Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (For language, violence, and adult content)
Distribution: Sure. Just tell me where.
Timeline: Season 5 of BtVS: AU after Triangle. Season 2 of AtS: AU after Reunion.
Summary: Wolfram and Hart, host of the greatest evil acknowledged on Earth, attempts to restructure the Order of Aurelius, one vampire at a time. A soul hampers one, a chip harbors another, and a Slayer stands between them. The pawns are in place; it is simply a matter of who will move first.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon. They are being used for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

[Prologue] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [22] [23] [24] [25]

[26] [27] [28] [29] [30] [31] [32] [33] [34] [35] [36] [37] [38] [39] [40] [41] [42] [43] [44] [45] [46] [47] [48] [49] [50] [Epilogue]

Chapter Twenty-Six

Beyond The Sleeping Refuge

"Ummm," Cordelia said softly, her voice somehow breaking over the elevated strands of heated debate. It was a rather odd sensation, as she was typically one to be heard for her volume and not hushed composure. Still, it had the desired effect. The entire lobby fell to the same silence and looked at her expectantly. "I have a really bad idea." A beat when that merited no reaction other than deepened stares. "But I think it might work."

That was all the incentive that Spike required. He promptly broke from conspiring with Wright—slightly offed by the nearly innate need he had felt to relate all that had happened with his unlikely colleague. As if such solidified his transition from more than associations. As if it made them actual friends.

Not that such was not determined as long in the making, but the notion bothered him still.

"Well then," he answered eagerly. "Let's hear it."

Cordelia nodded and cleared her throat, tossing a cautious glance to the demon hunter. "Some of you aren't going to like it," she warned. Then her prospect expanded to the rest of the group who—by suggestion alone—were all regarding her with the same trepidation. Even the enthusiasm from the vampire's eyes had dwindled. "Okay, all of you aren't going to like it."

"Then don't tell us," Zack reasoned with a shrug that wasn't nearly as dismissive as he would have liked. As if it were that simple. It was difficult not to notice the sudden tension wringing his lithe figure to definitive stillness. With power as seemingly minimal as words, his entire being was suddenly wound tighter than a guitar string. "We'll think of something else."

"There isn't time to think of something else," she argued rationally. "Even if it is a bad idea. It just might be the only idea we come up with."

Gunn arched a brow. "Ummm...just for the record...how bad are we talking?"

"It involves me being used as leverage."

That was it. End of discussion. From three different corners voiced the same opposition. "No."

Cordelia rolled her eyes and jumped to her feet. There had been little variation in the weight of argument since the impromptu group of hunters arrived back at the hotel more than an hour before. It was dangerous, she knew, keeping Spike so long from his blood ties, but another opportunity to discuss the limited range of options might not present itself. The look on his face, despite reassurance, had not alleviated much from the broadened spectrum on where things stood with the Slayer. It was more than obvious that he wished himself back in her presence, regardless of what it meant risking.

Which was why she was all the more determined to have an idea plotted by the time he took his leave. He would go to Buffy almost directly, but they had to have something planned by then. Waiting any longer could see her future's end.

"Puhlease," she said, rolling her eyes. "As all of you know, there's nothing Angelus likes more than live bait."

"Which is exactly why you're not going to be implicated," Wright all but growled.

"I must agree, Cordelia," Wesley said. "I don't like the idea of—"

"You haven't even heard my idea."

"Yes, well, by suggestion alone, I am prone not to like it."

"Gotta say, Cordy," Gunn agreed, shaking his head. "I'm agreein' with Whitey and English, here. We're already short one Slayer that I've never met but have, somehow, developed a life-and-death-interest in." He tossed a brief glance to Spike, who smirked at him, even if it was a shadow of his usual showiness.

Zack frowned. "Whitey?"

"Spur of the moment."

"Kind of applies to everyone of the 'not you' society."

"I qualify for both," the vampire volunteered with a shrug. "An' you can always call him Zangy, Charlie. Seems to irritate jus' enough."

Gunn scowled. "Stop calling me that."

"Guys. Digression. Remember?" Cordelia waved. "Listen, I know everyone here's not exactly onboard the Bad Plan Train, but really—and to both reiterate and state the more than obvious—we're running out of time."

"I don' wanna get you hurt, pet," Spike said softly. "Don' get me wrong, I'll do anythin' to get her out, but—"

She shook her head. "You guys seriously don't think that I've lived every day since working for Angel and not thought about what I might eventually have to do? Granted, I really hadn't given much thought to Evil Incorporated plus two major undead hussies involved—and Buffy, never woulda saw that coming—but I can do this."

"No," Wright said shortly. The tenor of his voice suggested anything but reason. As though his word verified the end of all discussion and a motion to move to the next suggestion.

Cordelia's gaze narrowed as she considered him. "Listen," she said shortly. "I don't know if you heard me, but there's not exactly a long list of options. And I can so take care of myself. I've been doing it for a long time, Zack." She held her hand up to the predictable foray of continued objection from her other colleagues. "And you two oughta know me well enough by know to guess that whatever you say's not going to work. And I'm not worried. My plan involves Spike—which you'd know if you'd let me tell you—and I know he'd never let me get hurt."

The peroxide vampire shuffled uncomfortably, either by the implication of his now accepted goodness or the weight that was suddenly planted on his shoulders, no one could tell. Thus, he opted for a noncommittal, "Thanks," before looking away in his disquiet.

"Not that I wanna say you can't trust him," Gunn offered speculatively, holding his hand up to merit his standing. "But you're putting a lot on faith, here. Spike's only one vamp, and Angel's a bad mother with, as you said, Hell Incorporated supporting him. If, say, he gets in kill-mode and has Darla and Dru help him out..."

"I can handle Dru," the peroxide vampire said softly, though it was obvious that he would like to do anything but. "'F it comes down to it."

"And it probably will," Wesley stated.

"I'll handle it." Spike sighed and shook his head. "'S not like I'd wanna hurt her or anythin'. Despite everythin' that's happened, Dru's...well, she'll always be a part of me. But that doesn' mean I won' stake her 'f she stands between me an' Buffy."

"She's a monster," Wright said softly, as though any other fate outside death was unsupportable.

"She's also my..." The peroxide vampire exhaled dramatically. "Let's jus' say, it'd be no easier for any of you to kill the firs' chit you loved, would it? Doesn' matter how bloody monstrous she is, or even that I don' love her anymore. I jus' don' wanna kill her. But I will 'f that's what it comes down to."

"I don't think we could ask any more," Cordelia said before anyone else could get a word in. Then she turned her attention to the others. "And I'm doing this whether you want me to or not. Spike can help me if it comes down to it. So deal. Okay?"

Wright made a noise of disgust and turned away.

"Might help if you'd clarify what this is," Wesley suggested.

"Well, Spike's going to take me to Wolfram and Hart," she said. "Not now, but soon. And when I say soon, I mean tomorrow at the latest. I'd still like for him to talk to Lindsey and figure out if we have any alternatives." Her eyes narrowed at the platinum vampire. "Which I expect you to do directly when you get back, okay?"

Despite the severity of the circumstances, he found it within himself to answer with a cheeky, "Yes, Mum."

Gunn perked a brow. "I'm not liking this, already."

"Neither am I," Wright said, back turned to them. His entire body was wrought with strain. As though he needed to prevent himself from lashing out in a manner that was most unbecoming.

"Well..." Cordelia frowned. "Tough. Anyway, in my plan, Spike would give me to Angelus—"

"I see your 'not liking' and raise you a 'hating'," Zack told Gunn, turning at that, eyes blazing. "Are you out of your mind? He'd rip you apart in seconds. Or worse—"

"Or worse, he'd do to me what he's done to Buffy," she volunteered softly. "I know."

"You're crazy," he decided.

"No," Wesley intervened, gaze not swaying from the brunette. There was a glow of reverent awe pouring from his form. "She's...Cordelia, when on earth did you become so noble?"

She smirked, though it was in good jest. "Gee, thanks."

"I mean no offense, but—"

"Yeah, yeah. Two years ago, I was ready to kill Buffy to be Homecoming Queen. My, how not being in high school or having any friends changes people." A determined sigh sounded through her lips. "But I don't think it's going to come to that. Slayer or not, she didn't know what she was up against when what happened to her happened. I do. I know exactly what I'm doing and what the odds are. And, if this goes accordingly—"

Spike's eyes widened. "Hold it right there," he said forcefully. "Bloody hell, I thought you Sunnyhell alums knew not to jinx yourselves like that."

Cordelia covered her mouth in astonishment. "Oh God. Sorry."

"Tha's it, pet. Deal's off."

"What? No! I didn't even finish my sentence."

"You jinxed yourself," Gunn added hopefully, though his words were obviously aimed more toward the sentiment of talking her out of whatever it was she had fully planned. "Can't risk it now."

"You guys suck. I'm doing it." Her eyes leveled with Spike's. "And you're gonna help me, or else I'll be doing it alone."

The vampire wove a tapestry of obscenities under his nonexistent breath with a dejected sigh. Wright still refused to look at her.

"I'm going to be struggling too much for Angelus to have much to do with me," Cordelia continued, gaze focused on the platinum Cockney. "And you're gonna help me. Of course, you'll have to do the thing where you're trying not to be obvious in the fact that you're helping me. In fact, you'll actually have to pretend like you're helping Angelus. Then you can pull your pit-pocketing stunt and get me outta there."

The entire lobby fell deathly silent for long seconds.

"That," Gunn said, disbelievingly, "is your plan?"

"Yes."

"Cordy...that's awful."

"But worth it." She glanced to Wright briefly. His expression was stony at best, thoroughly unreadable by any conventional means. "Spike told me he's good at petty theft—"

"Yeh," the vampire agreed hotly. His features betrayed a disposition not too far removed from the demon hunter's. He obviously was not as impressed as she was hoping. "I also told you that robbin' Peaches 's akin to bloody suicide. I'm not about to put you in that kinda danger 'f that's all you got up your sleeve."

"If he's preoccupied with me, and in the middle of a struggle, he won't notice."

"Bollocks."

"Spike, do we really have any other options right now?"

At that, Wright moved to comment. The room fell silent once again under the impressionable weight of his manifest opinion. "Other than stupid schemes that will not only result in a dead Buffy, but a dead Cordy as well? I can't believe you'd actually consider doing this."

"Believe it," she snapped.

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"I so am not."

Zack stormed forward heatedly. "You're not invincible, Cordelia! You go in there and try to pull this bullshit; he's going to fucking tear you limb from limb and fuck what's left over."

Gunn winced. "Let's not get crude or anything."

"Maybe crudeness is the only way to get through to her that she's being a fucking idiot."

Cordelia was nearly quivering with fury. It touched every nerve there was to touch and influenced her all the more in her conviction. "Maybe being a fucking idiot is better than being proactive instead of reactive. This is the best that we can do, and for your information, nobody asked your permission. There's this little thing called learning from your mistakes. Since you obviously haven't taken that step yet, I'm going to have to take it for you. Learn from your mistake and not stand by twiddling my thumbs while a girl gets fucking raped and tortured and God knows what else every single day."

A cold, callous breeze filtered through the air. He matched her gaze with such intensity that she didn't know if he wanted to hit her, scream at her, kiss her, or rip her head off. In the end, he opted for none of these, and instead turned to bask in taciturn dilemma on his own terms.

Wright had only been gone seconds when Gunn decided to lighten the air. "And again," he said uneasily, "I'm out of the loop."

Wesley frowned. "I believe I am, too."

Spike said nothing at first. He watched his friend disappear to the upper levels of the Hyperion, indulged another unneeded breath, and turned Cordelia with more of the same. "Pet—"

She turned to him sharply, foreseeing his objection. "Don't. Just go. Go to Lindsey, figure out if there's something else you can do. If not, just come back and get me."

"I don' like this."

"Well, I don't, either, but I'm not going to stand back and do nothing." She glanced wordlessly to the staircase that had carried the hunter away from deliberation. "Not now that I've seen what they're capable of."

Spike followed her gaze. "Zangy—"

"He'll have to deal, okay? I'm not doing this to spite him. He's just not used to a woman in charge."

"Nikki," Gunn pointed out.

The vampire snickered softly. "Wrong kind of 'in charge', mate."

"Whatever Zack's problems are, they're his, not ours," Cordelia stated with more conviction than she felt.

"Right," Spike agreed solemnly, and nothing more would be said in the matter.

The note that settled over the Hyperion as he took his leave was somber at best. Regardless of disposition, there would be no peace between any of them while things remained as they were. They were beginning to war with themselves, which was never good.

Buffy could not be saved while her rescuers had nothing better to do than argue.

And for the moment, that was what kept him going. Flashing back to her face. The way her skin felt under his touch. The way she whimpered into his mouth. The way she begged him not to leave her.

It was time then.

Time.

Spike wanted to be certain that when she next made that request of him, he could appease her. Now through eternity. Cordelia's offer notwithstanding, it kept him motivated. Kept him moving forward.

Kept him resolved on the understanding that he would get her out. No matter what it took. No matter what it cost.

Even if it was everything. She was worth it.

It was a miracle that he could navigate himself anywhere; much less to his chamber, he was so angry. The years had taught him many things—namely to entrust his senses. Even when Amber was murdered, he did not recall being blinded with fury as much as fueled with it. Seeing her hanging as he had spurned the wakening that had led him to be what he was.

Now was an entirely different matter. The raw bluntness of his outrage had nothing compared to the intensity of it. The past two days had been hell enough on his conscience to add warring with a woman he admittedly knew very little about doing something that scared him more than he would ever openly confess. It was the closest he had come to completion since the revolutionary moment that saw the end of everything he had ever been.

His feelings for Cordelia were admittedly jumbled, this latest confrontation notwithstanding. He barely knew her, and yet she possessed the ability to strip him down to the single fibers of his neglected self. The primary reaction, of course, was to ignore her completely. Life had been hard enough without the influence of another woman. While he never resented Amber for putting him in this position and would trade what they had shared for nothing, it—in essence—had robbed him of every hope of normality he had been close to seizing.

What he had known with his wife was the closest thing to fairytale perfection he figured anyone had ever come. That wasn't to say they went their daily lives without the expected squabbles and fights over this and that. But it was homey. Happy. Somewhere between the boundary of reason and sensibility, he had found what it was that many people spent the entirety of their lives searching for. Bliss to end all other. Pure, unguarded bliss.

Which was why, in essence, losing it came at such an abominable shock. Not for the brute of consequence—that lay far beyond on an entirely separate level—but for the formality of predetermined disposition. They had never had any enemies; the thought that she could be taken from him in such a manner was beyond approach, thus even when Darla entered the picture, he was far too set in his ways to be influenced under any separate persuasion.

Seven long years had passed since he lost her. Since he felt anything but cold. But the drive to go on. There was love, of course. Love for Rosie and Nikki. Love kept more for duty and paternal obligation. He loved his daughter with everything he was, even when he thought himself void of anything but calloused resentment and fury. And even while such notion had seemed ridiculous and beyond impossible, there was the unacknowledged whim that he would never allow himself to become romantically attached to anyone. It felt wrong. As though he was betraying her. Betraying a woman seven years dead by allowing himself to become more human than he had been in the same span.

He didn't know Cordelia—not really. And yet she was a danger to him in the satisfaction of such regard. She had tapped into whatever humanity he had left. Whatever disposition was inclined to fall under the wordless authority of the opposite sex. He didn't know what to do with himself. If there was anything to do. It was wrong but it wasn't. Such could never be fully wrong.

And now she was going to do something entirely stupid.

She was going to let herself die.

Fucking women.

Not only that, she had the audacity to throw his own reservation back at him. The mere hint of suggestion was enough to make him want to wring her neck, even if it would do no good. Very little could be said or done for headstrong women. It was unfounded. He had never met anyone like her. She was sure to be the death of him in some fashion or another.

Nikki had never greeted him with such blatant opposition. They had their fights, of course, but she was always under the understanding that he inherently knew best, and to dispute him would not only be futile, but beyond foolish. After all, his judgment had prevailed them this far.

Cordelia blatantly refused to see that.

And it was going to get her killed. He couldn't lose her now. Not to the same creatures he had lost Amber to. Not with his feelings developing. Not with the collapsing of his heart on the line. Not with everything.

If he lost her, even with his feelings as they were, he feared he would never recover.

A gentle knock on the already-open door perturbed the solitude of his musings. He knew it was her without needing to turn, and he stiffened in effect even if he never refused his consent. It was of little use either way. Cordelia was her own woman and likely wouldn't care a damn about his feelings on even the smallest of matters.

That's not fair, his mind warned, but he was too forgone to care.

"Well fine," she said when he offered no greeting. "I'm coming in whether you want me to or not."

Wright's eyes narrowed. "You're good at doing things I'd rather you not," he observed.

There was a pained sigh. "Look—"

He held up a hand, still refusing to turn and face her. "I don't wanna hear it."

"I'm sorry, okay? But it has to be done."

The hunter's head fell and he exhaled deeply. "Why bother talking at all? Why bother anything?"

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't like this."

"Well, it doesn't!" At that, he pivoted sharply on the mattress, eyes shining with hurt that he hadn't wanted her to see. With more emotion than he felt he had the right to portray on such an abbreviated acquaintance. "This is insane, Cordy."

"Yeah. Getting that."

"And you don't care. You really don't care."

"Care? Care that I might get killed to the ninth degree or worse? Of course I care." She approached hesitantly, not covering too many steps in fear of rejection, but also refusing to turn and back away from him now. "But I'm not going to let Angelus win because I'm afraid."

"This isn't the only option."

"I know it's not. Or maybe it is. Maybe we waited too long and all the other options are gone. Point being, it's the only one we've got right now. We don't have time to sit around and wait for something else to spring to mind." That was it; she covered the steps between them with resolve that marked her for every strand of dignity she could uphold. A soft beat, and she sat next to him, taking her hand in his as her thumb ran comfortable circles over skin roughened with neglected time. "I've been too selfish all my life to let that stop me now."

Wright feared losing his tenacity with her so near. With the comforting touch she offered being etched aimlessly into his flesh. "It's dumb," he whispered. "It's too dumb."

"It'll be all right. Spike'll be there."

An inarticulate snort. "Don't get me wrong, but that doesn't exactly offer the grace of comfort. Spike's not the best example for...anything."

"He wouldn't let me get hurt."

"He's—"

"For the love of God, don't tell me what he is. I know what he is. Hell, one of what he is—up until recently—signed my paycheck. It doesn't matter." Her grip on him tightened. "And you know it. Spike doesn't like to admit that he's got a conscience, but he does. He's...for whatever reason; he's become a friend. To all of us. Even you."

Wright looked up sharply at that, objection written plainly in his eyes, but there was nothing to say that would offer reasonable disagreement. He was tired of arguing a fruitless battle. Tired of pretending his prejudice was the only thing keeping him from the full welcome back to humanity. Too long spent in the cold winter of his own discontent. Thawing back to life was a tiresome, nearly painful process. "I know," he conceded softly. And the weight of the world fell down upon him. A collapse—a confession. Everything he had wanted to keep concealed so long. The complete transformation of character. From one extreme to the next. He hadn't asked for this—hadn't wanted to trust Spike. Hadn't wanted to lose himself all over again. Hadn't asked his unlikely friend and the woman currently cradling his arm to tap back into his compassion. He hadn't wanted it, goddammit. And yet here he was.

"I don't want you to get hurt," he whispered softly.

Cordelia smiled and pat his hand with empty reassurance. "I won't."

"You can't know that."

"Well, I'm pretty stubborn, you see. When I put my mind to something, I don't rest until I see it through."

"This has to be the dumbest plan ever."

She quirked a brow. "Oh, I don't know. I never got through telling you all my adventures a la Sunnydale."

Wright nodded and closed his hand around hers, braving her eyes at last. "Tell me when it's over," he said.

A smile at that and a nod for agreement. "Sounds like a plan."

Yeah. A plan. Seemed to be a lot of those going around.

He would allow it, of course. He had to. He had no place intervening, and no authority over her will to make it otherwise. She was determined. That much was indisputable.

He just hoped she knew what she was doing.

Spike knew it was stupid so soon, but the minute he set foot inside Wolfram and Hart, there was no other truth. He had to see her again.

At times like these, the peroxide vampire wondered if he did himself more harm than good simply by being in existence. His judgment was not exactly reputable, and he had a tendency for getting himself in trouble simply by opening his mouth. And yet, despite his awareness of such things, he could not help himself. It was beyond reproach. Like the bloody clichéd moth to the flame, he was drawn to her. He needed to see her, to be near her. To have that reassurance of her tangibility.

Such was his determination that he didn't think to check on the others' whereabouts. In these fast coming days, his patience had all but plummeted. And while logic attempted to throw itself at any open window, he simply wouldn't hear the half of it.

He had to bloody see her.

There was some merit in reasonability. As his burdened steps drew him nearer, his senses went on high alert. Angelus's scent wafted in the dreary downstairs, but there was no evidence of his current proximity. The quarters were empty—he had thought to check that much—and while two factors did not measure soundness of being; it was all he needed to push him onward. To convince him to plunder his more tangible cares aside and confirm that she was all right.

If only for a second. After all, his previous rendezvous had gone unmentioned. And the peroxide vampire was always one to try his luck.

Strange. He would have thought the shock of seeing her in such a state would have waned and settled. After all, every time his eyes flashed closed, his mind drew him back to a sad focal point of reckoning. She haunted every corner of his psyche, visited and caressed every part of him that had not previously been explored. And yet again, seeing her sliced through every nerve that had once felt life. As though he was bleeding eternally for every one of the lives he had ever destroyed, and could never find solace in death.

Yet her eyes lit up when she saw him. And for that, he would touch the sun.

"Spike."

Funny how a voice so raw with screams and even further disuse could strike up a wind that not even the grandest symphony dared compete.

He couldn't stop himself if he tried. In seconds, he had paraded to her and commanded her sweet mouth into a needing, however gentle kiss, his hands going to her face. Sore eyes did not wish to inspect her for new scars, though he knew it was inevitable. His call for blood in turn of what she had suffered—he needed to know how much. "Told you," he murmured against her skin. "Told you I'd be back."

"Real."

Spike smiled in spite of himself. "Yeah, luv. I'm real."

Buffy pulled back at that, tears flooding her eyes that he could not bear. God, how was it that he always ended up the source of such pain when all he wanted to do was wish it away? But there was no hurt behind her gaze. Rather, she was looking at him with reverential awe. As though he burned effulgent with divinity. "I thought I had dreamed you," she whispered. "I thought..."

"I know, baby."

"But you're here." Her eyes focused on his determinately. "Not a dream."

"Not a dream."

"Real." The word escaped her a tortured gasp, her eyes falling shut as his lips explored her throat. "You're really real."

Despite the weight of circumstance, he smiled against her skin. "That's right."

"Here for me."

"Only for you." He pulled back, eyes shining. "An' the cavalry's on it's way, Buffy. Soon. All right?"

She nodded, though it was clear she didn't understand. "You're very strange," she informed him, nearly pristinely.

A strangled chuckle fought through his throat. "You don' know the half of it."

"Here for me." The Slayer's head quirked. "Spike, why? Please tell me."

And there it was. The open window. She had given it to him before, but he had not leapt through. Something about the timing. Something about everything there was to have reservations about. But she had not flinched away from him then, and she was not now. She had returned his ardent fervor best she could. The tears she sported now, while shards against his nonbeating heart, were not the product of pain.

She could never feel the way he did—he stood by that assessment.

But she deserved to know. She deserved to know something.

Even if the timing could never be appropriate. If not now, then not when she was recuperating. If not then, then not on the drive home. If not home, then never. He would take his love to the end of the world before he scared her off with it, even if she always knew his driving cause.

It had to be said. At least once, if never again.

"Buffy," he began huskily, nearing once more of unknown volition. "I—"

An intrusive scent hit the air with such bluntness that he could not have foreseen its coming until the second before it wrestled him to the ground. Something strong, more than potent. Something that stirred his monster to life with more vitality than he had known in his long years. Such that he feared it would burst free of him and cast his skin aside. The emergence from one to the other. Demon versus man.

Right now, the demon prevailed.

"Well, well," Angelus said from his place at the doorway, arms crossed and a quirked brow. His voice was sharp and metallic, ringing with game and disdain. "Isn't this interesting?"

Chapter Twenty-Seven

World On Fire

The minute that he noticed activity in the holding chamber, something analogous to the worst spool of dread he had ever experienced filled his insides. Living in a world such as he did, Lindsey McDonald did not like to depend on the fear of supposition, but in watching the monitors that had held his captive interest for what seemed like weeks, he could not tear himself away. Watching her dangle there. The proverbial worm on a hook. Reminding himself needlessly in his role. In his position that seemed to worsen exceedingly by the minute.

Then something happened. Spike appeared on camera. William the Bloody. The same he had tried to kill over and over again, thankfully to stumble across his mistake before the boundary of too late was crossed.

There was no denying the fevered look in the vampire’s eyes as he regarded her. This was a man in love. It was so different now; watching the feed as though there in person. Knowing that the same was happening on the levels just below him. That were he to visit Buffy himself, this was the presentation he would receive.

Of course, such unworried satisfaction could only remain thus for a minute. It didn’t take much for his attention to deter to one of the other feeds, and note the proudly familiar disdain on a face he had grown to hate more than he ever thought imaginable.

Angelus was approaching, and he did not look happy.

Decisions from that point were fast making. Lindsey spared himself little room for lapse. He hurried out of his seat and rushed to the cabinet aligning the wall. There wasn’t enough time to make ample selection, but he supposed in the grand scheme of things, such means were insignificant. As long as he could pass it for believable.

McDonald refused to fool himself. He knew that what he was about to do could potentially bear an end to everything he had tortured himself over. Everything Angel Investigations—though, in retrospect, they should consider renaming the industry—had worked toward. And Spike, vampire as he was, had inadvertently placed them there. Not that it wasn’t understandable, of course. Had Buffy been the woman he loved, being separated from her—especially under such circumstances as these—would have rightly driven him out of his mind. To be so close yet unable to help her when she needed it the most. He didn’t know how the peroxide Cockney had done it.

In later days, Lindsey would wonder how he managed to race the seemingly endless miles to the bowels of Wolfram and Hart without encountering any form of obstacle, especially with the gnarly instrument in his hand. Even Lilah Morgan remained far and away from her usual bout of timely interruption. At the moment, however, he didn’t care. Nothing mattered except to get to her. To him. To both of them before Angelus decided to instate his own form of punishment.

As he approached the decisive hall, Lindsey forced his long strides to a hasty walk, panting entirely too much to pull off the frontage he was going for. He could hear Angelus speaking—his words coated with incredulity and sending vibes down the corridor. The elder vampire’s back was to him at present. McDonald paused very briefly and considered. Had he brought something molded of wood, this would have been the chance to beat all others. To finally get something done in the movement of Buffy’s release. However, even before the thought could be birthed into full-blown resentment, he realized that any attempt on the demon’s life would have been interceded, even anticipated. And despite Cordelia’s vouch of good faith, he wasn’t entirely convinced that Spike’s motive would have been kind enough to prevent something as unseemly as his death.

Infinitely better this way. At least he would know where he stood.

“Now, now,” Lindsey berated bravely, commending himself in the actuality of startling his foe with his sudden presence. If anything else, it was worth everything to see Angelus look surprised with himself for not noticing him. “Don’t be cranky. We are an independent enterprise that prides itself in equal opportunity, after all.”

Whatever the astonishment, it didn’t last long. Soon, Angelus’s brow was crestfallen with new shades of anger. “Lindsey,” he greeted, not at all amiably. “So glad you could join us. I was wondering if you could help me as I’m having trouble with this picture. Spike here has taken it upon himself to snoop around what’s mine. I guess it can’t be blamed…he did have the most appallingly inconvenient curiosity. But that’s not what bothers me. Not really. You see, I always regarded us as good friends. Close enough that we would never keep anything from each other. And yet he insists that you gave him permission. You. I find that rather interesting.” His gaze affixed on the mortal with malicious intent. “Don’t you think it interesting?”

The lawyer’s eyes met the peroxide vampire’s and developed instant understanding. He refused to look at the girl. Seeing her now—in person—might rightly undo him for good.

“I didn’t think you’d mind,” he retorted, all too calmly. Enjoying every minute of the other vampire’s rage. “After all, your initial reservation in maintaining the Slayer’s secrecy from our newest acquisition was a question of character. I think last night proved more than enough in the namesake of his regard.”

He had done it. In two minutes, he had detracted all attention from the platinum Cockney and embraced it all for himself. Angelus’s gaze had darkened considerably, the bulk of his body pivoting to box him into a corner, which of course Lindsey did not allow.

“You went against me,” he said very softly. There was sharp challenge behind the observation. As though he had trespassed one of the seven deadly sins.

“Actually, Angel, had you read our contract, you would see that I was entirely within company policy in part of my actions.” Lindsey thought he sounded much calmer than he felt. He knew that everyone present—likely including the Slayer—could feel the race in his pulse, but that did not stop him from continuing. “For purposes that have already been satisfied, Spike has every right to your…guest.” He hated that word. “Just as much as you do. He is no more infringing your hospitality than Darla and Drusilla did when they interviewed her prior to your sessions.”

Angelus’s eyes were cobalt and unreasonably dark. “You know me, Lindsey,” he said. The worse thing about his voice was the definitive lack of a snarl or anything that bordered true hostility. There was anger because there was anger. Just because. He needed no additive influence to get his point across. “I do not favor being treated like any other client.”

“Well, you see, the Senior Partners are concerned.” That lie was easy enough. The Senior Partners were often concerned or interested in something. “They wanted you to be sure that you knew what playing field you were on. This isn’t what you’re used to, Angelus. This is a whole new ballgame. And we have an interest in appeasing all our associations.” He nodded at Spike, whom had, for whatever reason, enough sense about him to remain silent. “Your colleague merely expressed a complaint in boredom. We thought it best to give him something to do. Rest assured, that’s as far as it’s gone. He doesn’t have the…royalties that you so enjoy.”

The elder vampire didn’t react; merely glanced down at the device in Lindsey’s grasp. “Mhmm. And what is that for?”

He had nearly forgotten he had anything with him at all. McDonald held up the instrument, doing his damndest to ignore the whimper that tellingly spilled from Buffy’s lips, as well as the rattle of her chains as she shifted. He similarly ignored the sudden tension wrought in Spike’s intimidating, however taciturn frame. “Well,” he said, fearing his voice’s betrayal, “you have a variety of devices that you refuse to share with anyone. Spike expressed an interest in developing his own collection. I thought to start with this.” His eyes darted to the stormy blue of an unimpressed vampire, who looked to tear his head off for even suggesting such a thing, even if it was to ultimately save him from a scenario that had first seemed impossible. “It’s medieval,” he explained, mind immediately racing to the vaults of otherwise useless information stored there from his college days. The random intricacies that every good Wolfram and Hart lawyer should know about. “You said you wanted something rustic. They call this The Spider. It was forged from iron to resemble a spider, as you might have guessed. We’ll need to heat it until the iron glows. It’s used most commonly to mutilate or even tear off a woman’s breast.”

Spike glared at him a minute longer before realizing that he had missed his cue. “Right,” he said with admittedly well-feigned interest. “Well isn’t this nifty? Whaddya think, Angelus? Do your girl proper, wouldn’t you reckon? Promise I won’ hurt her too much. You were a bloody selfish bastard in your day. Had to have all the best screamers for yourself.”

“Buffy isn’t a screamer,” the elder vampire conceded. His eyes drifted upward coldly. “Much.”

Despite the notable severity of his disposition—not to mention his menacing prejudice toward Lindsey—it was near impossible not to become territorial. Not to rise to the challenge. In any regard, Spike couldn’t help himself. “Well, what can I say, mate?” he retorted perkily. “Some Slayers are fickle like that. Needin’ a real man to help ‘em hit those high notes.”

Angelus glanced to the Spider with a perked brow. “And you think this is going to help you? Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You always were one for toys.”

Spike shrugged. “What can I say? I jus’ like them.”

Something raspy and tainted perturbed the air. Something that had been pure once, even whole. It tore at Lindsey’s heartstrings—though he didn’t know if his note of sympathy was better delivered to the proprietor of such torment or for the look of pure agony that flickered across the peroxide vampire’s face. And again, to his credit, he didn’t remain so blatantly telling for more than a second. Angelus hadn’t the time to see him in such light before it dissolved into cold apathy once more.

What she said, though, could not help but bring a smile to the younger demon’s face. Soft, poignant, and colored with more than McDonald figured the elder could ever identify. “They…they make him feel all manly.”

Angelus arched a brow. “Is that a fact?”

Spike shifted to himself once more without much difficulty with a careless shrug. “Told her as much myself. Don’ worry, Peaches. You’ll get her back.” With that, he seized the Spider from Lindsey’s grasp, appraising it with a glance that shined with avarice. “In mostly one piece.”

“You flatter yourself,” the elder demon snarled, “if you think I’m going to allow this.”

“And you flatter yourself,” Lindsey said, stepping inward bravely, “if you think you’re in any position to stop it. Face it, Angel, you’re not the head honcho around here. The Senior Partners want to see that you remain grounded in the reality that you have chosen for yourself. Spike has every right to torture the Slayer. He is a part of the Order.”

Angelus cocked his head, eyes forming slits. “He also, up until recent, claimed himself in love with her. You don’t think this sudden interest strikes you as—oh, I don’t know…say, coincidental?”

“If you’re planning that route, you’d have to say the same about yourself.”

Spike smirked but didn’t rise to bait. He also refused to look at Buffy, though every fiber in his being was tugging him toward her.

The elder vampire cocked his head inquisitively, his gaze intensifying to a fiery scope that had the potential to unravel the sturdiest of men. “Understand,” he said very quietly, “that the next time I see you—”

“Uh oh,” the platinum Cockney tsked, eyes blazing. He regarded Lindsey with a falsely forlorn disposition, hiding his chuckles under guarded breath. “Now you’ve gone an’ done it.”

“But he can’t,” the lawyer retorted. “And he knows it.”

The next happened all too quickly. Lindsey found himself pressed against the cold murk of the wall, a very dangerous vampire snarling with too much interest at his throat. Angelus refrained from vamping, which likely added to his intimidation. For whatever reason, it was much more frightening looking at that face and pretending it was a man rather than the demon that waited beneath.

“I don’t appreciate being played,” he growled, disdain and cynicism dripping from his voice. “And I don’t give a damn about your Senior Partners. You know what troubles me, Lindsey? The idea that I can’t trust you. I mean—honestly—here I am, giving you every reasonable courtesy I can manage, and the minute my back is turned; you’re making arrangements that you know are just going to Piss. Me. Off.” He enunciated each word with a forceful blow against the wall, eyes blazing but without the need for their more innate yellowish tint. “It makes me feel, oh, I dunno, betrayed. And I don’t like feeling betrayed.”

The mortal gasped for air as his holder threatened to steal it from him altogether, but refused to lose the edge to his voice that gave him some sort of authority. “I suppose you could allow me to rectify it.”

“Wouldn’t advise it, mate,” Spike suggested, brows perked as he reached for his cigarettes. “You might make Big Daddy even angrier than ‘e is now.”

Angelus tossed him a mildly inquisitive glance.

“What?” The peroxide vampire stretched his arms neutrally, fag dangling from his lips. “’m on your bloody side, ‘ere. Kill the wanker, don’ kill the wanker. ‘S your bloody business. ‘m jus’ in it for the fun.” His eyes shone brilliantly, glancing to the Spider that hung still from the lawyer’s hands. “But let me play with that a bit, either way you choose to go. Looks like fun.”

“Kill me and you just have the Senior Partners to contend with,” Lindsey answered, gasping for breath and successfully drawing attention back to himself. “And trust me, Angel, you don’t want that. At least with me, you’re guaranteed some leeway. They won’t put up with you as I have.”

The elder vampire’s grip tightened speculatively. “Oh, I dunno. We could always find out.”

Spike rolled his eyes emphatically. “Jus’ do what you’re gonna do an’ let me get to it. ‘m bored.”

Angelus snickered and tossed a half-interested glance over his shoulder. “You wanna torture the Slayer, boy, there’s nothing stopping you.”

A muffled whimper rumbled from the girl in question, but no one answered her.

The peroxide vampire offered a petulant pout. “’S no fun with you here.”

That was it. Attention successfully deterred for the minute. The elder vampire released Lindsey without another word, disregarding him like an unwanted toy. He pivoted to face the younger demon, brows arched with interest. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone,” he mused thoughtfully. “Especially with what happened the last time.”

Spike sighed. “You gonna hold that against me forever?”

“I don’t take well to those who form alliances with Slayers. Especially when it involves me not ending the world.”

“Oh, but you’re perfectly content with your bloody star-crossed love affair, s’pose? An’ I wasn’ the one makin’ googly eyes at her after she sent me to Hell. Point of fact, I ‘aven’t been there in the recent.”

“You couldn’t survive it.”

The peroxide vampire cocked his head with interest, blowing out a pillar of smoke. “’F memory servers, neither did you. It was your less interestin’ half that wound up lickin’ your wounds. Prolly couldn’t find the time to be tortured for all the sodding brooding you do.”

There was a rustling from behind. Lindsey rose steadfast to his feet, good hand caressing his throat—the Spider having dropped to the floor. “Point being, Angel,” he said. “You don’t have a say in the matter. Spike is permitted at least an hour uninterrupted—less if he chooses, but I’ll leave that up to him.” His chestnut eyes were greeted by the summer’s ocean; nearly compassionate for his compromise, even if a mere sixty minutes could never be enough. “Like I said, you can make all the fuss you like, it doesn’t change anything. And despite how much you care to talk, I don’t think meeting the Senior Partners is what you’re striving for. Work for us, or work against us. But from the sound of things, if you choose the latter, you and yours are going to be on the outs in several locations, especially where your former committee is involved. Word has it that they’re building artillery enough to take you out of the picture for good.”

Angelus snorted incredulously. “You mean to intimidate me?”

“Of course not. I’m hoping to play on your sensibility.”

There was nothing after that. Not a word of compliance, or a move to mark the tides of battle. Instead, the elder demon scowled something dreadful; a look that spoke for everything common language failed to represent. His resentment. His self-made legacy. Angelus, as he was. The full brunt of demonhood. He was most seriously displeased, and he wanted everyone to know.

This was not a fortuitous change by any means, though it was not wholly wanted. As one of the world’s most renowned vampires, edging on his temper was not something to trifle with. And Lindsey knew it. More over, he was counting on it.

But at that moment, he decided that it was worth it and more to see the proud fall, even if the setback was only temporary.

Both the lawyer and Spike remained still until they were certain the elder demon was fully out of earshot before glancing to each other with similar recognition. And even when the unfounded contract was established, there was nothing more than good faith to support it with. The peroxide Cockney’s eyes blazed with acceptance, though traveled downward with more of the same, landing contemptuously on the Spider at his feet.

“That,” he said lowly, not a threat but close enough that Lindsey did not want to press him. “Never bring it near her again.”

He nodded. “I didn’t actually mean for you to—”

“I know. Jus’ a friendly warnin’, mate.” A sigh rumpled through his body. “She’s seen enough without puttin’ more ideas in that wanker’s head.”

Another nod. This one of understanding rather than agreement. He still refused to look at Buffy, admiring her for her silence, but reckoning she had had her fill of experience in that regard. He feared losing what little control he had left if he saw her inflictions in person. Or rather, he would never stop staring. He would keep his eyes fastened on her with morbid fascination. The epitome of fathers who drove curious children by tornado damage or demanded to know the particulars at the scene of an accident.

“You’re really here for her?” he asked the vampire instead.

“Yeh. You really gonna help?”

“Yes.”

“Right then. Guess we ‘ave some talkin’ to do.” There was a whimpered sound of protest that he had seemingly anticipated, or answered to on beck and call with similar esteem. Spike stepped back, his arms refusing to unfold from his chest, eyes remaining glued to him as though daring a move that wasn’t to his liking. “But firs’ I’d like the hour with my girl. No bloody interruptions.”

Lindsey tilted his head in acknowledgment. “I actually might have an idea. Nothing I was sure of until…well, if we get everyone in on it…but I need to do some research.”

“Right. You do the research.” Spike turned away from him at that, and from that moment, he was lost. The lawyer knew enough to recognize and respect this.

“I’ll be in my office,” he said. And then he sent himself away. So hasty to leave, that he likely would have missed the vampire’s low but sincere thanks had he not slowed to collect the Spider in his retreat.

He had every intention of seeing it destroyed before Angelus thought to inquire.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Breathe Into My Pain

His first inquiry was naturally after her welfare, and he thought it rather odd when she favored him with a laugh. It wasn’t a rich laugh, but enough so to decipher that she was chuckling out of amusement rather than cynicism. And it bewildered him. Not that he would ever complain, of course. He would never deny her anything resembling merriment, especially given her current conditions, but it puzzled him all the same.

The way she looked at him still stole the nonexistent breath from his lips. Affectionate, even adoring, and more than grateful. For everything he had done and the hint of everything he would do. Life was a fucking hoot—giving him what he wanted while raping her of everything she deserved. While placing her here. Defiling her with the weight of his failure.

“You’re sweet,” she murmured against his lips.

Spike looked at her askance. “’m what?”

She did not answer, rather looked at him with eyes like saucers; eyes that could tempt him to his last strand of decency, all the while refusing to allow him leave of what had transpired within these walls.

It was awe. Bright, blinding awe. Awe behind her gaze. Behind her guarded thanks. Behind everything that had ever made him what he was or what he ought to be. Awe and adoration. There was no love—he would not delude himself. Buffy did not love him for this, and did not know his own regard, but there was something. Something warm and wonderful, amidst all the pain. And it astounded him. After everything she had seen him do, everything she knew him for, she could find it within herself to look at him like this.

“You’re real.” A statement. A last verification. Known but needed still for all its wonderful realism.

Spike smiled. He couldn’t help it. Nimble, eager yet soft fingers traced her face with adoring regard. There was nothing to do but agree. “Very.”

“You sent him away.”

Lament immediately rose within him. She spoke the truth, but it wasn’t as though he would be there to guard her when Angelus returned to seize what he thought was his. “He’ll be back, pet.”

“But you will, too. Be back.”

The vampire smiled, nodding as he leaned inward, unable to help himself. His empty lungs filled with her essence, his nostrils carrying her scent as far as physics would allow. “The next time you see me,” he whispered urgently, “it’ll be to take you away from here. You got it?”

“How?”

“There’s a plan, sweets.”

“Angelus…he has the…the only…”

He nodded once more, brushing a butterfly kiss against her temple. “I know,” he murmured. “But Cordy’s thought of somethin’. Albeit, ‘s not very good, but ‘s somethin’.”

Buffy fell silent for a few long seconds, her eyes heavy with burdened resolve. “Spike…” she murmured. “You…you never told me.”

“Told you what, baby?”

“Why.” She pulled back at that, gaze burning him to his core. He couldn’t help but swell with admiration. She was undoubtedly the strongest person he had ever known. The Slayer back and front when she wasn’t trying to be something else. A woman that didn’t know her own abilities. Buffy—the shadow of perfection that returned sunlight to hands that did not know what to do with it. The determination he saw there was nothing short of extraordinary. A need for knowledge that surpassed her well-being. That surpassed everything she was meant to be. And in that, he saw that despite what had transpired here, she would always be as she was. That strength could not be besmirched and abolished. “Spike…you hate me.”

A poignant smile drew to his face. She had accused him of as much upon first seeing him. “No.”

“But—”

He silenced her with another kiss, tasting lips that were just as raw, just as abused as the last time he demanded anything from her. “I don’t hate you, luv,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t be here ‘f I did.”

“Then why?”

A sigh sounded through his lips. He had been ready to tell her. So ready until Angelus interfered. Ready to reveal everything. To detail his agonizing love for her in ways that would likely result in her beg for him to leave her be. To die at the hands of these sadists rather than wish that sort of adoration upon herself. But then, she did not appear repulsed when he touched her. She returned his attentions as best she could and even made to initiate her own. He had told himself that it was due to the circumstance, but the smallest part of him couldn’t help but wonder. But hope. “You wouldn’t like it, pet.”

“Spike—”

“I don’t hate you. That’s all you need to know.”

A protest fettered to her lips but died in her eyes before it could be voiced. And then she smiled at him—undemanding and somehow understanding. As though she knew without needing to be told, or was complacent in the ever-elusive state of ignorance he thought was so necessary. “I don’t either,” she whispered. “Hate you. I don’t think I ever have.”

Spike’s stared at her in astonishment. “You don’?”

“You’re…”

“Pet, you don’ have to prove anythin’ to me. Ever.” His hands molded around her face softly, barely touching her but needing the contact. Any contact. “’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“Before…” she murmured. “Before this…before—”

“Don’ try to talk ‘f it hurts.”

“I need.” She indulged a breath to compose herself. “Spike, before. When we…were before. Before all…before Angel…before—”

He nodded encouragingly, brushing a kiss over her lips. “Before the wankers took you,” he acknowledged.

“You were…I know I never…never said it…” Despite the determination on her face, it was more than obvious that the last thing she needed to be doing was attempting to speak.

“Pet—”

“Before. You were…good…you were being good…to me. And—”

“Buffy—”

A flash of irritation surged behind her eyes, and he couldn’t help but admire her for it. Nor could he help the smile that spread across his lips at her forceful tone. That was his girl. “Would you let me talk? Please?”

That didn’t mean, however, that he would allow her to stress herself to the point of affecting her health. “You shouldn’t,” he told her. “Don’ worry yourself with me, luv. Ever. Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“No. In case…just in case…”

Something cold fell within him—the mere suggestion of any other possible outcome foregone on his caring candor. He looked at her astray, as though she offended him or endangered herself even further for the notion of anything else. “Don’t,” he said harshly, unable to help himself. “Don’t say that. Don’ even think it. We’re gonna get you outta here.”

“Just in case—”

“No.”

There it was. Plea. The rawness of emotions touching her where nothing else stood the chance. It nearly choked him—rightfully so. The brunt weight of everything he had ever seen, ever done, could not compare to this. There was no measure for credence. No measure for anything. “Spike,” she gasped, breaking his nonbeating heart all over. “Please. I have to…just this. This reassurance that you’ll…that you know how much I…” She paused to take a breath, raising her head slowly to meet his captivated gaze. “Thank you. Thank you for…everything.”

Thanking him. She was thanking him? For doing what was natural to him? For being here, for being…anything.

Spike’s vision blurred. “You don’ have to…I had no other…I…oh, Buffy, I…”

She smiled weakly. “Don’t tell me I rendered you speechless.”

He snickered inarticulately, regarding her with warmth that should have rightly set him ablaze. “Li’l more than that,” he replied.

There was a considerate pause, but she nodded all the same. It was oddly formal—this meeting between two people who had shared so much without sharing anything at all. His hands ached to touch her, to make her feel better as he had before, but his will forbade it. He would not reach for her intimately without permission. Not when she had suffered so much abuse. Not with his warring conscience warning him still that anything that had transpired had nothing to do with him. He was simply the first who had offered a caress of gentility. She would have taken it from anyone.

Though the thought made his already cold blood freeze within dead veins.

“There’s no reason,” she whimpered the next minute, drawing him back to her with the smallest glance. “No reason for you to be here, Spike.”

“You’re reason enough.”

“I never gave you reason.”

He smiled gently, unable to resist from caressing her brow with his lips. “You din’t need to. I know these blokes, pet. Know ‘em well. The whole nasty lot. The thought of you up here…that was enough reason for me.”

Buffy shook her head. The confusion on her face nearly tore him apart. As always, it was more than that. It had to be. And she knew it. Even without the luxury of viewing himself in a mirror, he knew damn well that his eyes gave him away a thousand times over. The years before his siring had taught him that much. Nights staggering home to Mother with the routine stop in front of the mirror to be sure he didn’t look too strained. Too disheveled. Too brokenhearted. He would look in the mirror and hate himself for what he saw staring back at him. A good man, if not one bent by society’s standards.

A hundred years couldn’t change that, nor could the demon inhabiting his insides. Spike reckoned his monster and William had spent enough time together to measure out the pros and cons of their individual status. The past few months had seen more William than he ever cared to acknowledge.

“He said…” Spike’s eyes immediately went to her face, large and inquisitive. Her voice, aching as it was, sounded heavenly to ears that ached to hear it. “Angel…he said…that you were…that you…”

Oh, bugger Peaches. The old ponce would have mentioned his love for the Slayer. He had been hoping she was too foregone to notice. Of course not. Life did not bend to that whim, even when the one being played was by no standards alive. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Wanker says a lot of things,” he retorted dismissively with a shrug.

“Spike. No. He said—”

“Never mind what he says. Never mind anythin’ he says.”

The Slayer opened her mouth to contest him as she always would. As he would always have her do. However, by some decree, she held her tongue and kept her thoughts to herself. Then there was resignation. From the confusion playing a harp across her features to steadfast resignation. The unsatisfied acknowledgement that she would get nothing else from him.

In that moment, seeing that defeat on her face, he was inspired once more to tell her. Tell her, get it on the table, sod all consequences. He loved her. He was here because he loved her. Where she went, he would follow. Even if she led him into sunlight.

He loved her, and she deserved to know.

But not now. The courage he had so prided himself on failed once more. To see the face of her rejection here would outdo him. Especially given what they had already shared. He had touched her like a lover and she had not denied him. If he made the suggestion that such contact ever exceed probability, she likely and rightly would.

There was, of course, the old adage that traumatic experiences changed a person. That didn’t rest well with Spike, either. If she ever came to him of her own will, he wanted it to be out of genuine feeling rather than obligation. Rather than repaying a debt he would rather her live all her days than attempt to redeem. This was enough to fill an eternity’s worth of empty nights. This was everything.

“Dru.”

Spike blinked, startled and jolting back to study her eyes. “What?”

“Dru. Have you…have you seen Dru?”

He stared at her as though she had broken into a Broadway show tune. Drusilla? She wanted to know about Drusilla? The look in her eyes was serious enough, but he couldn’t believe it.

Where on earth had that come from?

“Well, yeh, ‘ve seen her,” he replied awkwardly, still unsure of what she was looking for. “She went huntin’ with them…with us. I din’t bite anyone, Buffy, I swear. I—”

“Have you…been with Dru?”

The peroxide vampire simply stared, searching her eyes for whatever she was not telling him. Then with a notion of the same, her gaze dropped to the ground and she attempted to hide, best she could as she was. Naked and exposed—open to anything or anyone that decided to take pleasure in her body. The move was so random, so blessedly unexpected that he didn’t know whether to demand meaning or bark a laugh in turn.

“Dawn,” she said just as suddenly. “Glory. Does…where’s Dawn? How—”

“The Bit’s in England with Rupert,” Spike retorted easily. “’E took the lot of them to get away from that Hellgod bint.”

“Mom?”

“With ‘em, I think. ‘E’s ‘avin’ the Council of Wankers help her with her condition. At leas’, tha’s what he suggested.” That had been days ago, he realized. Days, and yet what all had happened. What all had changed.

There was a widening in Buffy’s eyes that he hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. That innate Slayerness that coursed through her veins overpowering any need for herself in order to think in the welfare of others. He had no idea how she did it. How she could even form rational thought with all she had been through. “Spike,” she whispered urgently. “If something happens…if I—”

“You won’t.”

“But—”

“No bloody ‘buts’, Buffy. ‘m gettin’ you outta here.”

“—you have to watch her. Okay? Just…just please…promise me that. Promise—”

He stole her words with a kiss to silence her completely, hoping that her better judgment and—more appropriately—some form of anger would speak for her. It did not. Instead, she matched him for what she could without doing further injury to herself, and it was obvious that she meant to fight the same when he pulled away. She would keep asking it of him until he complied. Until he agreed completely.

“Tell you what, sweetheart,” he murmured. “We’ll watch her together, all right?”

“She’s…she’s the—”

Spike’s eyes widened with alarm, knowing instinctively that whatever was about to spill across her lips was too important to be trusted with stone walls that might as well be paper thin. There wasn’t anything to suggest such, of course. He just knew it. And alliance or not, he wasn’t about to trust Lindsey McDonald with anything that had not already been endowed upon his shoulders. No matter that the moment the words tickled the air, he was inherently curious as to their conclusion. “Don’ say anythin’,” he warned. “Okay?”

Buffy paused to look at him inquisitively, and nodded when she understood.

“Just protect her,” she told him instead. “Please.”

“Like I said, luv, we’ll protect her together.”

“If I don’t—”

“’ll watch the Bit till the world ends,” he promised. “But not before I get you outta here safe an’ sound. All right? She’s fine. Anythin’ had ‘appened, I’d’ve heard from Rupert by now. The lover Wiccans are with the lot, too. Don’ think any of the Scoobies stayed in SunnyD after you…” What could he say? Left? As though she decided to take a holiday and vanished of her own accord? No. Even in such, he could not pretend. “After you were gone.”

That didn’t seem to calm her as he had hoped. Instead, Buffy’s eyes went wide, and she surged painfully against her restraints. The whimper that tore through her throat was the only mark of injury she made, but it caused his cold blood to boil all the same. To watch worn skin tear and reopen old wounds. As delicately as he could, Spike placed his hands on her shoulders to calm her, intent gaze matching hers for everything she had yet to betray.

“The Hellmouth,” she gasped. “The Hellmouth is…no one’s there to…”

“Buffy—”

“They’ll think…” She rested against his offered shoulder, panting with exertion. It killed him that it took so little to wind her. “Spike…they’ll think that…the demons…they’ll think I’m…that I’m dead. That the Hellmouth is free…free range. They’ll—”

“Don’ worry about the Hellmouth.”

“Spike! I—”

He discontinued her protests with a fierce, brazen kiss that did little to deter the worries sprouting on either side. However, she did not protest. Did not fight him. Offered no resistance. Rather, after a few seconds, she relaxed and returned his fervor with a touch of her own, making him burn all over with the slightest suggestion. He pushed his way into her mouth, marking her for everything she had left to offer, if only for a little while.

There was a contented murmur when they parted. Though he could not have been prepared for what she said next.

“How can you touch me?”

Spike blinked worriedly and jumped back as though scathed. “I’m sorry,” he gasped immediately. “God, I’m so sorry. I thought you…” So close and yet so bloody far. If he had pushed beyond the boundaries of his welcome, intently or not, he would surely meet the sunlight come morning. And when he felt courage enough to speak again, he nearly flinched at the dejectedness in his tone. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

There was a thick pause as she studied him, and then, to the amazement of both, threw her head back and laughed. “Oh God, I do,” she reassured him. “You…I don’t know why…I thought about it after you…after you left me—”

He flinched; she did not respond.

“—the…things…you did things…” Her eyes fell with near shyness to the ground, and the notion did him in all over. “I never thought you’d touch me like that.”

“Neither did I,” he admitted. He never thought she would let him.

“You…” Then Buffy was looking at him again, overpowering her bashfulness for the more stringent curiosity. “You’re more than you say you are, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“Angelus…he…he’s hurt me.” Though he knew that, it pained him still with a flush of unbridled anger to hear the words on her lips. “He’s soulless. He’s a monster. You’re the same.” Her eyes locked with his. “You’re supposed to be the same.”

“I’d never hurt you.”

“I know.” And she did. Amazing. Looking at her, he saw that she did. “And that’s what…like I said, you’re more than you say you are. I never…God, I never saw it. Never…Spike, you’re…” A sigh. She shook her head. “I don’t know why…you won’t tell me. Tell me how you can…touch…”

The vampire couldn’t help the smirk that tickled his lips, nor the command to bend forward and work her body for her. Whatever it was, her words had inspired more than hope. Now he took to caring for her as a privilege. A duty. A bond that she shared with no one else. Trusted with no one else. His alone to play to endless perfection. “Like this?” he asked, licking a wet path around an erect nipple.

She crooned and moaned against him, answering with a breathy and barely audible, “Yes.”

“’Cause I want to.” Obvious enough. He nuzzled his face between her breasts, lapping up whatever he could. Dried blood. Sweat. Even the dirt and grime that had collected there. He didn’t care. It was all her. “’Cause you don’t need to feel pain anymore, sweetheart. After we get you outta here, ‘m gonna see you rightly cared for an’ pampered till the end of time.”

“But I…” Buffy hesitated, considering how to voice her concerns. “You can’t…it can’t be something you enjoy. I’m…look at me…I—”

Spike smiled against her, nuzzled still and refusing to leave for the moment. “Since when do you care about what I want?”

“Since you were good to me.” She moaned when his tongue came back into play, wiggling her hips a bit. As much as her chains would allow her. “Since I realized how…how…”

“Don’ say it,” he cautioned, lifting his head to kiss her again.

There was a rumbled chuckle that put more pressure on her lungs than she was willing to concede for the moment. “You should know by now,” Buffy told him, “that if you don’t want me to do something, then the last thing the to do is to tell me not to do it.”

“Touché.” Spike pulled back slightly, attempting to not enjoy the murmur of discouragement that shot through her in effect. “You’re gorgeous, Summers. Doesn’ matter what ‘e does to you. Doesn’ matter a damn. You’re…I’ve never seen—”

She rolled her eyes.

He quirked a brow. “You don’ believe me?”

“In a word, no.”

The vampire chuckled in amusement. “Sassy. You must be feelin’ better.” However, before she could voice her opposition, he pressed a decisive finger to her lips and shook his head, weary of her in every sense of the word. “Trust me, baby,” he murmured. “Walkin’ through that door an’ seein’ you…after everythin’ ‘ve gone through to get here…nothin’ more beautiful than that. An’ trust me, pet. ‘m a greedy bastard. I’ve gotta have it all. An’ I do with you. You’re so strong. So bloody…your courage astounds me.”

The twinkle behind her eyes fell without prompt, giving way for the more palpable twinge of sorrow. “I don’t feel very courageous,” she whimpered. “Or strong. If I…I would’ve been able to…I could’ve…”

He kissed the hollow of her throat in reassurance. “There’s nothin’ you coulda done.”

“I’m not used to being helpless, Spike. I can’t stand it.”

“I know.”

“I’m the Slayer.”

“’m here, luv. We’ll get you out.” Spike rumbled a sigh and rested his forehead against hers. “An’ you’ll be back to kickin my ass like ole times. To make it easier for you, ‘ll even pretend like it hurts. How ‘bout it?”

She smiled gratefully. “I couldn’t go back to hurting you. Not after this.”

“Oi. Don’ make promises you can’t—”

“I can’t.” She leaned forward and kissed him gently, and his entire body froze in turn. It was wonderful, the liberated feel of her lips on his. Of her doing. Of her initiation. Forming that connection because she wanted it formed, rather than the heedless reassurance that played from his end every time he demanded her mouth for his own satisfaction. The moan that tickled her throat in turn only served to further his conviction, and his legs quivered in turn. “You’re really here.”

“’F you don’ know that by now—”

“I know it. I just can’t believe it. I’ve never treated you…” Buffy’s eyes fell shut once more. “I don’t deserve it.”

Instant anger furrowed within him. Didn’t deserve it? He couldn’t think of anyone more deserving. “Yes you do.”

“Not from you.”

She was dancing closer to reiterating the same question he refused to answer, and Spike wasn’t sure that his will was strong enough this time around to bid the same refusal. The defiance that suggested he could not reveal all his bearings without losing something for himself. The path he ventured was dangerous and unsure, he knew, and the various stubs along the way could prove incurable if he suddenly took a fall.

Thus he retreated within himself once more. Seeking, hunting, needing something desperately to distance her from questions about his regard. She knew he felt something—that much was obvious. She knew it and she didn’t want to believe it, but she knew it all the same.

If the word love were to surface, it might rightly be the undoing for all of them. He had to distract her.

Her and himself.

“Why’d you ask about Dru?”

A brief pause. “What?”

“Dru. You asked me about Dru.”

Buffy released an exasperated sigh. “Don’t try to change the subject.”

“No. You asked me. I wanna know.” Spike cocked his head, inspired with genuine curiosity. “You asked ‘f I’d been with her since I got back. Why?”

The Slayer’s head lowered conspiratorially at that, and she snuck a peek at him to see if he was laughing at her. “Well…” she answered softly, almost afraid to be heard. “…have you?”

The peroxide vampire reckoned that after finding little evidence to the contrary, being continuously surprised by her was not going to help anything. And yet, he couldn’t help himself. It was self-inflicted, of course. Provoked at his own measure. But to consider her as he did now. The meek wonderment behind such fiery depths of solitude. There was something there that most definitely had not known existence long. Something burning and powerful. Something that was most assuredly not within the bounds of normal curiosity.

She was jealous.

The Slayer—Buffy—was jealous. And she hadn’t wanted him to know.

Liberated joy spread through him, though it had no rightful place. Given ordinary circumstances, Spike would have taunted her. He knew that upfront, just as he similarly knew that he would do no such thing now. It wasn’t a question of the ethics he was not supposed to have, nor the strain of civility deemed by the best as void to all of his kind. It was simple knowledge. Straightforward, simple knowledge.

“No, luv,” he answered softly. “She’s tried, though. Makin’ with the ‘come hither’ eyes an’ what all. ‘S prolly another reason Angelus wasn’ too keen on believin’ I was jus’ happenin’ by. No doubt she’s been wailin’ an’ givin’ dear ole grandmum an’ your precious ex a fair share of grief since I won’ entertain her.”

Buffy nodded, though it was obvious that she didn’t understand. “Why?” she asked a few minutes later. “Why haven’t…you’ve wanted Dru back for forever. Why are you doing…why any of this? Why not just…be one of them?”

There was an incredulous chuckle and he shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, Summers,” he noted admiringly. “Honestly, ‘f you don’ know by now…”

“How can I, when you won’t tell me?”

Touché. But every turn deserved another.

“Why does me bein’ with Dru matter at all?” Spike reached to tuck loose locks of disobedient hair behind her ear, thumb unable to help from caressing her cheek.

More uncomfortable fidgeting. Despite the circumstances, he couldn’t deny that he loved seeing her like that. And whatever the cause, she looked remarkably well for what she had been through. As though someone had fueled her with energy—with reason—since he last saw her. He wanted to believe that he had something to do with it, of course, but fool as he might be, Spike was not one to live in a world of his creation. Life with Drusilla had more than proven the dangers of such presumption.

“When you were here…” Buffy said softly, every word a caress that further inflated shards of hope that had no reason to be cared for. “When you were with me before, you…you made me feel…better.”

He arched a probing brow. “Better?”

“You…touched…” The hint of rouge tinted her cheeks, charming him. He well remembered their encounter. He had lived on nothing else since. “You touched me…and it felt…”

His mouth was tugging in a grin, but he didn’t want to embarrass her. Nor did he want to flood his own judgment with hope that led him through a series of falsely lit tunnels to the same drawn, empty conclusion. “Good?” he suggested softly.

The embarrassment was still there, though her countenance betrayed more a fear of rejection and mockery than her admittance to any sort of want of feeling. “Yes.”

Spike flashed a dimpled smile. “Good. ‘S s’posed to work like that, luv.”

“I know. But you…you haven’t…”

The allure on his face melted just as quickly to vexation. Haven’t…?

Oh.

There was little mistaking in that. His fingers danced over the tender skin at her thigh, not presuming anything more intimate for the moment. Though he doubted himself wrong, there was still something very erroneous about acting without permission. And here he was: granted the same he had always thought himself denied. She wanted him. Good God, Buffy Summers wanted him. His touch. His comfort. His caress. Him.

“I wasn’ gonna,” he replied softly. “Not unless you asked me. Din’t know ‘f I was…’f you wanted me to…”

The blush in her cheeks was growing deeper. Bloody mesmerizing.

“Not because of Dru,” he reassured her. “She’d never stop me from touchin’ you, pet. Only you have that kinda power.” Spike leaned forward and planted a kiss on her forehead, eyes falling shut. “I never thought you’d let me this close.”

“I wouldn’t have,” she agreed, moaning when his lips found her throat again. “Never. Oh…”

There was a rumbled sigh of concession. He forced his hands to fists and bade himself away with an inward curse. “We’re runnin’ low on time, darling,” he warned. “I better—”

Desperation filled her eyes: straight and urgent. As though she would collapse at command, chains and all. “No. Don’t go.”

The world had not known itself long enough to be deemed this cruel.

“I have to.”

“Please, Spike…” There was enough there to tug at whatever will he had left, but the peroxide vampire forced himself to be strong. To resist her, even if every fiber of his being commanded him otherwise. “Please don’t leave me. Not again.” Her face was falling with more despair by the second—commanding him with resolute dominance. “You make me forget. God, you make me forget. If you leave, it comes back. It’ll all come back.”

Spike swallowed hard, reactionary senses on autopilot. He couldn’t trust himself otherwise. “I’ll be back, Buffy,” he said softly. “You know I will.”

The doubt that had been there the first time he told her as much was gone, much to his relief. There was no reason to suspect him of fallacy now. Not with what had passed between them. A blessed so much and a mournful so little.

“I know,” she conceded at last. “I know. I just…I…”

“’S killin’ me too, pet. To be this bloody close.” A dark wave overwhelmed him, not terribly unexpected, but sudden all the same. His mind was not so agreeably engaged. Not when he saw the evidence of avarice sprawled before him in her barren glory. The marks embedded in her skin weren’t going anywhere, and he didn’t want to consider how many new ones lay in wait.

How she might suffer for his lapse at Angelus’s hand.

“’m gonna kill him.”

“Spike—”

“I mean it, Buffy. This isn’t somethin’ you can talk me out of…not that that’s been a big sellin’ point in the past. I don’t care that ‘e’s not your bloody Angel. I don’ care that ‘e has a pretty li’l clause that’ll make all this forgivable. I don’—”

“It’s not his fault.”

The words made him burn with insufferable fury. “’S not yours, either. An’ of the two of you, I wager I’d find more fault with tall, dark, an’ brooding.” He caressed her cheek absently. “’m gonna kill him, Buffy. Make no mistake of that.”

There was nothing but silence for a long minute, her eyes bland but imploring his all the same. In evidence of her searching for motive. For reason of being. For anything. There was life there. Life hidden beneath layers of hardened shell. As though she was trying to reemerge even when baring herself completely was at its most dangerous. It took only seconds to recognize what she was doing. What she was looking for. What she needed to find with such desperation that it took him asunder a whole new wave of awe.

She was reading him. She was looking into him. The notion touched him more than perhaps anything he had ever felt—more than her kisses, her acceptance, her pleasured moans as he helped her forget for just a little while where she was. Buffy had never gazed at him with a want of learning. She had always seen what there was to see in the eyes of a Slayer. She had always seen what every good little Chosen One should. And despite her reasoning, she had never attempted to look beyond that. Burdened and scorned happily within her prejudice. There was only one vampire that she would ever accredit leniency, and he had betrayed her. Betrayed her in every since of the word, even if the circumstances were not directly of his will.

Angel would not have wished this upon her, and Spike would kill anyone who had. Angel would have risked everything to get her out. Angel, despite reputation, likely wouldn’t have displayed as much patience as the platinum Cockney felt he had exercised. Angel wouldn’t have crumpled to look at her, even if it was tearing him up. He was a stone façade in any context.

But the Angel in her recollection had a soul. Spike did not. Yet here he was. Risking the same. Risking, perhaps, more than the same. Sharing her tears. Fighting her fights. Giving her everything with no question as to what he was owed in turn. Everything that conventionally defied a vampire was lost on him. And Spike was a vampire. He was a vampire of the strictest sense. A vampire that relished, that killed, that felt no pity or remorse.

Except that he did. And he was here now. That meant everything. The vengeance burning his gaze would not go unpaid. Because he was here. Because he was sincere.

Perhaps pain had calloused her feelings on the matter. The line defining right and wrong was so damn blurry. Spike saw himself through her eyes. Saw him, not Angel. Saw the acceptance that she made not only of him, but what he had sacrificed—risked—to be with her now. Saw that while he bore no marks of consequence, his wounds were just as deep as hers.

For the world, he looked a man ready to avenge the woman he loved. And he wouldn’t stop for anyone. Not even her.

Angel’s blood would not come at his expense. While there was no love lost between the two vampires, this had nothing to do with their notorious dislike of each other. And perhaps that was what defined it. What unclouded her judgment. Angelus had killed Jenny Calendar, and that was enough to sentence him. What he was doing now—to her, to civilians, to Spike—merited a second turn. And there was no Willow here to help him.

Perhaps with as much as she had at once loved Angel, these crimes stood for no forgiveness. Either way, the matter was out of her hands. That much was more than obvious. And Buffy would not begrudge her champion for it.

“All right,” she whispered.

Spike stared at her as though attempting to decipher whether she meant it. Her eyes could not lie to him.

Thus he smiled. “Thank you.” It felt an odd thing to say. Gratification for her approval of killing a former lover. But times like these were not meant for logic. Not with a Slayer of Slayers rescuing the victim of his own prey. The same that had taken his heart, even if she didn’t know herself to be a theft. The words were blunt and true. No want of further feeling could come from them. “I…what ‘e’s done to you…’s killed me.”

Selfish. Killed him. She was the one being tortured.

And yet, surprisingly still, she smiled her understanding. “I know. I don’t know why, but I know.”

A moment of complacent stillness. For perhaps the first time, they truly knew each other.

It couldn’t last long. Soon, Spike was pulling away, shades of regret shadowing his face. “I gotta go.”

And again, instant denial. She wouldn’t let him leave for the world. “No.”

“Buffy…’ll be back for you.”

“When?”

“As soon as I bloody can.”

He might have just declared it years; her eyes flooded with tears once more. How he hated that look on her, knowing that he caused it. And yet, there was resignation. Pain from both her heart’s tug and the worn, abused muscles affixed within an equally abused body. “I know,” she whimpered. However, there was more. There was always something more. And even after she spoke again, she seemed surprised at the sudden bout of desperate neediness clinging to her voice. A tone overwhelmed with unnamed emotion. “But, please. Please. If you’re going to…”

That was it. He couldn’t help himself if he tried. Spike edged closer, nudging her brow with his. “What do you need, baby? What can I do?”

Her eyes drifted shut. “Just make it go away. I don’t care how long. Just…please…I need…”

There was nothing else to be said. He nodded his understanding. “Like before?”

“You can…” Despite the tears, the blush was back, affecting him just as sharply as before. He didn’t reckon there was a move she could make that would fail to influence him in some fashion or another. “You can…”

It was possibly the only time that Spike felt safe enough to listen to her body for everything she couldn’t yet trust with words. He smothered the grin that fought to break across his face, afraid that she would interpret him in an unflattering light. The mere thought of caressing her intimately spoke for every privilege he thought himself unworthy.

His own needs would go ignored. He tuned them out as though it had always been so simple. This wasn’t about him; it never had been.

“Okay,” he murmured, brushing a nearly chaste kiss across her forehead. Then slowly, thoughtfully, he began to descend down the taut length of her, nibbling and licking a wet path as he went. He paused briefly to make gentle, however arousing play with her nipples, but his venture prompted him further southward; not content until he was on his knees, hands softly caressing her thighs to relax her.

He felt her tense as though her skin was naturally resistant to him. Quivering at the touch of a vampire. Spike did not find offense—he could not. Not with what she had suffered. It had been his kind that made this of her. That had done this to her. They had reduced a pure beacon of light into something that cowered under sheltered beauty. He knew that she did not think herself particularly desirable and perhaps would not for the rest of her days. The atrocities that she had endured had the ability to slash the source of any woman’s self value. Where the essence of her conscience resided.

He was more than determined to prove her wrong.

“Relax,” he breathed against the welcoming warmth of her, nuzzling lightly into the nest of curls that guarded him from the delicacy waiting for his touch. Her scent was driving him wild. It would be a miracle if he did not find himself dust at her feet by no other whim than his haven before all was through.

“I am.”

The Slayer was notably not the most gifted of liars. Not when it came to such things.

“Buffy, I don’ have to—”

“No.” She strained as far forward as she could, overwhelming him with the trust of gesture. “Please…oh, God, please. Please.”

Spike’s gaze traveled heatedly up the length of her, the pureness of her scent sure to do him in. She was breathing heavily, her head thrown back and her eyes closed; a look of thoughtful concentration mapping her face. It amazed him that she could ever doubt her beauty. That she could doubt that he wanted her, regardless of what had become of her body. True, every inch of flesh was caked with something other than her innate goodness, but it presented her with light that only emphasized her strength. Her stamina. Her everything.

She was moaning at his fingertips. Panting, pleading, begging him to touch her. The doubt that had harbored his stomach roused once more with caution, but he would not listen to it. Buffy knew who he was, what he was, and had asked him for this. Asked him to relieve her pain, if only for a minute. And despite whatever consequence his actions might produce, he would never refuse her.

Slowly, intently, he lowered his mouth to the warm wetness that awaited his touch, indulging in nibbling licks that all had the same objective. His teeth scraped purposely against her inner thigh, eyes glued to her face to indulge all her reactions. The beads of sweat that had lined her forehead had multiplied without command. There because they were there.

“Please,” she begged.

“Baby want somethin’?”

A scowl befell her. He didn’t think she could look menacing if she tried; even had her arms and legs been free. “Evil.”

He chuckled. “Always.”

She pouted when she saw he was poking fun at her duress, though the light in her eyes contested anything she might have wanted him to believe otherwise. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s not nice to tease torture victims?”

The words struck that haunting chord within, but Spike pushed his innate sense of retribution aside. If she was not bothered by it, he would not assume to highlight how it troubled him. How he hated to think of her as such and have no place to change it with the rapidity he so desired. But he smiled anyway. Kindly. Lovingly. “Sorry luv,” he murmured against her. “Must’ve missed that memo.”

Then he licked a wet trail up her slit, and his eyes nearly rolled back at the richness of her taste. It had been a sample, really. Nothing more than a sample. But God, it stirred emotions that he did not believe could become more potent. To have the flavor of her yearning for him—him—on his tongue was more than he ever thought he could touch. She had pushed his belief beyond boundaries of understanding in more ways than one.

“So sweet,” he murmured, fingers skimming up her leg to play. He felt her skin sprout shivers in turn and the notion enchanted him.

“Ohhhh…”

His mouth returned to her, nibbling softly at her moist folds. He maintained an inward smile when she strained against him. It was too little to be so much. Spike had long prided himself in being a purely sexual being, but for all his experience and usual control, nothing could have prepared him for this. For touching her so lightly and relishing the reaction received—his just as, if not more powerful than her own. He was lapping at her, cherishing her taste. Her warmth. The ambrosia that she willingly gave him. It was pure Buffy, and it drove him wild.

Spike managed to maintain purpose. He wanted to draw this out as long as possible, and while his motives at present were about as pure as the yellow driven snow, the reminder remained steadfast in its insistence that this had nothing to do with him. It was about her. About making her feel as much nonpain as possible before he left her side. Before he crawled away to the real world and abandoned her for the likes of what Angelus would do. For what had passed.

“Oh God,” she gasped headily. “Spike. Oh God.”

Of course, if she kept on like that, he wasn’t sure he could maintain command of himself.

“Please,” Buffy whimpered, her voice burdened with fraught passion that even she had thought long dead. “More. Please. I need…oh God—” She buckled against her bindings when his tongue came closer to penetration, and he immediately pulled back, not wanting to cause her more pain. “No! Please more. Please. God, I need you.”

Spike froze. His eyes met the desperation in hers, but for the first time since seeing her, it wasn’t her that his thoughts favored. He wasn’t even sure that it was himself. “What did you say?” he asked, voice barely audible even to his ears.

“I need you,” she repeated, evidently missing the significance of such a confession. With so little having been said, he found it amazing, even in this situation, that she would give him that much. That she could give him that much. And that she didn’t even realize what it was. What it meant for her. For him. For both of them. “God, Spike…I need you so much.”

A moan of concession tore through his throat. He caught her swollen clit between his teeth, enveloping the needy bud without ceremony. He nibbled at her. Tasted her. Rubbed her sensitive skin between his teeth with rough gentility. Nimble fingers caressed her labia before his mouth took over. He tasted every inch of her, claiming her all over. When he tasted the blood that had driven him off just two days before, he suckled at it. Greedy. Desperate. Not hurting her. He would never. But at some point, will and rationality had abandoned him. He was inebriated with her taste, and her words were the driving force that saw him home.

She mewled his name again, her heated cries becoming frenzied. When his attention returned to her clit, the words that had been fighting her sensibility abandoned her without merit. His tongue encircled her once, twice, and drew her inward once more. The whimpers rumbling from her throat shot straight to his crotch; he was so hard that he couldn’t believe the flimsy zipper separating him from entrapment and relief had held. Every lick was serving to make him more lost. His hands ached to see to his relief, but he knew that to leave her body in any form would see the rightful end of him. He couldn’t stop touching her.

“God,” he gasped into her skin. The vibrations he sent against her only fueled her ardor further. “You taste so good.”

“Ohhhhh…”

He wasn’t sure if she had heard him or not, but her hips thrust forward in sharpened frenzy. That was it. All it took. His tongue delved inside her sweetness, searching and finding, seeking and needing. He stroked and lapped and took up all he could. He was a selfish bastard; there wasn’t a sip of this nectar that would go to waste, not a taste that he would concede to another. The tips of his fingers found her clit and caressed with gentleness that offset the ferocity he was attempting to keep at bay. He had tasted perfection and the unspoken suggestion that he might have to give it up was enough to bring out the monster he had spent weeks repressing since his feelings knew light. He found that perfect spot within her and probed relentlessly—even after he felt her start to tense. Even as the ripples of orgasm rode through her. Even as he knew this was when he was supposed to pull away and return to the world outside. The world darkened because it was denied her light. The world he was here for. The world that had given him her, only to rip her away again.

Spike’s hands clutched at her thighs in desperation as the echo of her euphoria died around them. He held her so tight he began to fear hurting her further, rationality pouring back into him as his arms loosened and drew her near. A soft whimper pushed through his lips and his head found solace against the flat of her stomach. It took a few seconds to realize that when his vision blurred, it wasn’t because of the passion that had overwhelmed him.

Now that he had been given this much, he didn’t think he could ever let her go. The strain of what he was—the trueness in his character—was beating him without relent. And until that moment, he realized, he had not known himself. Not known the weight of what he felt. The emotion playing his insides, the rawness of suggested despair, everything to mark him time and again would wear him out before he could identify the cause.

He knew it was true. In those seconds, he knew without doubt that he loved her. Loved with more than he was worth. There had been no doubt before, but now there was no question, either. It was beyond infatuation. Beyond desire. Beyond everything. He had never known ardor like this. Not with anyone. And it terrified him. Spike was not accustomed to being frightened. He couldn’t remember a point in his unlife that had left him so barren that he didn’t know if continuing was an option. He had claimed it so with Drusilla, but that was nothing compared to this. Nothing compared to the warm, pliable body in his arms.

The same meant to damn him and serve as his salvation.

And he knew, he knew. Saving her now was more than rescuing the woman he loved. Saving her was more than anything he could have hoped to grasp. It was decided then. Regretless. For the air he did not need to breathe, for the tears he was not supposed to shed. She was his anchor. His light. Touching her was to touch the sun and feel only warmth without the burn. No one deserved to know that sort of radiance.

He had to save her.

If he did not, there would be no one to save him from himself.

No one.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Bottle of Red Wine

Spike slumped against the elevator, weary as though he had just completed a marathon. Panting. Exhausted. Desperate for rest. That alone was enough to tickle his sense of whimsy: marathons typically didn’t bear affect on those who were not dependent on oxygen.

Oxygen. He wanted it now. Craved it. Futile as it was to his body, he felt he would compress if it were denied of him.

It was too much, he decided. Barely ten minutes had passed since he left Buffy’s side, and yet his skin tingled as though still brushing intimately against hers. His nostrils were flooded with her scent. She was all around him. Inescapable. Even with so little separating him, he felt the burden of detachment. As though their physical distance would—in some manner—affect his actions.

Such was dangerous. More than dangerous. For whatever reason, the bond forged between them had grown to near painful proportions in the matter of a simple hour. The connection burned him with ferocious intensity, and there was nothing within the bounds of rationality that could suggest what he was feeling. Beyond love. The foundation of which love was established. He had never thought it possible. Not with the years he had seen, not with which he had been taught to believe based on vampiric law. It was as though she was in him, now, and he could feel everything that she felt.

All that pain. Confusion. Heartbreak. Outrage. And want.

Oh, so much want.

It would be easy to blame everything on what he had done. What he had nearly forced between them, but he would be wrong. This had been slow coming. It shook him to his very core, and was only growing stronger. With every beat, every unnecessary breath, it became that much more potent.

He inhaled her. Warm. Complete. Wholly female. And human. Always human. He felt his tears colliding against her welcomed radiance—everything that was and always would be the essential Buffy Summers. He did not know the duration of his lapse against her, though it could not have been long. His arms were tight abound her as though she would disappear on command. That his hold alone was keeping her anchored to a world that did not deserve her.

There was nothing for long minutes. Nothing but the harsh pant as the mingled jubilation of her orgasm rode its intensity to its lasting peak. There, and then fading once more as the world she had begged him to erase came soaring back. He could almost feel her despair. The aching reminder that she was as she had been yesterday and the day before. As she would be tomorrow and until he came to save her for good. But it wasn’t as compelling as it had been before. Sedated, even accepting. The face of her own torment, and he knew it was more than she felt she was owed.

“Spike?”

The vampire stirred at that, nuzzled against her protectively. “Sweetheart?”

“Why are you crying?”

The elevator soared higher still. Figured the wanker would have an office located on one of the more prestigious floors. He recalled thinking much of the same when he first came to see Lindsey McDonald, but for whatever reason, it bothered him now. Bothered him to the degree of physical handicap. The forced separation between himself and the Slayer was wearing on his senses, especially when he felt her as vibrantly as he did. Felt her. Her pain. Her pain as vividly as though it were his own. The knot in his gut could attest that much, but he reckoned even his own scars would fail to produce this sort of torment.

His mind drifted back, unable do to anything but. He had to admire a woman who got straight to the point. The peroxide vampire smiled poignantly to himself, his own not betraying what he felt. Instead, he rested peaceably against the box wall and thought of her.

He was at his feet in seconds, hands unwilling to renounce contact, though they did little more than skim along her. He made no effort to hide his tears, hide the affect she had on him. Hide anything when there was nothing more to hide. “I don’ wanna leave you,” he whimpered against her, knowing he was condemning himself to acknowledge even that much. The strength he bore—the same she relied on—would betray them both.

“Don’t.”

“Have to.”

She mewled in protest, even if she knew it was the truth. “I’m strong with you here,” she whimpered. “Don’t go. Please.”

Spike drew a deep, unneeded breath and willed himself closer to McDonald’s office. The reaction from those he passed was noteworthy, but otherwise ignored. Angelus was the only of the Aurelius family that had ever walked the halls so openly. The unmarked ringleader of a mistake the Senior Partners were unwilling to correct. It was the sort of thing one knew without making outward reference to. Darla could never be kept under any form of regulated control—she was nearly as bad as her ponce of a childe. However, her business interest had expired. She was infinitely more preoccupied with the populace. With getting things back to the way they used to be.

He feared she was growing envious of Angelus’s time with the Slayer. That she would eventually take it upon herself to do the thing he seemed incapable of. Strange. Even with Buffy, Spike had never thought his grandsire to be hesitant on killing anyone. But he was. On a strange whim, he was. And if he thought about it, their time in Sunnydale served as choice enough prospect.

“’m not gonna let you die ‘cause I don’ know when to stop.” He brushed a kiss over her temple, rippling with her when she shivered her pleasure. He had hesitated then, a dark thought entering his mind without perseverance. It was stupid and dangerous, but not wholly out of the question. Making her stronger did not necessarily constitute anything on a conventional level of understanding. It could be simple. He could make it simple. He could make it anything.

But not without permission.

“Buffy,” he said, very slowly. “Listen to me. This is serious, an’ we don’ have a lot of time. ‘E’ll be back. Hour’s nearly up.”

She blinked at the gravity in his tone. It was different than before. “What is it?”

“What would you say ‘f I told you that there’s a way to make you stronger? To make it…easier…to…”

“Yes.”

“You ‘aven’t even heard me.”

“No. But I trust you.”

That confession alone was enough to ground him. He had not considered such a possibility. While true, the weight of her life was literally compound and waiting in his hands, he had not considered that faith in his word, in him, would be an ultimate reward. “You’re not gonna like it, sweetheart.”

There was a dry snicker at that. “I don’t think that matters anymore. Do you?”

That was true enough. Spike exhaled deeply and rested with her for a minute longer. He knew he was stalling. Dangerous presumption…stalling when their time ran short anyway. She had agreed, of course, but he wanted to make perfectly sure that she knew what she was getting herself into. “Listen. ‘ll explain.”

“No explain. Just do it.”

“No. I wanna make sure you know what you’re askin’ for.” A sigh rippled through him. “Back in the fifteenth century, a craze broke out across Europe for—”

“Fifteenth century? Why the history lesson? Spike—!”

“Listen to me. ‘S important.” He sighed. “There was a craze goin’ through Europe. Wasn’ exactly highly regarded by the hierarchy, though rumor has it, they were bloody addicted, too. Mortals who drank vampire blood, thinkin’ it’d make ‘em all powerful or what all. It din’t turn them or anythin’…but it did juice ‘em up with power. Some got addicted. A few clans started to huntin’ down vamps an’ bleedin’ them to maintain the high. ‘S potent stuff, Buffy. Dangerously potent.” His eyes dropped to the ground, unwilling to see the disgust he was certain pooled behind her own depths. “It din’t last long for the obvious reasons. More powerful vamps got wind of it an’ took the lot of your humanly types out. The craze ended an’ vamps were given an even uglier name than before. I only mention it ‘cause it works. I know it does.”

Lindsey’s office was vacant. The peroxide vampire paused inside, finding that mildly curious. He turned his attention to some of the books that sat estimably for the outward impression. Lawyers by definition usually projected a better appearance if they were well read. Spike didn’t reckon that he cared much either way. Some of the titles were laughable, and he wondered of the King James translation of the Bible was there as an additive for a false conscience or a private joke amongst colleagues.

“You’re teasing me.”

He blinked. “Am not.”

“Are so.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I didn’t become addicted-girl after Dracula made me drink from him.”

Ah. That explained it. “Luv, how much did you drink?”

“Well…not much. A sip, really. But it was gross.”

“Wasn’ enough. An’ yeah, gross as it might be you bloody pulsers, somethin’ tells me you might a bit more open to it now.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed, unsurprised and hardly offended by the expect revoke of her consent. “I’d never even suggest it ‘f I din’t think it’d help, Buffy. An’ I’ll be damned before I see you jonesin’ for it like they did in the old days. You’re a Slayer. It’d work wonders on you.” He leaned inward impulsively to kiss her, reveling as she moaned at the taste of herself on his tongue. “I jus’ wanna help. As much as bloody possible. An’ I don’ wanna leave here without knowin’ I did everythin’ I could to make things better for you.”

Her cheeks tinted at that, the reminder of what had passed between them flooding her eyes and speaking volumes for what she did not. “Have you…” she asked softly. “Did you ever…do this before? Make someone…?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know—”

“I watched Angelus an’ Darla do it once for kicks. Dragged some poor unsuspectin’ into their clutches an’ got ‘em all doped up on vamp blood. Not a pretty sight, ‘specially when the girl started goin’ through withdrawal.”

“I don’t like the sound of this…”

“I wouldn’t let you get like that.”

She arched a cool brow that remained oddly prestigious in mind of her surroundings. “You’d have a say?”

“I know how much is too much. Doesn’ take an experienced donor to tell you that.” Before she could lose herself in the depths of consideration, Spike allowed his bumpies to emerge, biting into his wrist and raising the wound to her lips. “Come on.”

She was hesitant. Hesitant, but not protesting nearly as much as he had suspected she would. Another token suggesting the balance of weighed change. The Buffy Summers of before would never have even considered, especially when balanced in danger such as this. She might have taken the offering from Angel—hell, he knew she would have taken the offering from Angel. But he was not Angel. He was Spike, and up until all too recently, she had hated him.

But she did not hate him now.

The lawyer’s absence from his office was beginning to irritate. With things as they were, the peroxide vampire hardly felt comfortable entrusting everything he had to lose in the hands of a man he had only recently felt any compulsion to trust. It had been several minutes, and while not in keeping with his customary impatience, he had yet to start pacing. As though his encounter with Buffy had drained him of any response other than complacent nonaction. It was dangerous, but his mind was clouded with her. Drunk on the thought of her.

It had startled him—moved him more than he cared to acknowledge.

He pulled away when he felt her disgust turn to desperation, despite the cruelty in gesture. Any more could prove fatal for both of them, and she was not completely beyond her fear of addiction, or worse, transformation. She had not taken enough to account for anything more than a day’s strength, but he was content, if not terrified.

Buffy seemed to sense this. Her eyes became large and inquisitive, betraying a small shudder when he leaned inward and licked his own blood from the corner of her perfect mouth. Then he released a trembling sigh against her, closing her eyes and crooning against her. “Please don’ hate me for this.”

“For what?” There was no answer; there was no need for one. Watching her eyes soften warmed his insides. “For this? For making me…I trust you, Spike. After everything…you’ve earned trust…and more than that.”

Her words soothed, but he did not wholly believe them.

“Hey. Look at me.”

The command in her voice made him smile. The blood was working wonders already. And Spike complied. He was helpless to do anything but.

“You’ve done more for me than anyone,” she said seriously, and he saw that she meant it. The notion was enough to prompt the tears that had warmed his eyes only minutes earlier to rekindle their flow, but he did not want to cry in front of her. Once was enough. Twice was inevitable. Again would reveal too much, though he doubted at this point that he had anything left to hide. “I can’t…I can’t begin to—”

“Then don’t,” he whispered. “But there is somethin’ I need you to do for me.”

She nodded. Amazing. Unquestionable faith. There was no hesitation in her eyes. Whatever it was, she would comply. And that was all there was to it.

Spike inhaled deeply and raised his wrist to her lips, flinching when she instinctively neared. That wasn’t what he wanted, and he knew damn well that Buffy loathed the idea of being dependent on blood. She hated blood, and he would never understand why she chose to believe him in this particular venture, just grateful that she had. “You have to make it look like a bite,” he said. “Your bite. Like you were tryin’ to…I need you to make it look like you hurt me.”

The vampire knew the minute that he was no longer alone—knew well before the office doors swung open to admit its proprietor. He knew Lindsey’s scent well by now, too well to be doubted.

McDonald was on his cell phone, evidently no more surprised to see him. They merely looked at each other; the lawyer nodded and held up a hand to signify his need to end the call. Spike nodded in turn and pivoted to the book stand once more in some old fashioned respect of giving the man privacy. He didn’t know from where that whim had originated; he had never been polite and wasn’t looking to adapt any of the customary habits that coincided with being such. Common courtesy was notoriously lost on him.

Perhaps it was different with foes-turned-ally. So much had passed that he no longer recalled.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

He grinned at her concern but shook his head. To be honest, he was surprised. Though he knew her to be properly fueled with more than enough to get her through the next span of hours—hopefully to tide her until he and his friends from Angel Investigations made their move—he had not expected her to react so favorably at his request. She had not liked the idea though she understood its importance. Not only did the scent of her lingering climax taint the air, but if Angel got a whiff of Spike’s blood, unpleasant questions were going to be asked, and given the nature of their last meeting, the elder vampire might simply tire of mind games and kill them both.

Truth be told, Spike was surprised that it hadn’t already come down to that.

“I’ll be back,” he promised her, claiming her lips in an ardent kiss. “Before you bloody know it.”

Buffy matched him for everything he gave. The taste of his blood on her tongue nearly caused him to double over in pleasure, and while she could not doubt the evidence of his desire, he made no attempt to act upon it. “I know you will,” she answered when they pulled apart. “Because you love me.”

And the simplicity—the understanding—in that statement had left him thoroughly defeated. If there was ever a time that he could hide himself from her, he did not recognize it. She saw him and knew. She knew. Buffy knew that he loved her, and she accepted him. Trusted him.

He could not acknowledge or deny her. Even now, he lacked the courage for it.

And he had left her.

“I hope you have not been waiting long.”

A snicker at that. The vampire’s brows perked. “Depends on the context.”

The lawyer’s face broke out into a wan smile, and his tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Touché.” A beat later, and he broke across the floor for the minibar that sat parallel the bookshelves. “Would you like something to drink?”

Spike’s eyes narrowed, his patience already absolved. It didn’t take much these days. “Bugger the pleasantries, Skippy. Whaddya got for me?”

Lindsey nodded his understanding, finding no need to contest though he went about his business anyway. “I believe that I have found a loophole in the magic that protects Buffy’s chains from breaking. I just got off the phone with someone that can help us.”

A sigh rumbled through his throat. “We’re bringin’ in more independent wankers? Bloody no. I jus’ now got Zangy to trust me. Listen, McDonald, I appreciate everythin’ you’ve done, but we’re gettin’ too close to worry with what may or may not work. Cordy’s got this plan…’s not very good, but I’m already fancyin’ it more than whatever you’ve got cooked up. Black magic can’t be bypassed. You oughta know that.”

“In any other circumstance, I’d agree with you,” Lindsey said readily, handing him a glass of Amarone without looking at it. The gesture threw the vampire off for a minute, but did not deter him from objective. It was not an act of manipulation, rather civility, and that he could appreciate. “You’re right. Absolutely. But in cases such as these, there is only one thing that can undo an enchanted shackle other than its key.”

Spike arched a cool brow, sipping at his drink. “Oh. An’ what is that?”

“The warlock I just got off the phone with. Very prestigious, but his rates are negotiable, and he owes us a few favors.”

That was it. His interest was piqued. “Who is this?”

“The same…well, not a man, but client that made Buffy’s bindings. He’s the only one who can undo them, aside the key bearer.”

Relief was a funny thing. It didn’t take much to alter Spike’s disposition. A magic-prone locksmith sounded oodles better than the lame and voted-most-likely-to-fail plan that Cordelia had up her sleeve. This was it. It could work. It bloody well had to. “Bloke got a name?”

“There are some who call him—”

Spike held up a hand in warning. “’F you say Tim, I’m gonna bite you.”

“—Gregori.” McDonald had to look away, shadow of an amused smile tainting his face. “But Tim works fine, too. Although, as I told you, he’s a warlock—not an enchanter.”

“Ha bloody ha.”

Lindsey shrugged insolently. “You’re the one that suggested it.”

There was no sense in denying that. Spike opted with a dirty look, maneuvering to the chair opposite the lawyer’s desk. He waited until the other man was seated before continuing. “So, what’s all that, then? We wait around until this bloke agrees to get her out?”

“He’s agreed.”

“An’ this is the type of gent who respects his verbal contracts?”

“Absolutely.” It was amazing how absolutely no hesitation hid behind that statement. McDonald believed it with every fiber of his being. Remarkable.

“You have no doubt?”

“Like I said, he owes us a favor.”

The vampire’s brows perked with interest. “I see. Interestin’. ‘Cause you see, you better be sure that he’s the type of guy who holds up to his bargains. Now I got my heart set on—”

Lindsey rolled his eyes. “Look, Spike, don’t try to threaten me. I’m your best connection and I know you’re not going to do anything to mess with that. Despite what your associates might think, you are an intelligent man, and I think you see that if I’m gone, your chances for getting Buffy out are as well. We’re all sharing our part of the blame here.”

“Some more than others.”

His eyes averted to his desk. “Yes,” he agreed. “I won’t deny it. Had I known what she was going to be put through, I would’ve done everything in my power to get her out of here when it was under my control. That’s my fault and I assume all responsibility.” He glanced up once more, gaze serious. “I thought I was in love and that bringing her in would…I don’t know what I thought. Whatever it is, you can’t imagine how…”

At that, the vampire’s demeanor softened, albeit not by much. “I promised her,” he said, “that the next time I came to her, it’d be to get her out. An’ it will be. You hear me?”

“Yes.” There was no resentment, only understanding.

“An’ ‘f your bloke doesn’ come through?”

“He will. I know he will.” A pause. One must always consider the extraneous possibilities, despite how distant they seemed. “But if something happens…if he doesn’t…I’ll do what I have to. Whatever I have to.”

“Even ‘f—”

Lindsey glanced up, eyes stilling him with ready anticipating. “Whatever I have to,” he said softly.

A sigh then. The vampire considered him a long beat, nodding when he saw it was true. And there was nothing else to say. Nothing else to verify. He could not ask for more than that. A vouch of good faith. They were covered from all corners. It was only a matter of hours now.

Hours.

“There is something, though,” Lindsey continued, “that I want you to do for me.”

Ah, here it comes.

“I see,” Spike drawled, leaning back expectantly. The underline of venom in his voice was impossible to ignore. “An’ what might that be?”

“Regardless of what happens to me, or to her, I want you to kill Angelus.” The stone façade in his eyes would not be contested. In this, the lawyer was most definitely unmoved. “And at this point, I don’t care if the Senior Partners get pissed off or not. Wolfram and Hart is not in a place to remove him, even though he has not served up his part of the bargain that he and—”

“Hold up, mate. Lemme get this straight. All I gotta do—”

“Is kill Angelus. That’s it. No strings.”

The vampire snickered. “No strings? Rot. I’ve eaten my fair share of lawyers, so I know what they hunger for. There are always strings.”

“Not in this. I just want him dead.”

The peroxide Cockney stared at him. That was it? The end? It couldn’t be, but the look on Lindsey’s face did not resemble treachery. In this, he was absolutely certain. The bill was a dead Angelus, something he had banked on from the beginning? Well, that was too perfect. Perfect.

“I tell you what,” Spike said, kicking his feet onto the desk and raising his glass. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“I’m sure.” The cynicism in his voice did not reach his eyes, and for whatever reason, Spike found that even more reassuring. Eyes were far more telling than intonation. “Do we have an understanding?”

“An’ more so.” The vampire flashed a grin. “I’ll even drink to it.”

Chapter Thirty

Fallen

It was amazing. Though she had seen the sun rise many times before, it had never been like this. And Dawn doubted very much that she would ever tire of the sight. The first peeks of light over the still English horizon, pouring golden drops of lemonade across the plains that she had come to know as home over these last weeks. Funny how a new place could become home so quickly. Funny, but not wholly unexpected.

In truth, they hadn’t been in England all that long. It felt like it. The past few days had seen little alleviation in habit. Dawn was still on California time—she felt she had to be. That was where Buffy was.

Sleep was a near impossibility, despite Giles’s prompt. Rest came in short spurts, almost always forced if she did not exhaust herself. Most nights saw her collapse in the sitting room; curled on the couch or resting against the table. The Watcher always found her. Always coaxed her to her room before her mother saw her and thought to worry. Having Buffy to consider was bad enough, he said, and Joyce was in no state to add her to a list of growing concerns.

She did enjoy English mornings, though. Her falsified memories recalled well what life in Los Angeles had been like. The hurry. The noise. The busywork. While making the necessary transition from a large town to a smaller location, it had undoubtedly been for the best. Even the Hellmouth was an improvement over a refuge for teenage runaways and drug hangs.

For a long time, she had resented her sister in instigating such a drastic change. The proclaimed City of Angels was hardly an ideal town to know her adolescence; a move of such magnitude was more than burdensome.

The sky had won her over. Not clouded by the expected layer of smog. Just bright, fervent stars that glazed over a dark, never-ending blanket. An endless sugar jar that sparkled at her—demanding that she sample its sweetness.

The newness had worn off, of course, as most things did; her admiration for the stars notwithstanding. She was a teenager, after all, and maintaining any level of interest proved more than challenging. But it was always there. An afterthought. A dark beauty to keep her company while her sister patrolled.

England was different, and not only in the obvious ways. Dawn doubted she could ever stop staring at the clarity of the night sky. That she would ever tire of watching the sun pour its warmth over the open countryside. How Giles had found this place, she did not know. Perhaps it was a family estate. Perhaps it belonged to the Council. He had mentioned its tenure, she knew, but she hadn’t been listening at the time.

Her mother was sick. Her sister was gone.

And Spike was off to rescue her.

It wasn’t as though it was a surprise. Dawn had sensed the vampire’s feelings long before even he had. And in all honesty, he was so bad at hiding them. She remembered the night that he came home with her for the first time. The infamous conversation that she watched in secret rather than participated. They were going to take Angelus out. Together. United in what turned out to be the first of many alliances. And true, while his heart was pledged to Drusilla at the time, she saw how he looked at her sister. That sheath of hatred that only barely covered the mixed confusion and longing beneath. She had been too young to know what she was seeing, but the image never left her.

The past few months had been a severe eye opener. Dawn was fourteen now. She was still young, of course, but she was well into the stage where marketing what guys were feeling was all based on the eyes. She lacked her sister’s confidence in school, always felt more the punch line rather than the comedian. But she was good at reading people. Very good. And prior to this unfortunate mess, Spike’s behavior had been even stranger than usual. It hadn’t taken long to piece together. Starting from the initial night three years prior, she had been able—very quickly—to arrive at a conclusion that satisfied her. Spike loved her sister. Good for him. True, that pretty much screwed her chances of ever attracting his eye, but that had been a poor gamble to begin with. Even if she lived to be the oldest woman in history, she would always be regarded as the baby.

So was the woe of being the youngest child.

And she was the youngest. The youngest fourteen year-old in the world. She hadn’t even lived a full year. Not really. Memories were just, but they were nothing more than pictures. Images. Things some monks wanted her and her family to believe in order to keep a hellbitch from getting her hands drenched in Key-blood.

They were on immensely high alert. While reports on Glory since leaving California had been few and far between, Dawn figured that the Scoobies needed an excuse to not think of where their Slayer was. Thus the days had been filled with endless research. Willow and Tara spent hours perfecting their craft, enhancing the protective, however unseen barrier that kept them concealed from the outer world. It was not infallible, they explained, but were Glory to show up, they would be well aware and prepared before the insane-perm-gone-wrong-bitch could get her hands on them.

Buffy was not in their conversations. She did not make visits to the dinner table. She did not drift in and out of research sessions. She was, for all intents and purposes, shunned from the manor even if she had a permanent place in the luxury room. Dawn never doubted that she was in their thoughts. It was easy to see. The constant worry that befell Giles’s face was not for her or her mother; she would not fool herself. Xander’s eyes were always empty and sad, even when he was laughing at something Anya said or playing a board game with the rest of the gang. Even the former vengeance demon herself was surprisingly taciturn on the matter. There was an unspoken code. They couldn’t mention Buffy. Couldn’t. It was too easy to refer to her in the past tense, and that was something that no one was prepared for.

It had bothered Dawn at first. The thought that they were to pretend Buffy was all right—or worse—nonexistent. She wanted to talk about her sister. Wanted to discuss possible venues they could explore when waiting for Spike seemed to be an endless sentence. But that passed, as things often did, and she learned that silence was a virtue. As long as they did not mention her sister, she would always be alive.

God, how many days had gone by? How many more would she greet? Would she see an end to it? The English countryside was lovely, but she would gladly forfeit all chance of ever seeing it again just to know that Buffy was safe. That Spike had come through. That he had saved her as he promised he would, and all was well.

She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home so badly.

“Hey Dawnster,” came the soft inquiry from behind, followed by the belated warning creak in the floorboard. “You’re up early.”

She glanced over her shoulder, forcing a smile to her face. “Morning, Willow.”

“You all right?”

“Peachy keen. Peachy keen is me.”

The redhead smiled back and nodded. “Good, good. I’m gonna try my hand at some breakfast. Wanna help?”

“I think I’m gonna stick to cereal this morning, but—sure—I can help.”

There was a curious pause. “You sure you’re all right?” she asked a minute later. “You seem to be Deep Thought gal this morning.”

“I’m fine,” Dawn reassured her, turning her eyes back to the horizon. The sun was rising higher. She wondered if that meant it was nighttime in California. Despite her body’s resistance to the time change, she had been at a loss for time since her watch broke earlier last week.

A bitter chuckle erupted untimely from her lips. Broken watches. Her sister was being tortured or turned or worse and she was sitting across the globe in a perfect English cottage, watching the sunrise and worrying about broken watches.

That was all it took. In seconds, Willow had sealed the distance between them, coaxing the girl into her embrace. From where her will crumpled, she did not know. There were tears suddenly. She hadn’t cried over Buffy since they left California, but by god, she was crying now.

“Shhhh,” the Witch murmured, stroking her hair softly as she rocked them back and forth. “It’s okay, Dawnie. It’s okay.”

“No,” the girl protested, shaking her head. “It’s really, really not. I’m so worried, Will. I’m so…it’s not fair. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t—”

“No goodbyes, sweetheart,” the redhead reassured, even if her voice betrayed her. It was admirable but annoying all the same. If living in Sunnydale had taught her anything, it was that saying goodbye was the only certainty there was in life. But Buffy had always been invincible. She had always prevailed. Always survived. It never occurred to Dawn that neglecting to bid her farewell before an evening’s patrol would result in the largest burden her small, unlived shoulders had known. As sisters, they had always been on the outs. Always fought. Always bickered about this and that. She had always resented Buffy for her superiority, for being the one the others favored, for being the Slayer. But with that came boundless love and unfathomable respect. If she lost Buffy without letting her know that, she would never forgive herself.

“I miss her,” she sobbed into the Witch’s sweater.

“I know, honey. We all do. But hey—no worries! We’ll—”

“Don’t. Don’t do that.” Dawn pulled away hastily, jabbing at her tears, angry that she had revealed them to begin with. So many days gone without crying, it didn’t make sense why this would be the breaking point. Of course, if not yesterday, why not today? It was inevitable either way. “Don’t pretend around me, Will. Just be honest. I can’t stand this pretending. It’s…it’s not right. Buffy’s out there, and we’re…”

A trembling sigh escaped Willow’s lips. “I know,” she agreed. “But Spike’s with her. He wouldn’t let her down.”

“Xander doesn’t seem to think so.”

“What?” The Witch’s face fell into an unfriendly frown. “What has he said to you? God, that little worm. I could wring his neck! Or better yet, turn him into a newt. Stupid guy never learns when to not talk. I—”

“Don’t turn Xander into anything. He’s told me nothing. It’s just obvious.” When she didn’t readily agree, Dawn rolled her eyes. “Come on, I don’t have to have magical powers to know that. Just looking at him’s enough. He doesn’t trust Spike any more than he would trust Anya with a Playgirl centerfold.”

That remark earned a wry grin. “I think he does,” she said softly. “I mean, sure, Spike’s done the entire ‘I hate you because I’m evil’ thing, but really, if Xander was paying any attention the night that he came by—”

“You told me that he accused Spike right off.”

At that, Willow fidgeted uncomfortably. “Well…he did…but…” That wasn’t helping. With a dejected sigh, she shook her head and shifted to lean against the wall. “Look, for what it’s worth, I think if Spike’s gotten this far…or as far as he was, last we heard from him, we don’t have much to worry about. No news is good news, right?” No reply. Just endless staring at the sun-kissed plane. “If anything, Spike knows that he has to get her back. ‘Cause if he doesn’t, he’s gonna get his ass kicked by the Scooby Gang.”

Dawn grinned weakly. “You better believe it.”

The Witch’s arm found its way around the girl’s shoulders again and contented itself to give her a good squeeze. “Come on, short stuff. Let’s get cookin’.”

“Short stuff? I’m taller than you.”

“I was referring to your aura, thank you very much.”

“I so do not have a short aura.”

Willow sighed dramatically. “Fine. Have it your way. Why don’t you go feed Miss Kitty Fantastico and I’ll start us up some pancakes. No more of this cereal nonsense. You’re too young to be eating healthy, and I know you can’t resist pancakes.”

The girl smiled. “Fine. Twist my arm, why don’t you?”

“Got the wrench all ready.”

That was it, then. The morning would continue as normal. No more mention of her absentee sister or the vampire antihero that had insisted upon saving her. Talking about her would not bring her back. No more salt. No more wounds. Just this. This enduring of whatever there was to endure.

Despite its beauty, Dawn did not think she would miss England. Rather she found the environment somewhat disconcerting. In time, she feared her taste for it would spoil completely. The ground was tainted with the essence of Buffy, always reminding her that she would not be here were it not for things that were far out of control.

The tears that rallied for release were denied. No sense crying.

There were chores to do.

For the first time since arriving in Los Angeles, Spike had absolutely no idea where to go. His options were vast in number but nothing could satisfy his whim of exploration, nor his impatience to hurry through the night. The Hyperion was dangerous, despite its convenience, and he didn’t feel right being around the others. His friends. There was Caritas, but he didn’t want to sing. He was too afraid of what the Host might see in his future, be it good or bad.

He couldn’t turn a corner, mutter a word, have a thought without referring to her. How much had changed without having changed at all. The feel of her against his skin haunted him. His lips ached with the taste of her kisses. The experience was unlike anything he had thought to feel before. The plethora of light.

Perhaps it was the exchange of blood. Of course, there hadn’t been an exchange —he had given her his blood to strengthen her; he had not taken any of hers for himself. It seemed to connect them, though, on a level he was unprepared for. And even before. Mostly before. Touching her. Reveling her taste in his mouth. Being handed freely all the things he previously thought himself denied.

It was too much; his thoughts were too compact, too confusing for his muddled translation. There was nothing new to process for what was essential. The Slayer was being held by Angelus, and he had to get her out. Simple as that.

And thanks to Lindsey McDonald, they had a somewhat decent plan.

Okay, a very decent plan. It was merely a matter of timing.

Spike snickered roughly to himself. Funny. Wolfram and Hart—more particularly—Lindsey had him exactly where he was most vulnerable. He would do anything to get Buffy out. Anything. No task was too small to merit attention, no challenge too great to intimidate him. And yet, the price demanded was so small. So insignificant. The blood of Angelus was already on his hands; it simply had yet to manifest. He would kill the bastard. And he would enjoy every minute of it.

In the end, the peroxide vampire opted for Wright’s discarded motel room. The hunter had claimed that the bill was paid throughout the rest of the month, and he doubted that such had changed, despite the granted accommodations at the Hyperion. It was the safest bet, after all. No one would think to look for him there. Angelus might follow, but he doubted it—and even so, Spike reckoned his scent was strewn across nearly half the town. Finding and maintaining a lead would be more than bothersome, even for his influential grandsire.

Lindsey could find him, and at the moment, that was all the vampire cared about. The mercenary vampires had tracked him there before, thus he didn’t believe that Wolfram and Hart suffered any hindrance of knowing where to look when there was something missing on the grocery list. He would go there tonight, and tomorrow while the big git slept, he would share the change of plans with the rest of the waiting team at Angel Investigations.

Of course, as always, there was the one crucial thing that Spike didn’t think to bank on: that the room was already in use.

Very much in use.

It was a comically delayed moment. He stood at the doorway, wide-eyed, watching Wright and Cordelia move together in the seemingly endless seconds before they realized that they had an audience. Then an influx of reaction; he overcame his shock and threw an arm across his face in horror.

“Oh bloody hell!” he growled. “My virgin eyes!”

All movement came to an abrupt standstill—the panting man on the bed looking over his shoulder frozen in horror. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Lookin’ for a place to stay,” came the dejected reply. “Well, bugger that idea. Glad to see you two made up.” That was it. He left without another word, slamming the door behind him.

A long, awkwardly still moment settled through the room. Wright slowly glanced down to Cordelia, who, although she was notably not embarrassed, looked a little more than peeved. “You were right,” she commented dryly. “This was a bad idea.”

At that, the trademark smirk that had been her undoing stretched across his face once more. “Do me a favor. Don’t call it bad until…” He surged powerfully, earning a low moan in turn as the mood took a surprising revival. “…after. My ego’s only so fragile.”

It didn’t last. With seconds, the door had opened again, and Spike strolled inward once more. The horror from his face had faded, and he regarded the spectacle on the bed as though they were children playing on the schoolyard. “I jus’ wanted to say, good on you, mates. I knew you two’d pull it off ‘f you were given a li’l nudge…” He trailed off in consideration. “Well, more than a nudge, ‘f you ended up—”

Cordelia slammed a hand down on the mattress—markedly out of aggravation rather than reaction. “Spike!”

Zack looked down at her in disgusted astonishment. “Don’t yell his name while we’re…” There was no good word to use in such a situation, thus he opted to gesture inarticulately.

Another awkward beat passed; Spike cleared his throat as though only then recalling what he walked in on. With an oddly chivalrous nod, he turned to leave once more. “Right. Jus’ leavin’. You two—erm—have fun.”

By now, the Seer was breathless and nodding emphatically, waving at him to hurry his leave. “Sure I’ll get right on that.”

Wright flashed her a wicked smirk. “Or under it.”

“Okay. Officially scarred for my unlife. ‘m gone before the damage is permanent.” And he did. Left so quickly, no one could mistake his exit the second time around.

“Now…” Zack said, panting a little. “Where were we?” He began moving with experimental thrusts that earned him a sharp gasp—Cordelia’s hands going to seize his biceps for leverage. “Ah…now I remember.”

It couldn’t last. Spike knew that the minute he left the motel, more disturbed than he wanted to admit. He wanted to give them their peace, but whatever newfound bliss they were experiencing had to be put on hold. The years had taught him many things, shown him more than he rightly reckoned he would have ever claimed an interest in, but watching two people have sex with actual feelings was something he wasn’t accustomed to. Angelus had always made a spectacle of himself: fucking Darla or Dru or some victim or all of the above where anyone could see. That had never bothered him. Not really. But knowing what Wright and Cordelia were doing delivered a want of something more. What they were doing was private because it was more than just the connection. Granted, that hadn’t stopped him from interrupting a second time, but it was personal all the same.

Spike waited, lounged comfortably against the exterior wall, smoking leisurely. He knew it was only a matter of time.

He was right. Within twenty minutes, the door to Wright’s motel room opened to reveal a disheveled Cordelia working on the buttons to her blouse. She expressed no surprise at seeing him waiting; rather arched her brows with an uncharacteristic flush and turn to gaze over her shoulder. “Yeah,” she called. “He’s still here.”

The peroxide vampire smirked at her. In seconds the hunter, whose disposition seemed to be a step on the jovial side—atypical, but amusing nevertheless, joined them with a lazy smile.

Spike cocked his head with an arched brow. “Top of the evenin’ to you,” he greeted.

“Oh, you can say that again.”

Cordelia whacked his arm. He merely shrugged, most notably unconcerned. That prompted an aggravated sigh and a customary roll of the eyes. “God,” she snickered under her breath. “I sure know how to pick ‘em.”

The platinum Cockney chuckled his amusement, indulging another puff on his cigarette. “So,” he began, “when’d this happen?”

“We were going for weapons,” she stated. “The stuff he didn’t bring with him when you two came here a few nights ago.”

There was a twinkle in his eye; Spike was grinning like an idiot. “An’ you what?” he asked the demon hunter. “Seduced her into your pit of filth an’—”

“Hey!”

“Call ‘em like I see ‘em, mate.”

“Yeah,” Cordelia agreed, nose wrinkling. “I forgot we were here. Sheesh, you make Doyle’s apartment look like a Marriott.”

Wright frowned. “Who’s Doyle?”

A poignant look overwhelmed her at that; telling but brief. “Old friend,” she said softly. “A good old friend. He’s the one that gave me the visions.”

“I’m not following…”

“He kissed me before he saved us…me and Angel. There was this glowy thing and it was gonna kill us and he…” It was odd to see her undertaken with an incursion of emotion, despite the consequence of her regard. “Anyway, point being, his place was a dump…but not as bad as this.”

“I can’t believe you’re thinking of the décor after—”

Spike held up a hand. “So, what? Give you two an enclosed area, an’ suddenly you’re shaggin’ like bunnies?”

There was an uncomfortable beat.

“It was because of the plan,” Cordelia said. “Well, sorta. We figured we were on the way there anyway…well, at least I did. I was sorta…the jumper. You know, just in case it all goes to hell and you guys end up with one dead Seer on your hands.”

Wright grunted discontentedly. “And she wonders why I want her to drop it altogether.”

“Hey,” she protested. “We don’t have anything better.”

“Actually, we do.” Spike smiled thinly when they glanced to him, eyes wide and filled with hopeful inquiry. If nothing else, Lindsey’s plan was the better for the regard of the blooming rose between these two lovebirds. “Thanks to a lawyer we all know an’ resent, I got me a helluva proposition.”

The relief rolling from Wright was blatant, and that alone made the announcement all the more worth it. “What? What’s—”

“Apparently, Lindsey has access to the bloke that made the bloody key in the first place. Says he’s agreed to come in an’ undo it.” Spike shrugged. “Given the lesser of two bad ideas, I’d say his wins the ‘let’s do it’ award, mainly ‘cause I think his stands a chance of bein’…oh, I dunno, effective.”

“His plan is to call a locksmith?” the demon hunter asked with a grin.

“My plan was effective!” Cordelia growled.

“Yeah,” Wright agreed, rolling his eyes. “A real effective way of getting you killed.”

“Watch it.”

“Now, now, children,” Spike intervened with a condescending smile. “Let’s not make a big thing outta it.”

There was a sigh of concession. “Fine,” the brunette offered. “Fine. So Lindsey’s idea is better. It would bet—he’s a lawyer.”

“Right,” Zack agreed, rolling his eyes. “That’s the only reason.”

She ignored him. “When’s this going down? We gotta get everyone—”

“No,” Spike said. “Too dangerous with the lot of us goin’ in. Zangy an’ I’ll handle this alone.”

“But—”

“I gotta agree,” Wright replied. “Sounds far less risky with just us.”

“You’re just looking for an excuse to lay waste to the place.”

The two men exchanged a mischievous glance. “Yeah,” they conceded in unison.

“Fine,” Cordelia grumbled. “Fine. When do you go in?”

“’F all goes accordin’ to Lindsey’s schedule,” the peroxide Cockney said slowly. “We’ll move in tomorrow while the wankers are sleepin’ the day away. In an’ out. No bloody hassle.”

“That’s it?” Wright demanded skeptically, arching a brow. “Sweep in, sweep out, presto Slayer? I don’t think so. Nothing is ever that easy, especially where these guys are concerned. Hell, Spike, if I know that, then—”

The observation earned a sharp glare that did little to mask the vampire’s palpable concerns, but having such blatantly exploited did little to alleviate his disposition. “Jus’ for bloody once,” he declared, “we can hope it otherwise. Either way, I’m gettin’ her outta there tomorrow, an’ God help the man who stands in my way.” A sigh rolled off his shoulders; he knew he was surprising them with the impact of his seriousness, though he couldn’t understand why. From the beginning, the entire crew had been keenly tuned into his regard as far as Buffy was concerned. Perhaps they sensed the change in him—amazing, though, for he could hardly sense it himself. He merely knew it was there.

“Gettin’ her out’s the priority,” he said, tone indicating there would be no dispute. “Let them kill me firs’. All right? Zangy, I know this is a bloody no-brainer, but ‘m countin’ on you to get her out ‘f I can’t. You understand?”

There was a splash of silence laced with uncomfortable shifting. Not such to betray the notion of camaraderie that had uncannily spread between the two since their haphazard meeting, but hardly enough to mask it. Amazing how a man so foregone in his cause could revert in mere days. It had nothing to do with character—Spike didn’t doubt that for a minute. Rather, their likeliness had bound them together. Unusual friends where no other alliances could be forged.

“I mean it,” he reiterated after receiving no reply.

“I know. Getting Buffy out’s the priority. I know.”

Another pause. Spike shrugged a minute later to show his indifference, guarding worry with something that no one thought to identify. “’S no big concern,” he said. “I plan to be there for the whole bloody ride. Jus’ need a li’l insurance policy’s all.”

“I get that. And how.”

Cordelia’s lips pursed, her demeanor reverting to form. She appeared no less satisfied with the prospect of Wright in danger than he had when the tables had been reversed, but unlike him, she knew when the barriers of little option blocked them from more agreeable pursuits of truth. Therefore she turned to Spike, eyes ablaze with understanding. “Right,” she said slowly. “What do you want us to do?”

Such blatant regard. Even now, he found this unlikely role in leadership somewhat discomfiting, however appreciated.

“Stay at the hotel,” he replied. “Lindsey’ll call ‘f there’s trouble.”

“You sure you won’t take Gunn or Wes with?”

“’m sure. Zangy an’ I are all the muscle we need. Relax, pet, ‘s a simple retrieval. Once the warlock bloke works his mojo, gettin’ her to safety’s only a matter of minutes. ‘Sides,” he added with a somewhat impish grin. “Someone’s gotta stay behind an’ protect the womenfolk.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Zack smirked but turned to Spike all the same. “You’re staying here tonight?”

“Yeh. Gotta maintain a low profile. ‘ll be by early in the mornin’.”

“How early’s early?”

The Cockney grimaced. “Too early for a vampire, let’s put it that way. You two better run on…get in a nice long shag before the sun comes up.”

“Hey!” Cordelia whacked him again, ignoring the mock-wounded look that slid over Wright’s face.

“‘Hey!’?” he repeated, only mildly serious. “Why ‘hey!’?”

“Din’t mean to get you all skittish,” Spike observed with a sneer. “Jus’ thought I’d offer some advice. Reckon the lot’ve us are gonna be tense an’ hankerin’ for relaxation tonight. Better take it where you can get it.”

At that, both parties glared at him. “Hey!”

He ignored them. “You two run off,” he said. “Do what you gotta.”

The pretense dropped immediately. Cordelia reached out with sympathy that surprised him still. “What are you gonna do?”

A sigh. Spike glanced up, forbidding the all-consuming worry that had dominated him since seeing her that afternoon from pouring through his eyes. Emotions were piling dangerously, and he knew that if he allowed himself to fall completely that he might rightly never prevail. “Try an’ get some sleep,” he answered. “Try an’ see past tomorrow.”

Something told him, as all things were, that the task would always be easier said than done. But he was a stubborn bloke. He always had to try.

The night was the last Buffy would see in captivity. He knew that without knowing anything else. The only questioned that plagued his conscience was the thought that it might be the last she saw at all. The last he witnessed. The last for Zack Wright, who did not deserve to be deprived of the bit of happiness he had only now found.

In that, he was doubly determined. Buffy would get out, and she would get out alive.

Even if he did not.