Africa.

~*~*~*~*~

Max sat with PJ and Pistol on the couch, observing as the adults tried to convince Peg to let Max and PJ fly to Namibia with them.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Williams," Peg declared, her voice resonating with an unshakeable finality. "There is absolutely no way PJ and Max are traveling halfway across the world to Namibia. It's out of the question." Her arms were crossed, her jaw set.

Williams adjusted his spectacles. "Mrs. Pete, I assure you, this journey is of paramount importance. Once Debbie regains her full Slayer capabilities from Bayanka, PJ and Max will revert to being… well, normal children. No more nightly dangers, no more facing down creatures of the underworld. They will be free from this burden."

"But what about school?" Peg shot back, her voice rising. "What about Max's aunt? If it gets back to her that he's gallivanting in Africa instead of attending classes, she'll have him shipped to New Jersey faster than you can say 'suburban nightmare'!"

Debbie stepped forward. "I'll handle my mom, Mrs. Pete. Trust me. As for school, you can just forge a note saying they're visiting a sick relative who is undergoing extreme llama therapy in the Andes.'"

Peg's eyes narrowed. "I'm a real estate agent. My job is selling houses, not writing fake medical excuses!"

"Exactly!" Debbie countered, completely undeterred. "You know how to make things sound convincing! You sell properties people don't even want! Surely, a little note about a sick cousin in a faraway land is child's play for you!"

Pete, who had been listening with a growing frown, finally interjected. "And who, pray tell, is going to pay for these plane tickets? Africa ain't exactly a hop, skip, and a jump, you know." His voice was filled with his usual financial pragmatism.

Williams merely offered a serene smile. "I will, of course." He gestured vaguely. "My family is… rather well-resourced."

A slow grin spread across Pete's face, transforming his earlier skepticism into sudden enthusiasm. "Well, in that case, Peg-ums," he said, clapping his hands together, "I say you let them go! PJ and Max, they've proved themselves! Killing Spike and Drusilla respectfully, on their own! They're men now, Sugar-Plum! Young men!"

"They're still little kids, Peter!" Peg retorted, her voice incredulous.

"No, they're not!" Pete insisted, puffing out his chest. "Next year they'll be seventh graders! That's practically adulthood!"

PJ looked at his mom. "Dad's got a point, Mom. We're not the same kids we were a month ago." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "The only way for us to be normal kids again is to go. If we don't, we're stuck with these deadly nightly shifts until one of us gets killed."

"Or both of us," Max said.

Peg looked from one boy to the other, then to Pete's beaming, suddenly supportive grin, and finally to Williams's calm, expectant demeanor. She let out a long, defeated sigh, her shoulders slumping.

"Fine," she conceded, the word barely a whisper. "But you call me every single day. And no foolish risks. You hear me?"

"Yes!" Max and PJ high-fived.

"Excellent!" Williams declared, already striding towards the phone. "I shall arrange the tickets immediately. Namibia, here we come!"

~*~*~*~*~*~

Max stood in the bustling airport terminal, the harsh overhead lights casting long shadows across the polished floor. It was late, Williams having booked a red-eye flight for Angel's and Goofy's sakes. The air hummed with the quiet chaos of departing travelers, but Max's attention was fixed on PJ's family.

They were saying their goodbyes. Peg held PJ in a tight embrace, pressing kisses to his head. Pete clapped PJ on the shoulder, offering last-minute advice. Pistol held up a small camera, urging him to capture every animal in Africa. Max watched them, a wistful ache in his chest, a longing for something he no longer had.

Beside him, Goofy was cursing under his breath.

Max raised an eyebrow at him.

"This is barbaric!" Goofy complained. "My pig's blood is in the luggage! What's a fella supposed to do on a long flight without his refreshments?"

Max rolled his eyes.

Just then, two hands reached out, pulling Max into a gentle hug. He looked up, surprised, into the kind, tired eyes of Mrs. P. She smiled down at him, her expression warm and genuinely concerned. "Be careful, Maxie-kins," she murmured, kissing his cheek.

Max felt a flush creep up his cheeks, warmth spreading through his chest. He hugged her back, burying his face for a moment in her shoulder. "I will. Thanks, Mrs. P."

"They've announced our flight!" Williams called out, his voice cutting through the soft moment. "Let's go!"

~*~*~*~*~

Max stood with PJ and Goofy in the bustling baggage claim area of Hosea Kutako International Airport. The air, surprisingly cool after the long flight, hummed with the rumble of distant planes and the chatter of arriving passengers. Max watched the conveyor belt with a growing impatience, eager to finally get out of the airport.

"There!" Max exclaimed, pointing as a familiar black rolling spinner luggage emerged. He pulled it off the belt; it was his, neatly packed alongside Debbie's clothes in one bag. Next, PJ retrieved his own, a bigger rolling spinner that seemed to hold both his belongings and Williams's more compact essentials.

Then, a monstrously large, dark green duffel bag appeared, looking suspiciously lumpy. Max groaned. "That's gotta be yours, Pop," he muttered, grabbing the strap. He heaved it off the belt, grunting with the effort. It was incredibly heavy, feeling like it was packed with rocks. "What did you put in it?"

Goofy beamed, oblivious to Max's struggle. "Oh, just my finest selection of pig's blood! And plenty of snacks! A fella can't be caught unprepared on a journey, especially if there ain't no good eats in them caves!"

Max glared at the duffel bag, then at his dad, who looked entirely too pleased with his culinary foresight. He tried to maneuver the bag onto the luggage cart, but its sheer weight and awkward shape made it difficult.

"Don't sweat it, bud," PJ said, stepping forward. With an easy, fluid motion, he took the heavy duffel bag from Max's struggling grasp. He effortlessly lifted it, placing it on top of their two other bags on the luggage cart. Then, with a casual push, he set the whole loaded luggage cart in motion.

Max stared, a fresh wave of annoyance washing over him. He followed resentfully with his dad, trailing behind PJ and the apparently light luggage cart.

Outside Hosea Kutako International Airport, the Namibian sun had already begun its climb, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink. Williams stood beside a truly colossal RV, its polished chrome glinting in the burgeoning light. It was less a vehicle and more a land yacht, clearly capable of traversing vast distances in luxurious comfort.

"Angel! Goofy! Inside, now!" Debbie commanded, her voice urgent as she hustled the two vampires towards the RV's darkened interior. She held up thick, dark blankets, ready to cocoon them from the sun's lethal rays. Angel simply glided in. Goofy lumbered after him.

At the back of the RV, PJ was efficiently stowing their luggage. He effortlessly lifted his rolling spinner and slid it into a deep compartment. Max reached for his and Debbie's black rolling spinner, but before his fingers could even grasp the handle, PJ smoothly intercepted it, taking it from his grasp.

"I got it, Max," he said, effortlessly placing it alongside the others.

Max stared, his face burning, watching PJ move with an irritating ease that seemed to mock his own perceived uselessness.

Inside the colossal RV, Williams navigated the Namibian roads with practiced ease. Debbie sat beside him in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing back into the spacious living area. It was less a vehicle and more a mobile apartment, complete with plush seating and a small kitchenette.

In the back, Goofy had already managed to open his monstrous duffel bag, extracting a large, sealed container of pig's blood. He sat on one of the comfortable couches, dipping potato chips into the crimson liquid with gusto, a look of pure bliss on his face. Next to him, Angel sat stiffly, his expression a mixture of profound disgust and weary resignation.

PJ leaned over to Max, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well, at least we know what the 'fine dining' experience is like in the vampire world, huh? Who needs a five-star restaurant when you've got blood and chips?"

Max sulked. "Yeah, well, at least he's not a show-off."

"What's your problem?" PJ asked, his eyes narrowed.

Max glared back. "How about you treating me like some damsel in distress?"

"Like what?" PJ retorted, crossing his arms.

"Like not letting me put the bag in!" Max shot back, jabbing a finger towards the back of the RV.

"It looked too heavy for you," PJ stated, simply.

Max scoffed, indignation rising. "You're acting like you're Captain America! You're my age, and we both have the same amount of Slayer strength! I could've put the duffle bag on the luggage cart."

"Max, it looked like you were struggling," PJ insisted, his tone unwavering.

Max groaned, burying his face in his hands. "You always do this, PJ!"

"Do what?" PJ prompted, a hint of genuine confusion on his face.

Max dropped his hands, his frustration boiling over. "Trying to save me! Treating me like I'm going to break or something! Stop being my bodyguard!"

"Bodyguard?" PJ repeated, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. "Max, where's this coming from?"

"I don't know, PJ!" Max yelled, throwing his arms wide. "The fact that you staked my vampire that night, or the fact that you lied to Spike about you killing Drusilla! Maybe instead of patrolling solo, you could've woken me up 'cause I'm a slayer too."

"You were grieving, man. Your dad just died."

Max glared at him, his fists clenched. "Oh, so you could go solo, but not me? Like when you had to babysit Pistol. I was perfectly capable of vamp-hunting by myself, but no, Max can't go on his own. He might get into trouble."

"Well, you did. Spike captured you that night, didn't he?" PJ's face hardened, anger flickering in his eyes. "Maybe you should stop attracting trouble like a magnet to a junkyard."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Max roared.

"Ever since we met, you always pull these reckless schemes!" PJ's voice rose, cutting through the hum of the RV. "Even though I keep warning you it'll end in disaster, you always end up in trouble! You don't think, Max, and you don't even listen to me! Like when Drusilla hypnotized you, I told you not to look in her eyes! You being her pet is entirely your fault!"

"My fault?!" Max exclaimed, aghast.

"Yes!" PJ spat, pointing a finger at him. "And when you dragged me to patrol even though we didn't see a single vampire, and then Drusilla kidnapped Pistol! Drusilla giving you a permanent scar is your fault too!"

"Rose being in danger was your fault, PJ!" Max screamed back. "You shouldn't have lied to Spike and said you killed Drusilla!"

"If I didn't do that, he would have killed you!" PJ retorted, his voice rising to a furious pitch.

"This is the thing!" Max yelled, his hands balled into fists. "I don't need you to protect me! I could have handled Spike's wrath myself!"

PJ scoffed. "Right. Like you handled being Drusilla's pet."

"I killed her, didn't I?!" Max bellowed, his face red with rage.

"You couldn't have killed her without your dad coming for your rescue!" PJ taunted, his voice dripping with condescension. "Face it, Max, you always need someone to save your butt!"

Debbie, who had been watching the exchange with growing alarm, finally interrupted. "Okay, okay, let's pipe it down! Both of you!"

Goofy, however, shushed her, a wide, blood-stained grin on his face. "Don't stop them. This is entertaining." He dipped a chip into his blood container, brought it to his mouth, and offered the blood container to a silently staring Angel. "Blood dip?"

Max ignored them all, his fury focused solely on PJ. "Spike would have plucked out your fingers if I didn't save you, Peej!"

"You mean if the coach didn't get you out of the maintenance closet?" PJ countered, his eyes glinting. "How many times were you locked in closets, Max? Five, six times?"

From the driver's seat, Williams's voice boomed, cutting through the volatile argument. "That's enough! Debbie, switch places with PJ. PJ, come sit next to me."

Max huffed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He turned his back on the simmering tension in the RV, choosing instead to stare out the window at the passing blur of woods. Debbie slid into the seat beside him, offering a silent, comforting presence. Max glanced across the living area, his eyes narrowing as he caught PJ's furious glare from the passenger seat. Max switched his gaze back to the trees, his own anger still a hot, burning coal in his stomach. A flash of movement in the undergrowth caught his eye, a lean, brown hyena. Great, Max thought, glaring at the animal as it vanished into the foliage. Just what I needed. Another ungainly, laughing pest, just like PJ.

~*~*~*~*~

They stepped into the hotel room. It was a spacious suite, featuring a comfortable living room area with a TV and two separate bedrooms, one of them with its own bathroom.

Before anyone could even set down a bag, Goofy launched himself onto the plush couch in front of the television, sprawling out with a contented sigh. "Well, this here's where I'll be getting my beauty sleep!"

Williams surveyed the room. "Right. We've only got four beds in the two rooms, so I figured Goofy will take the couch in the living room, and perhaps Max and PJ will share a bed."

Max's head snapped up. "I'm not sharing a bed with a pretentious know-it-all!" he retorted, glaring at PJ.

PJ glared right back, his arms crossing over his chest. "Oh, please. Not that I wanna share a bed with a walking disaster zone."

Debbie stepped in smoothly. "Ooookay, how about I share a bed with Max?"

Max threw his hands up in exasperation. "Why am I the one who always has to share a bed with anyone?!"

Debbie sighed. "Not trying to be mean, Max, but you're the smallest one here."

"Right! 'Cause PJ's fat!" Max yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at his friend.

PJ gasped, his eyes widening in outrage. "That's low, even for you, dude-in-peril!"

"Who are you calling dude-in-peril?!" Max roared, stepping forward.

Williams, who had been rubbing the bridge of his nose, finally exploded. "Enough, please! That's precisely why I told my mother I don't care for children!"

~*~*~*~*~

Max lay rigidly beside Debbie in the hotel room bed, the soft, early morning light barely seeping through the heavy curtains. Angel lay silently in the adjacent bed. They were to sleep through the day, making their move under the cloak of night. This took him back to the factory, to being a captive of Spike and Drusilla. He remembered being forced to sleep in a cramped space beneath the table, the shame of being treated like an animal, and the resentment that he'd done it without a fight. His teeth gritted. It was PJ who had told him to submit, to avoid heroics, to just do what they said.

Debbie broke through his dark thoughts. "Max, are you okay? You're shaking."

"I'm fine," he grumbled.

Debbie shifted slightly. "I hope you and PJ make up soon," she whispered. "You guys need to be on the same page if we want to defeat Bayanka. You should work together."

"PJ thinks I'm a wuss," Max mumbled, the words heavy with resentment.

"He didn't say that," Debbie countered gently.

"I'm happy to go to New Jersey and leave his fat butt behind!" Max retorted, his voice sharp with anger.

"You don't mean that, Max," Debbie said, her voice soft but firm.

"I do!"

"C'mon," Debbie persisted, "PJ is the only friend you've ever had. You never had a friend before him."

"That's because no one wants to hang out with the trailer boy," he hissed, remembering the old days living in that tiny trailer. "But your mom's house is huge, and I'm sure she'd get me all these expensive clothes and games, and everyone would want to be friends with me."

"PJ wants to be your friend without all those things," Debbie said, her voice unwavering. "What does that tell you?"

"I hate him," Max seethed.

"No, you don't," Debbie contradicted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Now let's get some sleep. I'm sure you'll feel better after a long nap and a good meal."

~*~*~*~*~

Max sat on the edge of an armchair in the living room with a slice of pizza, watching the others. Goofy had already opened his container of pig's blood. He'd taken a slice of pepperoni pizza and, with a flourish that suggested he was presenting a gourmet delicacy, slathered it liberally with the crimson liquid. No one else, unsurprisingly, reached for a slice from Goofy's personal blood-stained pie.

Angel, meanwhile, sat stiffly on a separate couch, nursing a plain bag of blood. Goofy leaned over. "C'mon now, vamp-partner, you just gotta try it! It's like a flavor explosion! That savory pepperoni, that tangy tomato, the rich, earthy blood… why, it's a whole dang symphony in your mouth!" Angel simply regarded him with a look of profound, unmoving disgust. Max knew Angel only drank human blood, and usually heated it in a microwave, a luxury this hotel room lacked.

Max reached for a plain slice of pepperoni at the same time PJ did. Their fingers brushed. They froze, eyes locking in a silent, charged stare. Then, with a sigh, PJ withdrew his hand. Max felt a familiar surge of annoyance. Typical PJ, he thought, always the martyr, always the one to 'let' me have things.

"You take it, PJ," Max grumbled, pulling his hand back completely.

PJ shrugged, reaching for a different slice. "It's okay, Max. There's plenty more."

Williams cleared his throat loudly, interrupting what everyone must have feared was another impending squabble. "Alright, everyone," he announced. "We have two primary objectives here. First, bring Goofy's soul back."

"I didn't consent to that!" Goofy yelled, his mouth full of blood-pizza, a stream of crimson dribbling down his chin.

Williams continued as if he hadn't heard a word. "And the second is capturing Bayanka and reversing her spell, thus restoring Debbie's full Slayer capabilities." He looked at Angel. "We're going to start with the Goofy mission, as Angel knows precisely which cave houses the demon Lloyd."

Angel gave a curt nod.

Max looked at his dad. Goofy was now gnawing on the crust of his blood-soaked pizza, making loud, smacking noises, his eyes glazed over with simple contentment. He looked less like a fearsome vampire and more like a happy, slightly messy toddler. Max tried not to raise his expectations too high. A soul, if his dad managed to get one, would only mean having a "good" vampire, one who wouldn't cause public disturbances. It wouldn't mean bringing his human dad back. Still, maybe with the soul, his dad would actually act like his dad again. Maybe.

~*~*~*~*~

The RV rumbled to a halt, kicking up a cloud of ochre dust. Outside, the landscape was ancient rock formations rising like petrified giants under the vast African sky. Angel led the way with Max, PJ, Debbie, and Williams following. Goofy shuffled behind them, grumbling every step of the way.

The cave mouth loomed before them. Inside, the darkness deepened, broken only by the flickering glow of Williams's lantern. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and something ancient and powerful. Strange, crude paintings adorned the walls, depicting figures in various states of anguish, but Goofy just squinted at them. "Looks like something Pete drew after eating too many hot dogs," he drawled, unimpressed.

They delved deeper into the cave, Angel's form a silent, guiding shadow. Behind him came Debbie, then Williams, then PJ, and finally Max, who was doing his best to drag his reluctant dad along. The further they went, the more the natural cave twisted and turned, the floor becoming uneven.

Ahead, a large, steep stone incline appeared, dropping sharply into deeper gloom. Angel, Debbie, and Williams navigated it with practiced ease. PJ followed, his descent a bit more difficult due to his shorter stature, accepting Debbie's help with grace.

Max peered over the edge. It was a long way down. He watched, slightly annoyed, as his dad, with his unnaturally long limbs, descended with surprising agility, almost floating down the steep incline. Max extended a leg, feeling for a foothold, when suddenly, a hand reached out, offering help. Max looked up to see PJ's hand extended towards him. Max slapped it away with a sharp retort. "I can do it myself!" he muttered. The words were barely out of his mouth before his foot slipped on the slick rock. He yelped, tumbling backward, landing hard on his spine with a painful thud.

"Are you okay, Max?" Debbie's concerned voice floated up from below.

"Great, just great," he mumbled, rubbing his aching back. His gaze met PJ's, who was now at the bottom of the incline. PJ simply rolled his eyes at him in exasperation.

They continued deeper, the narrow passage eventually widening into a vast, cavernous opening. The air here was even heavier, charged with an undeniable, ancient power. In the center of the chamber, a formless shadow writhed, punctuated by two piercing, green glowing eyes.

"Well, looky here," Goofy drawled, completely unfazed, nudging Max. "Found the fella that runs this here gift shop. Hope he's got some decent souvenirs. Maybe a 'My folks went to Africa and all I got was this lousy soul' T-shirt."

A deep, gravelly voice echoed from the impenetrable gloom ahead. "You seek me, vampire?"

Angel stepped forward, his posture rigid. "We seek the demon Lloyd. We understand you hold the key to restoring a soul."

The green, glowing eyes of Lloyd materialized fully in the darkness, unblinking and ancient. "Indeed. I can see you already have yours."

"It isn't meant for me," Angel replied, then gestured towards Goofy, who grunted in displeasure.

"This… creature," Lloyd rumbled, his gaze sweeping over Goofy, who was meticulously picking a piece of lint off his pajama pants, "shows no desire for such a gift. Only those who truly yearn for the burden of conscience may receive it."

Goofy snorted. "Burden's right. Listen here, ugly, I ain't asking for no soul. My boy here just dragged me on this wild goose chase. I'm perfectly happy with my unlife. I can watch all the Northern Exposure reruns I want without feeling guilty 'bout not working."

Lloyd's glowing eyes narrowed, unimpressed by Goofy's gruff grumbling. "Such indifference makes a mockery of the trials. The path to a soul demands profound yearning, a willingness to confront the darkness within, to yearn for the light. Your existence, vampire, is a void. You must prove you desire to fill it."

Max held his dad's hand, desperate. "Dad, please! Think about all the new pig's blood recipes we could try if you were… if you were better! We could invent the 'Bloody Mary-Go-Round'! And there's that new show, Melrose Place, everyone's talking about! You haven't even started it!"

He heard Williams mutter to PJ, "This is a waste of time. If he doesn't desire a soul, there's no point."

PJ whispered back, his voice tight. "This vampire is not really Goofy. The real Goofy would do anything for Max."

Max grabbed both his dad's hands and looked up at him, hoping to unleash the most mesmerizing puppy-dog eyes that had always worked wonders. "Please, Dad," he begged, his voice cracking slightly. "It's… it's not just about the shows or the food. Don't you miss just… feeling things the right way? Don't you miss being Dad?"

Goofy looked away, picking at his nails. "I'm doing just fine."

"No, you're not!" Max insisted, his voice raw with a sudden, overwhelming vulnerability. "You're not! And I... I miss you, Dad. The real you. The one who'd force me to listen to my ancestors' stories, who'd laugh at my jokes, who'd..." Max swallowed hard, fighting back tears. "Who'd do anything for me, no matter how difficult or dangerous, not just eat blood-n-chips and ignore the world." He met Goofy's eyes, letting all his hurt and longing pour out. "I just want my dad back."

Goofy, who had been listening with a strange, unblinking stillness, shifted. A flicker of something almost human crossed his face. He looked from Max's tear-filled eyes to the floor, then back at Max. A long, silent moment stretched between them.

Finally, Goofy let out a deep, defeated sigh, the sound strangely mournful. "Alright," he mumbled, his voice quieter than before. "Alright. If it means that much to ya. If it means you ain't gonna look at me like that no more. What do I gotta do for this… this soul thing?"

Goofy's reluctant agreement hung in the air, a fragile truce against his ingrained vampiric apathy. Lloyd, the demon, seemed to sense the shift, his glowing green eyes fixing on Goofy. Max held his breath, a knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. This was it.

"You have chosen, vampire," Lloyd's voice rumbled, echoing through the cavern. "The trials are set. Prove your yearning for a soul."

Goofy grumbled, shifting his weight. "Yearning, shmearning. Let's just get this over with so I can get back to my shows. Is there a vending machine around here? All this talking's made me thirsty for somethin' more than cave dust."

Angel stepped forward, a grim look on his face. "He means business. These trials are designed to test the limits of your being."

"Everyone step away to that raised ledge, only the vampire undergoing the trials remains at the center," the demon said. Max felt Debbie's hands on his shoulders, guiding him to where Williams, Angel, and PJ were heading. He glanced over his shoulder at his dad, standing alone in the middle of the cave's vast expanse, and hoped he wouldn't end up a pile of dust.

Max stood next to PJ at the front, while the adults gathered behind them. PJ threw him a reassuring smile, one Max was too nervous to return. His gaze landed on his dad, fear overwhelming all his senses.

Suddenly, the far end of the cavern shimmered, the shadows coalescing into a hulking, muscular figure. It was human in form, but impossibly large, its skin like rough stone. As it stepped into the faint light, its hands burst into crackling, orange flame. The heat rippled through the cave, making Max recoil.

"Well, howdy there, big fella!" Goofy drawled, seemingly unfazed. "You look like you could use a good barbecue! Got any ribs cooking on those fiery mitts?" He started to pat his pockets, as if searching for a fork.

Max's heart pounded. PJ, standing next to him, shifted uncomfortably.

"The first trial," Lloyd announced, his voice reverberating, "is one of strength. To the death."

Goofy blinked. "Death? Oh, come on now. Can't we just arm wrestle? I'm pretty good at that when I ain't busy channel-surfing."

The flaming giant ignored him, letting out a guttural roar and charging. Max braced himself, expecting Goofy to be obliterated. But Goofy, with a surprising burst of clumsiness, tripped over his own feet, sprawling onto his back just as the giant swung a flaming fist where his head had been. The fist smashed into the cave wall, sending shards of rock flying.

"Whoa there, watch the paint job!" Goofy yelled from the floor, scrambling backward on his butt and hands, looking more annoyed than scared. "Nearly took my ear off, you clumsy oaf!"

The giant roared again, advancing. Still on his rear, Goofy kicked out his legs in a desperate, flailing motion. His foot connected with the giant's knee. To everyone's astonishment, the massive figure stumbled, then tripped over a jutting rock, crashing to the ground with a thunderous impact that shook the cave. A moment later, with a sickening thump, a bald, pointy-eared demon head rolled into a patch of light.

Goofy slowly pushed himself up, dusting off his pajama bottoms. "Well, he weren't too steady on his pins, was he?" He looked at the severed head, then back at Lloyd's glowing eyes. "Did I win?"

Max stared, wide-eyed. It was over? That quickly? He felt a mix of relief and bewilderment.

"He passed the first trial," Angel murmured, a hint of surprise in his voice.

Lloyd's eyes seemed to narrow further, an almost undetectable frustration radiating from him. "The trials have only just begun, vampire. Endure."

Suddenly, a strange, skittering noise filled the cave. Max looked around, a prickle of unease rising on his skin. Then he saw large, black insects, like monstrous beetles, began to pour out of cracks in the cave walls, scuttling across the floor. Thousands of them. They swarmed towards Goofy, an undulating wave of chitinous bodies.

"Creepy crawlies!" Goofy yelped, taking a clumsy step back. The beetles began to crawl up his legs, then his chest, his arms, his neck. "Get off me, you varmints! You ain't invited to this picnic! Shoo! Shoo!" He started flapping his hands uselessly, doing a weird, jigging dance as the insects covered him.

Max felt a shiver run down his spine. It was disgusting. He could hear the faint click-click-click of their tiny legs on his dad's skin. Goofy was grunting, his face contorted in distaste, eyes squeezed shut. He tried to brush them off, then tried to blow them away, but the swarm only intensified, covering him completely. Max could barely see his dad beneath the writhing mass of black.

A cold dread seeped into Max. What if they ate him? What if this was how he ended? He glanced at PJ. PJ’s face was pale, his eyes wide with disgust and fear.

"Go, Uncle Goofy!" Debbie cheered from behind them, her voice surprisingly strong. She gave Max an encouraging look, a silent plea for him to keep believing.

Goofy continued to grunt and twitch, a living, squirming mound of beetles. He complained constantly, muttered about how he needed a good scrub and how these bugs were "ruining my good pajamas!" He didn't seem to break down, though, didn't despair. He just kept grumbling, a continuous stream of irritated commentary until, as suddenly as they had appeared, the insects receded, scurrying back into the cracks, leaving Goofy shivering and covered in an invisible layer of "ick."

Goofy stood there, shuddering. "Well, that was just plain rude. Don't nobody got manners no more?" He tried to brush off his pajamas, a look of profound distaste on his face.

The demon’s voice rumbled, echoing through the cavern. "You endured the torment without succumbing to despair, without wishing for eternal rest from the discomfort. You complained, you grumbled, but you did not break. That is the essence of endurance, vampire. You have passed this trial."

A wave of immense relief washed over Max. Two trials down. His dad wasn't dust. A shaky breath escaped him, and he allowed himself a small, hopeful smile.

"Now for the final trial," the demon rumbled, his voice dropping to a low, ominous thrum that seemed to vibrate through the very stone of the cave. "The most perilous. The one no creature has ever completed. You must descend into the Abyssal Labyrinth, a realm of pure shadow, where your deepest fears manifest as tangible horrors. You will face your regrets, your failures, and your darkest temptations, all seeking to consume your very essence. And should you falter, should you surrender to the crushing despair, your form will dissolve into the void, scattered across the eternal darkness, never to return."

"Hold on a minute, partner," Goofy snapped. "By 'no creature has ever completed this trial,' do you mean to say you've never actually given a soul to anyone? How's a fella supposed to know you ain't just a fancy-talkin' sham, then?"

The green eyes of Lloyd narrowed, burning brighter in the gloom. "Do you wish to continue with the third trial, or not?"

Goofy glanced at Max, who was looking at him with concern and a silent plea for caution. He held Max's gaze for a moment, then took a deep breath, his shoulders squaring with a surprising resolve. "Sure, why not. Ain't nothing a fella can't handle with a little elbow grease and a whole lotta gumption."

The demon's voice swelled, filling the cavern with its chilling pronouncement. "Then prepare yourself, vampire. For within the Labyrinth, the very air will twist your sanity. It is a purgatory of the mind, a pit of endless torment from which only absolute purity of will can escape."

Angel shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowed. He turned to them. "This isn't a physical test," he said. "It's about what lives in your heart, what haunts your mind. It's a journey into the darkest parts of oneself, and not everyone makes it back whole."

Max looked at his dad, feeling himself shake with dread, when a hand with raw, bandaged fingertips slipped into his and squeezed tight. Max glanced at PJ, who quickly pulled his hand away, mumbling, "Sorry." He watched as PJ awkwardly scratched his nose with a gauze-wrapped finger. Then, Max reached out and gripped PJ's hand again, holding it firm. PJ looked at him, confused, but Max offered a small, grateful smile. In that moment, PJ's protective instinct was the only thing anchoring Max, keeping him calm in the face of the new, terrifying danger looming over his dad's life.

Chapter Text

A cold knot tightened in PJ's gut as the demon Lloyd's chilling statement faded. A trial of pure fear and regret, one that could break a person into a million little pieces. If Angel, who had walked the earth for centuries and faced untold horrors, wasn't sure he could pass, what hope did a newly sired Goofy have? A shiver traced its way down PJ's spine. This felt... unwinnable.

He glanced at Max, who was visibly shaking, and his heart tightened in sympathy. He couldn't bear the thought of his friend witnessing his dad's death for the second time. That night, finding Mr. G's lifeless body on the street, Max's scream and desperate embrace of his dad had shattered PJ completely. He couldn't help but reach out, squeezing some comfort into Max's trembling hand. Max looked at him, and then PJ remembered how much Max resented being treated like an eggshell.

Feeling a flush of embarrassment, PJ quickly pulled his hand back, mumbling, "Sorry," before Max could take offense. He scratched his nose, looking away, but seconds later, Max's hand reached for his and clasped firmly. PJ looked at him, confused, and Max offered a thankful smile. PJ smiled back, squeezing Max's hand harder, a silent prayer forming in his heart that VampGoofy would win his soul back, if only for Max's happiness.

Lloyd's eyes glowed, fixing on Goofy. A ripple of distorted air shimmered around the vampire, and then, with an almost unnoticeable pop, he vanished into his last trial: the Abyssal Labyrinth. The vast, echoing cave felt suddenly emptier, colder.

The cavern walls around them began to ripple, not physically, but as if the very air became a canvas for Goofy's internal struggle. Wisps of shadow began to merge, forming vague, shifting shapes. PJ strained his vision, trying to interpret them, understanding intellectually that these were not real, yet his primal instincts screamed otherwise.

The ground where Goofy had stood became a canvas of its own. They all looked down from the raised ledge into what seemed like a bottomless, dark expanse. Then, the blackness shifted, and a visual materialized like a giant TV screen. It showed Goofy under a bright sun, shielding himself from the intense light. To their surprise, he didn't burn or combust.

PJ felt Max squeeze his hand and turned to see his friend's eyes wide as he whispered, "Dad is human."

A flicker of unease twisted in PJ's gut. He frowned, recalling the demon's words about the final trial: Goofy must face his deepest fear, his regret, his failure, and his darkest temptation. Staring at the image, a chilling question formed in PJ's mind: Was becoming human again Goofy's temptation? And why would it be his darkest temptation?

Goofy's eyes widened in a silent scream of horror. He frantically touched his arms, his face, then pressed a shaking hand to his chest, where clearly a frantic, steady pulse beat against his palm. He gasped, sucking in breath, and shook his head in disbelieving panic.

"That's his deepest fear," Williams commented, adjusting his glasses with a detached air.

Max spun around, looking up at him with hot, indignant eyes. "Why would being human be his deepest fear?" he spat, as if the very thought was a personal insult.

"Max, look," Debbie whispered, pointing at the large visual.

They all watched as a variety of people pushed Goofy around. Each one, at a different point, muttered, "Step aside, dork," or "What a moron!" A man stood in front of him, spitting at him, "Hey, you're standing in my spot." Goofy mumbled, "Gawrsh, sorry, mister," and stepped aside, only for the man to shove him anyway. More people pushed him until he was lying on the ground, and they began walking on him, stepping over him as if he were a sidewalk.

PJ could see now why VampGoofy hated his human self. He must have detested the pushover Mr. G had been, a man so kind he let people walk all over him. Then the screen shifted, showing a familiar face that made PJ catch his breath. It was his own dad, Pete, looking down at Goofy with an air of casual contempt. "Say, Goofer," Pete began, "got a fatal case of backache, so I'll be using your living room to watch the final game. While you're at it, run out and grab me a message, a bucket of chicken, and a six-pack, will ya?" Goofy simply smiled and replied, "Gawrsh, sure thing, Petey! My house is all yours."

Suddenly, Max's voice echoed in the cave as he appeared on the screen, calling for his dad. Goofy immediately grabbed him and hugged him tight. "Dad," the Max on the screen said weakly, "you're smothering me." Goofy's grip only tightened, hugging him harder and harder. "Dad, I can't breathe, stop!"

Max frantically looked at Williams. "What does that mean?"

Williams met his gaze. "It appears your father doesn't see value in his human life except for you."

Debbie's eyes welled with tears. "Poor Uncle Goofy," she whispered. "So few people appreciated him in his life." She looked down, ashamed. "My mom was probably the worst."

"Not worse than my dad," PJ said, his voice simmering with anger.

Max looked sadly at the screen, watching a spectral version of himself choke for breath, his life almost slipping away. He swallowed hard. "I'm his Kryptonite," Max said quietly. "That's why he's on me 24/7."

"There's nothing in his life that is as remarkable," Angel commented softly. "He sees himself as a complete failure, someone no one respected. You are the only thing worth living for."

On the screen, Goofy suddenly realized Max had gone limp in his arms. He started shaking the unconscious figure of his son, a frantic "I'm sorry!" tearing from his lips. PJ held his breath, watching as Max's form on the screen fluttered back to life. Goofy hugged him then, a desperate, relieved embrace, but the moment of peace was fleeting. The boy in his arms began to age, his form growing taller, leaner, until he was no longer a child but a young man walking away, heading off to college. Goofy was left alone, a heartbroken whisper of "Goodbye, son," hanging in the air. The world around the figure on the screen began to crack and fall apart, a direct reflection of his emotions. With his son gone there was nothing left to live for.

Suddenly, the screen underneath them froze, showing a still, terrified image of Goofy. Lloyd's voice boomed, "One!"

PJ looked at Angel, a knot of confusion and dread in his stomach. "What does that mean?"

Angel's expression was grim. "He failed the first trial. He surrendered to his deepest fear." A heavy silence filled the cavern. "Now, three remain."

Heart pounding, PJ turned his attention to the second screen, which had just flickered to life on their right. It showed a wedding chapel. A younger Goofy stood at the end of the aisle in a wedding tuxedo, flanked by two much shorter figures.

"Uncle Mickey and Uncle Donald," Max murmured. "They're Dad's best friends."

A little redheaded girl with freckles walked down the aisle, her small hands scattering rose petals from a cute white basket.

"That's me," Debbie said in awe. PJ looked from the little girl on the screen to the eighteen-year-old standing next to him. "How'd your freckles disappear?" he asked.

"They just faded with age," Debbie replied, her fingers lightly touching her now smooth, freckle-free cheeks.

Then, a stunning redheaded woman in a bridal gown walked down the aisle, her arm looped with her father's. PJ saw Debbie place her hands on Max's shoulders and whisper, "That's Aunt Penny." Max was staring intently at his mom on the screen, like he'd never seen a picture of her before. PJ wouldn't have been surprised. They never talked about her nor brought her up. Mr. G looked so happy, as did Max's mom.

Suddenly, the joyful scene was swallowed by darkness, replaced by a cold, sterile courtroom. A broken, defeated-looking Goofy was seated at a table next to a short, female lawyer. Across from him, a stern-faced, younger-looking Aunt Carol sat beside another lawyer who was talking, listing reasons why custody of the baby should go to Carol Miller.

PJ felt a wave of discomfort looking at something so private and painful. He glanced at Max, who stood rigid and upset, the grip of Debbie's hands on his shoulders tightening. PJ's gaze returned to the screen, to the hollowed-out expression on Goofy's face. Poor Mr. G had just lost his wife, and now her own sister was trying to take his son away.

The judge's voice cut through the air, declaring that Maximillion Goof would remain in the custody of his father. Immediately, Aunt Carol went wild, turning on Goofy. She screamed at him, her face twisted with rage, yelling that he had killed her sister, that Penny wouldn't have died if she hadn't married him. The things she screamed were ugly and unforgivable.

PJ looked at Max, whose eyes were brimming with tears. Debbie knelt beside him, wrapping her arms around his waist in a tight hug. She buried her face in his back. "I'm so sorry, Max," she whispered, apologizing for her mother's actions.

"That must be his regret," Williams commented behind them.

PJ nodded in agreement. The courtroom scene was still burned into his mind. Aunt Carol's words were ugly and mean: Goofy shouldn't have married her naive sister. Penny had loved him for the loser he was instead of listening to Carol's sensible objections. By marrying him, she had died too soon, and could have had everything she ever wanted if she hadn't. It was his deepest regret, and it was crushing to watch.

Suddenly, the screen on their right froze, and Lloyd announced, "Two!"

"No, he lost again," PJ muttered angrily, the words tasting sour on his tongue. Goofy had already failed two trials, and they weren't even halfway through the whole ordeal.

A new screen flickered to life on their left, and everyone turned to look. It showed a younger, sadder Goofy, exiting a college campus with his head hanging low. Max mumbled, "That must be his failure." Everyone looked at Max, and he explained, his voice hollow, "Dad dropped out of college." They watched as Goofy tried to apply for different jobs, only to be rejected over and over because he didn't have a college degree. He eventually ended up bussing tables in a diner, a look of quiet defeat on his face.

The screen froze, and Lloyd declared, "Three!"

A final screen flickered to life directly in front of them, its light casting an eerie glow on their faces. "This must be his darkest temptation," Angel said, his voice grave.

On the screen, a scene unfolded in Max's bedroom. A sleeping Max was a still, peaceful figure in the top bunk. PJ's blood ran cold as he watched Goofy walk toward the bed, a dark, unsettling glint in his eyes that PJ had never seen before. Goofy took the pillow from the bottom bunk and slowly, deliberately, placed it over Max's face.

PJ gasped, his eyes fixed on the horrifying image. He looked at Max, whose own eyes had widened in pure terror. "D-Dad?" Max stuttered, the single word a question full of fear and disbelief. "He wants me dead?"

Debbie's hug tightened as they watched the Max on screen struggle, his movements growing weaker and weaker. "There must be an explanation for this," she said, her voice trembling.

"His darkest temptation is wishing Max would die," Angel stated flatly. "With a son, he has a weakness that ties him to this earth. Nothing here matters to him but Max, and with Max's death, he would no longer have that weakness."

"This is his last chance," Williams said urgently, his analytical tone replaced by a desperate intensity. "He must not give in to this temptation. He must face it. If he kills Max, he will be swallowed by the void. There will be no returning."

On the screen, Max's struggles were weakening, his limbs twitching as Goofy pressed the pillow down with unyielding force.

Debbie suddenly jumped to her feet, her voice a raw, desperate scream. "Uncle Goofy! You don't want to kill your own son! Stop now!"

Max yelled with her, his voice a broken plea. "Dad! You have to stop! Or you'll end up dead!"

PJ took a deep breath, and yelled with all his might, "Don't give up, Mr. G! You can win this trial! Just stop killing Max!"

The ghostly Goofy on the screen began to hesitate. His grip on the pillow, which had been so final just moments before, began to loosen. The Max in the screen, gasping for air, started to cough. Then, in a moment of pure, blinding horror, Goofy flung the pillow away from his son's face. He quickly sat the boy up, a hand rubbing his back as Max coughed and sputtered, fighting for life.

A huge wave of relief washed over PJ.

"He did it! He faced his darkest temptation!" Max yelled, his voice cracking with relief. Debbie was whooping and Max was jumping up and down, their joy infectious. PJ joined them, jumping excitedly on the edge of the raised ledge, ready to celebrate. In his excitement, his foot slipped. His heart jumped into his throat as he toppled over the edge.

He screamed, a high-pitched cry that was lost in the sound of the wind rushing past his ears. He was falling, tumbling into the dark expanse below. The last thing he saw before plunging into the screen's swirling shadows was the heartbreaking image of Goofy waving sadly to a college-aged Max. And the last thing he heard was Max's terrified voice screaming his name.

~*~*~*~

PJ woke with a jolt in his rocket-shaped bed. He looked around the room, which appeared the same, but for some reason, everything felt bleak. He turned around, his chest tightening when he didn't see Max's duffel bag on the floor. Did his mom take it? Groggily, and disoriented, PJ stumbled out of his room. His sister Pistol's room, directly across the hall, was open. He peered inside, and his breath caught. The room was empty. Completely empty. He looked around the hollow space, which seemed much too big without the furniture, and then darted to his parents' bedroom. It, too, looked bare. Not all the furniture was gone, but most of his mom's things had vanished: her makeup on the dresser, her books on the nightstand, her favorite vase.

A sick feeling rising in his throat, PJ ran out of the room and stumbled down the stairs, wanting to call for his mom, his sister, but he couldn't bring himself to speak.

Downstairs, the TV was on, a baseball game playing quietly. His dad, Pete, was sprawled on the couch, surrounded by a mess of empty beer cans. PJ swallowed, walking toward him. Pete's face was bloated and his eyes were glazed over, clearly drunk.

"Dad," PJ asked, his voice a small whisper. "Where are Mom and Pistol? Where's Chainsaw?"

Pete looked at him with a slow, disdainful stare, his gaze bleary and unfocused. He slurred, "Is this some kinda joke?"

Feeling his voice begin to tremble, PJ asked, "Dad, what's going on?"

Pete's expression darkened, his tone turning low and dangerous. "If you don't get out of my sight right now, I'll smash this can over your head."

Swallowing hard against his fear, PJ turned and ran outside, sprinting down the street toward Max's house. He needed Max.

PJ sprinted until he reached the Goofs' house, but something was wrong. The familiar mess of flowers and vegetables in the front yard was gone. The house itself was painted a different, boring beige color. He pounded on the door, yelling frantically, "Max! Max, where are you?!"

A stern-looking woman opened the door, glaring down at him. "I told you never to come here again," she snapped, her voice like gravel. "We don't lend sugar!"

PJ stared at her, confused and desperate. "Is Max here?"

She grimaced, as if the name itself was a bad word. "Max?"

He pushed past her, stumbling inside, yelling at the top of his lungs. "Max! Max!"

She grabbed him by the arm, her grip like a vise. "Who do you think you are? Get out of here!"

The house was completely different on the inside. Nothing about it looked familiar. The walls were bare, with no pictures of Max and his dad smiling from the walls. The couch was the wrong color, and the TV was gone. As the woman pulled him toward the door, PJ begged, "Please, just tell me where Max is!"

She shoved him outside onto the porch. "You've gone mad, boy. Must be why your mom left you with that no-good drunkard."

PJ's breath hitched. His mind reeled. "Mom... left?"

The woman crossed her arms, a smug look on her face. "Smart woman. She took the girl, the dog, and half of your dad's fortune and ran." She slammed the door shut in his face.

Numb and in shock, PJ took a few shaky steps back, and then his eyes stared at their yard. His dad's boat was gone.

PJ stared, feeling the world around him freezing, nothing moving but his hysterical thoughts. His mom left his dad and took his sister, Chainsaw, and almost all of their stuff. Why didn't she take him too?

PJ ran frantically back to his house, bursting through the door and grabbing his dad's arm. "Dad!" he screamed. "Where's Max? Someone else is in his house!"

Pete scoffed, shrugging off his son's hand. "You must've hit your head hard, boy. No wonder your mom didn't take you."

Tears streamed down PJ's cheeks. "Where's Max, Dad?" he yelled, his voice cracking.

Pete smacked him away, screaming, "Boy's been in New Jersey for months now! He's his old hag of an aunt's responsibility now."

The sharp sting on his cheek was nothing compared to the thought of his mom, sister, and best friend abandoning him. PJ stared at his dad, who chugged the rest of his beer before throwing the empty can on the floor.

His world shattered before his eyes, and he felt like he was sinking into the floor when he heard a voice, sharp and frantic, calling his name from a distant place, over and over.

Max, he thought, a blinding hope in his heart.

He scrambled to his feet, running outside and yelling as loud as he could, "Max! Max, where are you?"

He heard the voice again yelling, "PJ! Don't give in to your fear!"

His fear? A sickening clarity washed over him. The demon's words. The Abyssal Labyrinth. He had fallen into the screen showing Goofy's deepest fear, and now he was living his own worst fear. He stared into the distant, determined and yelled, "Max! How do I get out of here?"

Max's voice rang from the depths of the distance. "Live with it, PJ! Go to your dad!"

PJ turned back to his house. The front door stood open like a dark, inviting mouth. He took a deep, shaky breath, knowing that facing this was the only way through. He walked inside, his heart pounding in his ears. His dad was slumped on the couch, half-asleep, the beer can in his dangling hand spilling its contents onto the cushions. PJ gathered his courage, and strode toward him, knowing he'd probably get a beating for trying.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he took the beer can from his dad's hand and placed it on the coffee table. He met his father's furious glare and offered a small smile. "Do you want me to make you lunch, Dad?" he asked.

Pete's fury instantly lessened, replaced by a look of sheer shock.

PJ shrugged. "I'm no cook, but I know how to make spaghetti with meatballs." He fondly recalled the time he and Max had completely messed up the kitchen trying to make the same dish for dinner.

Pete stared at him, and PJ was stunned to see his dad's eyes glistening with unshed tears. Suddenly, PJ was pulled into a tight hug. His dad buried his face in his shoulder, his body shaking with sobs. PJ hugged him back, his own tears silently sliding down his cheeks as he realized that in this terrifying, false world, the most frightening thing was also the thing he had needed the most.

Then, without warning, PJ felt the floor vanish under him. He fell, tumbling into darkness, until he hit a rough, rock-strewn ground. The impact sent a sharp pain through his cheek, and dust kicked up, stinging his bandaged fingers and the nail-less tips. He hissed, clutching his hand to his chest, when a warm weight slammed into him. A familiar, happy voice squealed in his ear, "Peej, you did it!"

PJ's head snapped up. A surprised laugh escaped his lips when he saw Max's beaming face. He pulled his best friend into a crushing hug, relief sweeping over him.

"Where are we, man?" PJ asked, looking around. The ground was rocky and barren, but high above their heads, a large, glowing screen was suspended in the air. On it, a still frame of a sad, lonely Goofy waving goodbye to a college-aged Max.

"You slipped off the ledge," Max explained simply.

PJ stared at the screen, a chilling realization dawning on him. "I fell into Goofy's deepest fear, didn't I?" he mumbled, his gaze fixed on the screen. "But instead of seeing his fear, I saw mine." He looked at Max, the confusion still lingering. "But why are you here?"

"I jumped after you," Max said, as if it was the most logical thing in the world.

PJ's eyes widened in disbelief. "Are you crazy? Max, that was dangerous! You shouldn't have…"

Max grimaced, cutting him off. "Here we go."

"What?" PJ asked, dumbfounded.

"You think I'm weak, don't you?" Max spat, his voice filled with a frustration that ran deeper than the moment.

PJ stared at him, bewildered. "Again, what?"

"That's why you got angry," Max went on, his hands clenching into fists. "Because I jumped after you. You don't believe I can save you, do you?"

"Max, I got angry because what you did was irresponsible and crazy!" PJ yelled, gesturing wildly with his bandaged hands, the movement sending a jolt of pain up his fingers. He hissed, clutching his hand to his chest, the throbbing tips hurting so bad. "What if you got killed?" he gritted out.

"You think I'm this lame loser who can't handle anything!" Max countered, taking a step back.

"No, I don't!" PJ insisted.

"Yes, you do! You said I'm a danger magnet!"

"Well, you are!" PJ said, his voice dropping to a calmer, more honest tone. He reached out a hand, palm up, in a gesture of peace. "But that doesn't mean you're weak. It just means I worry about you more."

Max looked away, his jaw tight, and PJ felt a sharp pang of dread. The last thing he wanted was for Max to think PJ thought less of him. That was the farthest thing from the truth. In fact, PJ always saw Max as better than him: smarter, braver, and a thousand times more outgoing. He had always wished he could be more like Max. Heck, he knew his dad would have wanted him to be more like Max, too.

No wonder his dad viewed Max as the better son, Max was always full of wild ideas and new schemes, trying hard to become rich and famous. He was never satisfied with what he had, always trying to be on top. Something he shared with PJ's dad, but just like Pete, it always led to Max coming up with dangerous, outlandish ideas that got them both into trouble. PJ always ended up getting Max out of trouble, or helping them both out of whatever mess Max had put them in.

PJ glanced at his upset friend and shuffled his feet, still clutching his throbbing hand. He knew he wasn't going to tell Max his real thoughts, that he saw Max as a soaring kite, full of joy and adventure, while PJ was the string pulling him back to Earth. That would only make Max angrier.

"Look, Max," he said in an apologetic tone. "I know I can be too cautious and protective. Maybe it's because I'm an older brother, so by default, I'm a momma bear machine." He paused, looking down. "It's not just you, man. I feel this way about Mom, and Dad, and Pistol. I can't help wanting to protect the people I love."

Max's cheeks turned a light shade of red as he still looked away. PJ, realizing what he had just said, sucked in his lips and felt instantly embarrassed.

They stood there in an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds.

"So, uh," PJ said, deciding to break the tension. "Since you jumped after me, you must have faced your worst fear, too. What was it?"

Max looked down at his sneakers. "Living in New Jersey." His jaw tightened as he recalled the memory. "It was horrible. Dad... his vampire version became dust, Debbie was dead and another Slayer was chosen, her parents were closed off and kept me on a tight leash after they lost Debbie." He glanced at PJ, his eyes holding a flash of hurt. "And you ditched me for new friends."

PJ swallowed, a sick feeling settling in his gut, and nodded.

"But hey," Max said, his bravado returning as he stood a little taller. "I went in there knowing I was gonna face my worst fear. I cracked the code before you did. I outsmarted you."

PJ smiled, a laugh escaping him. "Yes, you did."

Max pointed a finger at PJ's nose, his face bright with triumph. "I saved your life."

"You did, buddy," PJ said, his voice full of gratitude. "You did."

Max's grin faded as he looked down at PJ's hands, which were still clutched to his chest. "What's wrong?" he asked.

PJ hissed in pain, slowly pulling his hands away from his body. "I think my fingers got infected."

Suddenly, the screen above them moved. They watched as Goofy pulled a grown-up Max into a crushing hug. "I'll see you on holidays, son," Goofy said, patting his back. "Call me ahead and tell me if you need anything."

"Sure thing, Dad," the eighteen-year-old Max replied, hugging him back tightly.

Goofy pulled away with a grin. "Now that you ain't here, I reckon I got me some free time to get into that there gardening tourney."

The Max on screen laughed. "Knock yourself out."

"Call me when you get there, son," Goofy said, his voice softer now.

PJ noticed Max, standing next to him, was looking up at the screen with eyes glistening with tears. He instinctively placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. Max inhaled sharply and said in a voice that quivered with pain, "That won't happen. Dad won't be there to say goodbye."

Squeezing Max's shoulder, a lump formed in PJ's own throat. There was nothing he could say. Whether Goofy won this trial or not, he'd still be a vampire. It had been a month since his death, and his name was still written as "deceased" in his records. The hospital had informed them that his body had vanished from the morgue, but the files still said he was dead.

The screen above them suddenly rippled and swirled, the image of Goofy vanishing into a distorted mess of colors. With a final, shimmering pop, Goofy fell to the ground, landing in a heap. He looked around, his eyes wide with fear, as if expecting to face another Abyssal Labyrinth reality.

"Dad, you made it!" Max rushed forward and threw his arms around the vampire.

A look of dawning comprehension washed over Goofy's face as he hugged his son back. "Damnit, that was a hell of a ride. But you shoulda seen the look on that aunt of yours when I started cussin' like a damn sailor."

PJ stepped forward, confused. "What do you mean?"

The screen had completely disappeared above them, and they could now see the ledge from which they'd fallen. Debbie exclaimed, "Oh, thank God!" and started to descend toward them, followed by Williams and Angel. She approached them and hugged Max, her voice filled with relief. "I wanted to jump after you, boys, but Uncle Goofy needed our help to finish the Abyssal Labyrinth challenges."

Angel, who had just joined them, explained, "For Goofy to win the last trial, he had to stand up to the challenges he was facing in each scene that caused him the most pain. His deepest fear, his regrets, his failure, and his darkest temptation."

Williams removed his glasses and began cleaning the lenses with a handkerchief. "Debbie proved to be quite useful in showing him how to defeat each scene."

Debbie stood up after crouching to hug Max and glared up at Goofy. "But I didn't tell you to say 'damn old hag' to my mom."

"You know that bitch deserved each cussin'." Goofy just winked at Max, who looked away and whistled, pretending not to hear. There was no way he was going to join VampGoof in insulting the woman who was about to become his legal guardian.

With his fingers still burning, PJ watched the scene with a pained smile. Suddenly, he was pulled into a warm embrace. He felt his cheeks flush with awkwardness as he looked at Debbie's sad, concerned smile. He hadn't expected to get a hug like Max did as she was his cousin.

"Are you all right?" she asked gently.

He nodded stiffly. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"I'm sorry you went through all that," she said, her voice soft.

A hot flush of embarrassment washed over PJ. "You saw that?" he asked. Oh, man, did they all see his worst fear? He remembered how much he'd cried in there and wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole. Hey, he thought, maybe that could actually happen in this cave.

"Yes," she said, nodding. "Yours and Max's."

"Now what?" Goofy demanded, rubbing his hands together. "Are there more stupid trials, or do I finally get my stinking soul?"

Lloyd suddenly appeared in a shimmering flash of green light, his gaze fixed on Goofy. "You have endured the required trials."

Goofy scoffed, a confident smirk on his face. "Damn well I have."

The demon's glowing green eyes stared at him, unblinking. "Very well."

PJ watched nervously, his heart thumping in his chest. A heavy silence settled over the entire cave, an air of profound nervousness. Lloyd's hand reached out slowly, deliberately, toward Goofy's chest.

"You'll be given… your soul," Lloyd finished, his voice a low hiss.

The hand touched Goofy's chest, and it instantly erupted with a fiery, yellow-orange light. Goofy's eyes glowed with the same color, and he threw his head back and screamed. It wasn't a scream of fear, but of raw, gut-wrenching pain. Max was about to rush toward him, but Angel held him firmly in place.

PJ watched wide-eyed as Goofy fell to his knees, his agonizing screams silenced. He was perfectly still, his hand clutching his chest, the glowing light slowly fading away.

Max pulled Angel's hands from his arms and slowly approached the kneeling vampire. "Dad?" he asked, his voice hesitant and unsure.

Goofy looked up, a warm smile spreading across his face, a smile PJ hadn't seen in weeks. "I'm back, Maxie," he said softly.

Max stared, his lips trembling as the weight of the last month with all its heartbreak and sorrows crashed over him. He bit his lower lip as tears began to stream down his cheeks, then rushed forward with a choked cry to hug his dad. Goofy's arms instantly enveloped him, his warm smile never wavering. Max buried his face in his father's shoulder, sobbing heartbroken tears, holding on tight as if he would never let go.

PJ watched in dejected silence, Max's pure happiness shattering his heart.

As they all walked out of the cave, heading for the RV, PJ watched Max happily holding his dad's hand. He trotted alongside Goofy, exclaiming, "Check out this RV, Dad!"

Goofy chuckled. "Gawrsh, son, it was still me who came here with you."

Max hit his forehead with a fist. "My bad." He looked up at his dad, hope shining in his eyes. "Yo, Dad, can I crash with you in the living room?"

Angel stepped forward. "You two can take my bed. I'll sleep in the living room."

"But maybe Dad wants to watch TV," Max suggested.

"Nah," Goofy said, his smile never fading. "I'd rather talk to you. 'Sides, I been watchin' nothin' but TV for a whole month." Max's face lit up, and he wrapped his arms around Goofy in a tight hug. "Glad to have you back, Dad."

PJ stopped in his tracks, watching as Max and Goofy slipped into the RV, followed by Debbie. He couldn't keep it together any longer. His lips began to quiver, and his knees buckled. He dropped to the ground, trying desperately to keep his breakdown as silent as possible. Tears rushed out of his eyes, and his whimpers were so low they felt like they were suffocating him. He felt someone standing next to his trembling body and stopped at once. Horrified, he looked up and saw Angel, his knowing look glinting in his eyes.

PJ stared into Angel's gaze, the words catching in his throat. He swallowed and said in a choked tone, "He's not Mr. G, is he?"

Angel shook his head and said softly, "No, he's still the same demon, but with a soul."

Back when they first met Angel, PJ remembered a hushed conversation he'd heard while pretending to be asleep in the bottom bunk bed. Max, in the top bunk, had asked Angel to help him restore his dad's soul. But Angel's words in that moment had been a harsh dose of reality. "You won't exactly get your dad back," Angel had said. "A soul doesn't mean the return of the same person. We, as vampires, have the traits of our human selves and the memories. But we are not the same person who died. The demon influences you."

Fresh tears welled in PJ's eyes as he looked down at his shaking hands planted on the ground. He whispered hoarsely, "Poor Max." His sobs were silent, suffocating him from the inside.

"PJ, what's wrong?" Max's voice called out from the RV's door, laced with worry.

A wave of panic shot through PJ. He didn't want Max to see him like this, to see the way he was shaking and silently sobbing. He frantically tried to compose himself, but it was useless.

"Peej, are you okay?" Max's voice came closer as he approached. He felt Max crouch next to him. "Is it your fingers?" Max asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

PJ looked at his friend's worried face through the blur of his tears and choked out, "Yeah, my fingers hurt bad."

Max helped him to his feet with a gentle hand. "C'mon, we'll take care of them in the hotel."

Without thinking, PJ pulled Max into a tight hug. The tears that had been choking him now fell freely. Max stood there awkwardly for a second before patting his back. "Hey, buddy," he said with a nervous laugh. "You're making a scene in front of everybody."

PJ pulled away, noticing that everyone was indeed looking at them from the RV. He mumbled, "Sorry," before walking toward the RV, his eyes meeting Angel's for a single, meaningful look that said more than words ever could.

~*~*~*~*~

PJ sat on the edge of the hotel bed, the phone receiver pressed to his ear by his already treated and bandaged left hand. His right hand rested on Williams's knees. The British man was working with the focused intensity of a surgeon, his movements precise and gentle. A thick paste of some antiseptic medicine stung PJ's raw fingertips, still missing their nails after being savagely torn out by Spike. Williams worked methodically, first applying the medicine, then wrapping each finger carefully in a fresh, clean gauze.

"Yes, Mom, he became unbelievably well-behaved with that soul," PJ said into the phone as he reassured her that the first mission had been a success.

"That's a relief," his mom said sarcastically over the phone. "What about the second mission?"

"Tonight," PJ replied, watching Williams wrap the gauze over his thumb. "In Africa time."

"Be careful, honey," she said, her voice flowing with worry and fear. "And try to stay away from danger. I want you and Max to return safely."

"I will. And, Mom…" he paused, his chest constricting. The horrible nightmare he had just lived through came rushing back to him. "... I love you."

"I love you, too, honey," she said, her voice straining a bit as she fought back tears.

PJ was overcome by a powerful longing to see her, to hold her, and to never let her go, to demand that she would never abandon him ever. He took a shuddering breath and forced his voice to sound brave and strong. "Give my love to Dad and Pistol. Bye, Mom."

"Bye, sweetheart." And with that, PJ was the first to put down the phone.

From the next room, the sounds of Max and Goofy's laughter drifted through the thin wall. PJ's heart tightened.

As Williams finished wrapping the last of PJ's fingers, he looked up, his expression serious. "I've been thinking." His tone was quiet, yet it carried an air of authority. "After you finish your high school education, of course. I would personally recommend you to the Watchers' Council in London. We'll take you to England, and you'll undergo rigorous training at the Watchers' Academy."

PJ stared at him, shocked. "You, um, mentioned that I'd make a good Watcher before," he said, his voice hesitant. "But I still don't see..."

Williams interrupted, a knowing look in his eyes. "With your experience as a Slayer, even if it's relatively short, you will be more than qualified to supervise and train your own Slayer in the future."

PJ pulled his hands back, looking down at the freshly bandaged fingers. "But why just me? Why not Max too? He also has Slayer experience."

"I have talked with you about this before," Williams said, his voice soft but firm. He gestured to PJ's hands, stilling them. "You look at situations pragmatically, while Max tends to be emotionally driven. You are perceptive and level-headed, which is what your Slayer will need."

"Well," PJ said quietly, "I wasn't that level-headed when I was facing my worst fear. In fact, it was Max who saved me."

Williams placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You are human in the end." He patted PJ's arm. "You are still a child. You'll have years to think about it and get back to me. Just know the offer stands."

PJ watched him lie down on his bed and close his eyes. He looked down at his hands, feeling oddly empty. He had always seen himself as the sidekick, the backup, and now to be picked over Max… that felt weird.

A small smile formed on his lips. It was nice to be noticed.

~*~*~*~*~

His eyes fluttered open as PJ saw the bright light fighting its way through the dark curtains. He glanced at the clock; it was still noon. They had a few more hours of sleep before their second mission: finding the demon Bayanka and helping Debbie get her Slayer powers back. He removed the blanket and slowly slipped his feet to the floor so as not to wake a sleeping Williams on the next bed. Padding outside, PJ passed a sleeping Angel on the couch on the way to the bathroom, the perfectly closed drapes keeping the sun from shining in.

He saw Goofy standing near the fridge, humming softly to himself. The vampire looked over his shoulder and smiled kindly, a warm, genuine expression that made PJ's heart ache. "Hi-ya, PJ. Want a midday snack?"

PJ eyed him wryly and shook his head. "No thanks. Just heading for the bathroom."

He walked silently through the tiny hallway leading to the bathroom, but before he could reach the door, Goofy's soft voice stopped him. "I can tell that you figured me out."

PJ froze, looking back at him. Goofy was standing at the entrance to the small hallway, regarding him with the same kind, patient expression Mr. G would have used. A sudden sting of tears filled PJ's eyes. He swallowed hard, his voice quivering. "Max will figure it out too."

The vampire nodded. "No doubt. Once all the excitement wears off, he'll see." Goofy's gaze was full of a sad, quiet understanding. "What I can't cotton to is why this has got you so shook. You've always been the one to remind your friend that I ain't his dad."

PJ brushed away a tear, but another one immediately took its place. "I guess... I guess part of me wanted to believe that Mr. G would be back." His voice hitched, a choked sob escaping his throat. "He's really gone."

He stood in the hallway, his body shaking as he cried softly, the reality of the loss finally crashing down on him. Then, he felt himself being pulled into a warm embrace. Goofy's arms were firm and comforting as his kind voice spoke. "There, there, little fella. I may not be him, but I got his memories and a piece of his heart, ya see." Goofy's voice dropped to a whisper, a private confidence just for him. "And I do have a soft spot for that boy. Even before I got my soul back, the only reason I fought for it was for Max."

"I can see that." PJ nodded, hiccupping through his tears.

Goofy gently pulled back, his large hand reaching up to wipe away the tears on PJ's cheeks. "Max is gonna be just fine, sure thing. You'll see."

A small, genuine smile found its way to PJ's face. "Thanks," he whispered.