A/N: This is my entry for the Spuffy Kinkathon, brought to you by the awesome BuffyX. I didn’t quite finish it in time for today’s deadline, darn it, but here are the first three chapters, and I should have all parts posted by next weekend at the latest. I hope it pleases, especially you, cindermom. Thank you for the lovely inspiration.

A strange keening sound was the first inkling Spike had that something was wrong.

Well, more wrong than finding himself back-to-the-wall and hopelessly outnumbered by a hacking, slashing mass of marauding fiends from hell, all of them screaming for his head. That one could have worked out a bit better.

Bruised, bloodied, and fighting for all he was worth, he’d been too caught up in the chaos of battle to keep track of the others. Even if he’d had that luxury, he couldn’t see past the crush of demons hemming him in. It wasn’t until a high-pitched whine rose above the clamor of blood-curdling screams and iron axes clashing against steel blades that he let himself wonder if Angel had finally slain his dragon.

No sooner had the thought formed than Spike found himself airborne and sucked halfway down the length of the building, arms and legs flailing against an invisible current that had latched on and wouldn’t let go. Sailing through the air, he bounced off a tumbling Garnak demon, altering his trajectory just enough to send him careening toward a large metal pipe. It was obligingly bolted to the same brick wall that had guarded his back almost since the battle had begun. A desperate grab and his backward momentum halted with a jerk so hard it dislocated his shoulder.

Spike cursed and bit back a yell, pushing through the pain to tighten his grip on the pipe. It wouldn’t have been easy, even without the relentless pull of the invisible force. He’d suffered some serious wounds, at least two of which would have done in a mortal man. Punctured something vital, he suspected, though for him it had only slowed his responses a bit. But now, waving in the air like a leather flag, he felt his strength leeching away even as he fought to retain his hold.

He realized somewhat belatedly that the air around him now pulsated with an unearthly blue glow, growing in intensity with each passing second. He strained to locate the source but abruptly lost interest when an iron helmet smashed into his forehead then spun off toward the far end of the alleyway where he and the others had originally made their stand.

Just then, a flash of something familiar caught Spike’s eye. His free hand shot out, fastening around a small, booted ankle, and Illyria’s headlong flight ended as abruptly as his own had a moment before. His arm was extended full length, the invisible undertow fighting to tear her away. Spike bared his teeth in fury and defiance at the unseen threat. Illyria’s face was hidden from him, and he didn’t even know if she still lived, but he had her in his grasp and he wasn’t letting go.

Too bad he couldn’t say the same for the pipe. He knew it was starting to loosen, even though the groan of rusty brackets was impossible to hear over a horrible shrieking noise that steadily grew in intensity. He’d thought the din raised by the demon hordes had been bad enough, but this was something infinitely worse.

His fingers slipped a bit and Spike realized with sudden horror that he was gradually getting weaker. A tingling numbness in his hands and feet crept inward and upward, spreading through his body, enveloping him in an advancing wave of sluggishness. He strained, desperately hanging on to the pipe and even more desperately to Illyria. Had to hold on. Wouldn’t let go. Not even to save himself.

More debris flew by, more demons, too, as the gale-force winds howled around them, but still he clung. For one brief moment, Spike let himself believe that he might have the strength to outlast whatever it was. Then a searing pain roiled through him and Illyria slipped away. At the same time, he lost his grip on the pipe, hurtling backward, spinning end over end toward an unknown fate.

When she’d listened to the message on her answering machine, she hadn’t stopped to question it. Even with a scattering of high-profile disagreements and their painful disconnect during those final weeks in Sunnydale, Buffy trusted Giles. He simply meant too much to her for that ever to change. If he wanted her to drop everything and fly to England without an explanation, there had to be a good reason.

Not knowing what the trouble was or how long she’d be needed, she packed a suitcase along with her carry-on bag and left a note for Dawn and Andrew. Forty minutes later, she was on her way to Fiumicino and the first England-bound flight she could catch. True to his word, Giles had arranged everything. With only one flight a day into Bristol, the quickest route turned out to be a 3-hour non-stop to London’s Heathrow Airport.

Buffy knew a driver would be waiting for her at the other end, ready to whisk her off to Giles’ estate in Westbury as quickly as possible. What she hadn’t expected was to see Xander – tan, fit, and still sporting a rakish eye patch – standing in the baggage claim area at Heathrow. When she had spoken to him barely a week before, he’d been fully immersed in running the African branch of the slayer training and special operations program. If something big were brewing, it made sense that Giles would also send for Xander, but how had he made it there ahead of her?

Buffy frowned at the obvious answer.

“How long have you been here?”

Xander’s welcoming smile didn’t falter, though she caught a flicker of something in his face that left her with an uneasy feeling.

“Well, hey there, Buffy! Great to see you, too! Oh, I’m fine, just fine, thanks for asking. How was your flight?”

Point taken, though he should know she couldn’t be sidetracked so easily. Crossing her arms, she gave him the look that never failed to make him squirm. “Long on suspense, short on information. How was yours? Or more to the point, when was yours?”

Behind them, the baggage carousel hummed to life, the first suitcase thudding against the metal surface as it slid off the conveyer belt. Xander’s head whipped around.

“Oh, hey, look…the bags are here. That was fast.” He smiled nervously. “Better keep a close eye out. Believe it or not, there are unscrupulous people around who like to make off with luggage that doesn’t belong to them. And, too bad for us, we’re not allowed to stake them. What color is yours?”

“Red. And the question still stands. When did you get here, Xander?”

Smile fading, he visibly deflated. “A couple days ago. But before you ask me anything else…don’t. Yes, there are things you need to know, but not here. And not in the car on the way. I promise, you’ll find out everything as soon as we get to Giles’ place.”

She started to protest, but Xander cut her off. “Buffy…just trust me, please?”

She stared at him, seconds ticking by. Then she pointed to the carousel. “There’s mine.”

Xander smiled.

Buffy’s thoughts returned to the present as the car slowed and turned onto a paved drive, passing through some familiar gates. She saw the turnoff to the compound where recently gathered slayers spent their first months in training. The facility was situated less than half a mile from the sprawling manor home that had been in the Giles family for the last century or more. As the car neared the big house, she caught glimpses of it through the trees. When they rounded the final bend, she could see her former Watcher already waiting on the front steps. Two minutes later, she was in his arms.

“Missed you,” she said, giving him an extra-tight squeeze.

Giles groaned with mock protest and pulled back just enough to smile down at her. “Missed you, as well, terribly.” He released her and turned to Xander, who was lifting her suitcase and carry-on out of the car. “You made excellent time.”

Xander nodded. “Neither wind, or snow, or crazy British drivers can keep me from my appointed rounds. Or something like that.” His eyes darted to Buffy then back to Giles. “Anything new?”

“Very little, I’m afraid, but this is hardly the place to discuss it. Let’s go inside.”

During the flight and the subsequent drive to the estate, Buffy had spent much of her time speculating as to why Giles had summoned her to England. A pending apocalypse topped the list, but she’d also considered a slayer-related crisis, and she’d even hoped a bit wistfully for a good, old-fashioned demon scourge.

That it might somehow involve a blue-haired woman clad in a leather bodysuit and a surly attitude? Never once crossed her mind.

Xander deposited Buffy’s bags in the entry hall as Giles moved quickly to the foot of the staircase where the strange woman stood. Halting just inside the door, Buffy waited with raised brow as eerie blue eyes assessed her. If the sneer that formed on the demon’s face meant anything, she’d just been judged and found wanting.

“Ah, here you are,” Giles observed with strained civility. “I had not intended to call you down just yet, actually, but…well, since you are here. This is –”

“I know who she is. She is the one called Buffy. She is as unimpressive as her name.” The woman turned to Giles, head tilting. “Are you certain there is not another?” she demanded. “This one does not seem sufficient to inspire the necessary devotion. I do not think it will work.”

Buffy crossed her arms. “Giles…who is she, and can I kill her?”

The woman shot her a disdainful look. “That is extremely doubtful.”

As Buffy bristled and the demon sneered, Giles’ sardonic voice cut through the rising tension. “While I’m certain we’re all fascinated to see the outcome of this riveting display of…I’m not really sure what…I’m afraid we haven’t the time. Buffy, this is…an associate…of Angel’s. She’s here because of an unfortunate situation that has developed in Los Angeles.”

Buffy straightened. “Is Angel in trouble?”

“Yes,” Giles said quietly. “I’m sorry to tell you, he is.”

Buffy stared at him, then nodded. “Okay. So she tells us what she knows and then I kill her.”

The demon faced her, nostrils flaring. “Enough. I grow weary of this.” She eyed Buffy with contempt, as if the mere sight of her left a sour taste in her mouth, and turned to Giles. “She is a child with meaningless taunts and empty posturing. We do nothing but waste time.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who started this. What is your problem, anyway?”

The strange blue eyes swung back to her, the alien appearance emphasized by the ferocity in their depths. “You have caused much grief. I dislike grief.”

The glowering disapproval obvious on the demon’s face impelled Buffy forward a step. The other quickly moved to meet her but halted when Xander stepped between them.

“Okaaay!” Slapping his hands together with fake enthusiasm, he glanced from one to the other and back again. “Since we’re all agreed we’re pressed for time, how about we opt for the Cliff Notes version? Buffy, this is Illyria. She’s a god. Or, former god. Her powers aren’t what they used to be. Don’t ask.” He held up his hand. “She hasn’t always looked this way. You remember Fred, that friend of Angel’s Willow mentioned? She died and Illyria sort of sublet the place.” The hand shot up again. “I repeat, don’t ask.

“Anyway, since then she’s been hanging out with Angel and his gang. According to her, Angel only pretended to go along with Wolfram & Hart until he and his posse could take out the big guns…namely, some uber-secret society of really bad guys. This pissed off the even bigger guns, who sent an army of demons out to rain on Angel’s parade. Big battle, things looking grim, then Illyria kind of…accidentally opened a portal to another dimension. Apparently, she had a little more juice left than she thought.”

Xander’s voice softened, his smile fading, and somehow Buffy knew she didn’t want to hear the rest.

“Buffy … Angel got sucked into that portal. Someone named Gunn, too. And a whole lot of demons. The same thing would have happened to Illyria, but she was yanked out of there just in time by Willow and the coven.” Xander looked at Giles. “Did I forget anything?”

“Wesley.”

“Oh. Right.” Voice grave, he turned back to Buffy. “Wesley didn’t make it. I’m…sorry.”

The last was directed to Illyria, who stared at him without comment. Buffy looked from Xander to Giles to the impassive woman and squared her shoulders, raising her chin as she drew in a deep breath. “So…how do we get him back? Angel. How do we find him?”

“Buffy…”

“No.” Her tone made it clear she would accept no argument on this point. “How do we get him back?” she repeated.

Giles fell silent, then he nodded to Xander. “I’d like to speak with Buffy alone for a moment, if you don’t mind. Perhaps you could escort Illyria back to her room and check on that…other matter?”

Xander nodded. “Sure, no problem.” He motioned Illyria toward the stairs. “Your godness, if I might have the honor?”

She stood, haughty and apparently stone deaf..

Giles broke the impasse. “There’s little more we can do at the moment, Illyria. We won’t act without your knowledge, and we’ll keep you fully informed of our progress. You have my word.”

It seemed to mollify her. Without further comment, she followed Xander up the stairs. As they moved out of sight, Giles ushered Buffy to a small library off the main entry hall and closed the door behind them. He held up his hand. “To answer your question, Willow and the coven are working on identifying and locating the exact dimension in which Angel and his friend are trapped. Illyria, unfortunately, has not been able to provide us with much information in that regard, so it’s a rather time-consuming process, as I’m sure you can imagine. Nevertheless, Willow feels certain they’ll be able to narrow it down to a manageable number quite soon.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, head bowed as if he felt a headache coming on. “There are dangers to be expected, of course – not knowing what Angel may encounter there…wherever he is. But there is every chance it’s a perfectly benign environment, and believe me, Buffy, when I say we have genuine hope of bringing them back safely.”

Though it was hard to resist the urge to rush back to London and hop a plane to LA, Buffy nodded. “How did you know? That Angel was in trouble. Did he call?”

Giles hesitated. “I…had heard from him about another matter, but not about this. The coven’s eldest seer notified us of the impending battle, but we didn’t have enough notice to reach LA in time. Willow, fortunately, happened to be here reporting on a recent mission to the trans-dimensional plane. She was able to join with the coven in time to teleport Illyria. But, as you already know, we were too late to retrieve Angel.”

Buffy was silent a moment, digesting the information, but she knew Giles. There was something else. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?” Though his tone betrayed only mild curiosity, his gaze studiously avoided hers. If his glasses hadn’t been out of reach on a table several feet away, he would have been furiously polishing them by now.

She’d managed to stay relatively calm up until now, surprising even herself, but now a heavy knot of dread formed in her stomach. “Giles, you didn’t have me come all this way just to tell me you don’t know what’s happened to Angel. So whatever it is, let’s get it over with.”

She waited. The silence stretched out, marred only by the quiet ticking of an old clock somewhere across the room. When his eyes finally met hers again, his gaze was filled with warmth and concern and more than a little trepidation. But it was the glint of anger she saw that worried her most.

“Angel is part of it…but you’re right.” Giles nodded slowly. “There is more.”

Crossing her arms, she tried for flippant. “Isn’t there always?” Even to her own ears it sounded strained and unconvincing.

Dawn was okay, she knew that. Xander was here and Willow was with the coven. Giles had already told her about Angel. It couldn’t be the end of the world again because she knew his pending-apocalypse face by heart and this wasn’t it. Even Andrew was safe and sound back in Rome and enjoying his new and mystifying status as a chick magnet. So what…or who…else could have him this wound up?

She froze. Faith. Something had happened to Faith.

“Buffy, I don’t know how to say this, but…”

Oh, god.

“It’s Spike.”

Wait. What?

“He’s…alive.”

No. He isn’t.

“Buffy?”

She stood there, unable to believe Giles could do this to her. He knew how much Spike’s death had affected her, understood how keenly she’d felt his loss. She had mourned him the same way she had loved him, silently and in secret, but Giles knew. He had seen what the others couldn’t or wouldn’t. So, why…

“Buffy, I realize what a shock this is, and I only wish there’d been time to better prepare you, but I thought it best you not be told over the phone. I –”

“He’s not.” Her protest grated like a rusty saw on stone. “You know he’s not.”

He can’t be.

“I understand your…reluctance…to believe.”

Because if he were, he’d be here.

“But I assure you it’s quite true.”

With me.

“In fact, you can see for yourself.”

And I would know. I would feel it.

“He’s just upstairs, actually.”

But…oh, god. What if…?

“Did you hear me, Buffy?”

The solid warmth of his hand on her shoulder called her back from the place her mind had wandered. She looked up to find him gazing down at her, waiting for some kind of response. Her eyes filled with tears. Only one thing she could think to ask.

Giles led her to a part of the house he referred to as the east wing. She hadn’t seen much of it in previous visits, spending most of her time at the training compound. As they went, he filled her in on everything they’d learned from Illyria – Spike’s restoration via the amulet, his months as a ghost tied to Wolfram & Hart, his sudden return to a corporeal state, and his surprising decision, to Giles at least, to stay and fight the good fight in LA.

He touched briefly on their shock when – instead of delivering Angel, Wesley, and company to the coven’s circle – the teleportation spell had produced an angry leather-clad woman and a totally unexpected Spike. It was only then that the vague rumors Giles had heard about another vampire joining forces with Angel were confirmed and explained.

What hadn’t been explained was Spike’s present condition.

“He’s virtually comatose, Buffy. He has been ever since his arrival. I must admit, we’re at a loss to explain it. Though his injuries from the battle were severe, they’re hardly sufficient to account for his current state. In addition, he’s not healing as he should and we haven’t been able to ascertain why. His intake of blood has been severely curtailed, of course, since he’s unable to feed on his own, but we’ve been giving him blood intravenously. It seems to have had little effect, I’m afraid. Perhaps enough to keep him from wasting away.”

Giles paused. “There were very brief periods in the beginning when he was awake and somewhat lucid. However, things have changed. He still has waking periods, but he’s unresponsive and apparently unaware of his surroundings. It’s…worrisome.” He glanced away then back, sympathy and anger battling in his gaze. “I’m sorry, Buffy. You shouldn’t have to go through this. I’ll be quite frank with you…I didn’t want you to know. I’m aware that it’s been difficult for you, that it wasn’t easy to get past everything that happened, to start a new life. It isn’t fair that you should face losing someone you care about all over again, especially on top of this news about Angel.”

A tired sigh escaped him as he shook his head. “Nevertheless, I do realize how wrong it would be to keep this kind of secret from you…a lesson I suspect we’ve both learned through harsh experience. And we thought, perhaps, if he saw you…if you were somehow able to reach him…”

He never finished the thought. Instead, he came to a halt outside a dark paneled door and turned to face her. Buffy stared at it, the only thing keeping her from seeing Spike. She looked up at Giles.

“Is he dying?” It was the first time she’d spoken during what had seemed an endless trek up the main staircase and down two corridors.

He started to answer, then stopped, gazing wordlessly back at her as he clearly tried to gauge her emotional state. It would be a good trick if he could. Her mind seemed to have shut down, along with said emotions, and she felt herself adrift in a strange sort of mental limbo, hanging somewhere between sweet expectation and cold realization.

As Giles waited, her hand rose and touched the door, trying to detect Spike’s presence through the wood. She flashed back to another place, another door, but this time there was no invisible current to electrify her senses. It was just wood. Hard. Cold. Dead.

Panic flared. In the space of two heartbeats she had pushed her way inside, pulling up short in the middle of the room, panting as if she had run there all the way from Rome. She barely noticed Xander rising from a chair next to a large mahogany bed. Instead, her gaze was riveted to the bed’s lone occupant, a pale, wan figure lying motionless under an ivory-colored sheet.

His eyes were closed, his face still beneath a wild riot of curls. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, mimicking a living, breathing human. In another vampire it might have surprised her, considering his unconscious state, but Spike had always been different – embracing food, flirting with sunlight…loving a slayer. Never willing to accept the same boundaries that others did, he’d constantly pushed the envelope.

Never more so than now. Dark bruises and angry red welts painted a cruel picture across his torso, or as much of it as she could see. His arms were in a similar state, and she guessed that his legs would look much the same. Eyes lingering on his face, she took careful inventory of the small scrape on his chin, the sharp cut on one cheek, the ugly gash on his forehead, and a colorful bruise just below his hairline. Except for these relatively minor injuries, his face had been mercifully spared.

As if he’d felt her gaze on him, his eyelids fluttered then slowly opened. For a split second Buffy’s heart soared. He knew she was there; her presence had called him back. But her relief died quickly as his ice-blue eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, lacking even the tiniest spark of awareness.

It hit her like a sucker punch to the gut.

Xander, who’d been unusually silent, spoke up. “Looks like the relief pitcher’s here. Why don’t I go give Willow a call? Let her know you made it.” As he brushed past, he gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. Lost in Spike’s beautiful, unseeing eyes, Buffy barely noticed his departure.

“How long?” she finally managed, her voice hoarse.

Giles cleared his throat. “Five days.”

That got her attention; she felt her face harden. So much for lessons learned.

“The last time he was briefly conscious…two days ago,” he added, gazing steadily back as she shot him an accusing glare.

“Could you leave us alone?” she asked, even though it wasn’t really a request and she didn’t feel particularly civil.

Giles knew it, too, but he didn’t call her on it. “Of course, but…it’s getting late and you’ve had a long trip. I know you won’t rest, but could I at least persuade you to have something to eat first? I’ll sit with Spike until –”

“I’m not hungry.” It came out even harsher than she’d intended.

Giles studied her silently. “No, of course not. As I thought. Well…if you should change your mind, I’ve recently had an intercom system installed that runs throughout the house.” He gestured to a panel on the wall. “I’ll ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare a tray, just in case.”

This time Buffy merely nodded. She could tell he wanted to say more, but she couldn’t get into it now, not when a miraculously resurrected Spike was lying in bed not six feet away from her.

To her relief, Giles disappeared into the hallway, returning an instant later with the bags they’d left outside the room. He set them just inside the door, off to one side.

They exchanged a long look that spoke volumes before Buffy nodded slightly. That he knew she would be staying there with Spike and didn’t question it went a long way toward easing the tight coil of anger she felt at being kept in the dark for five days. It didn’t get him off the hook, and they’d eventually have to work things out, but Hurricane Buffy had just been downgraded to a tropical storm.

Buffy was already heading for the bed before the door had even closed behind Giles. Sinking down next to Spike, she settled against his hip, careful not to jostle him. She didn’t know how long she stayed there, silently studying him, but by the time she could tear her eyes away the windows were completely dark, the heavy drapes no longer outlined by even the faintest trace of light.

She huffed a shaky laugh. “Okay…the whole TLC thing? Not exactly my specialty. Even on your worst day, you were better at it than I’ve ever been. My idea of tender is more like threatening to kick your ass if you don’t snap out of it.” She frowned. “Except you’d probably enjoy that, which I guess makes it a bad idea as far as motivation goes.”

Eyes drawn to his, she searched his face for some sign that he heard her, some tiny hint of recognition. It was pale and composed and painfully beautiful, but so terribly, terribly blank.

Buffy swallowed, fighting against the sudden constriction in her throat. She blinked hard and shook her head. “I should be really mad at you. Come to think of it, I am really mad at you. All this time – ” Voice catching on a slight hiccup, she almost growled in frustration as she scrubbed angrily at her eyes then let her hands fall to her lap. She straightened and glared at him accusingly. “You know that kicking-your-ass thing I mentioned? Think you can pretty much count on it, unless you’ve got a damn good reason for not picking up the phone, at least, to let me know you were alive. Asshole.”

Again she searched his face, and again there was nothing. He looked like a statue, like one of those strangely life-like figures in the Palace of Wax that she used to marvel over as a child. An insane notion popped into her head – that maybe this wasn’t Spike, that maybe it was just a lifeless figure created to confuse her. To give her hope where there had been none. To lift her up, only to bring her down. To snatch away the absolution that was staring her in the face.

Driven by an irrational need to reassure herself, Buffy reached out to brush his cheek with the back of her hand. Holding her breath, she let her fingers trail lightly across his brow and down the strong bridge of his nose. He felt…like Spike. Exactly like Spike. The truth of it hit hard, filling her eyes with hot tears.

He’s real. He’s here.

She trembled all over as her thumb traced reverent butterfly patterns along the generous curve of his mouth. She’d forgotten how soft his lips were, how long and dark his lashes looked, how perfectly smooth the column of his throat was. How could so much fade from her memory in a single year?

All at once, it wasn’t enough just to touch his face. She needed more – a connection, something tangible to anchor him to her. Leaning down, she dropped a soft kiss onto the jagged scar that marred his left eyebrow. Then, without stopping to shed either jacket or shoes, she curled up next to him, fitting her body to his, careful of his injuries as she draped an arm across his chest and rubbed her tear-stained cheek against his shoulder.

“I know you’re in there, Spike,” she whispered, breath stirring the short tendrils of hair behind his ear. “I know you can hear me…feel me. I’m here now, and I’m not leaving. Not this time.” Lifting her head, she saw that his eyes were no longer open. Once again, he appeared to be sleeping. Closing her own eyes, she pressed closer, nuzzling his ear lobe and burying her face in the crook of his shoulder. “I won’t leave you,” she vowed again, this time for her own benefit as much as his.

But there she was, back at the house in Sunnydale, an agitated Dawn tugging at her arm.

“You have to go! He needs you!”

“Dawn, stop it.” Buffy gently pried her sister’s fingers away and moved toward the kitchen. Dawn, predictably enough, trailed along behind.

“But he’s hurt, and he won’t let me help him! You have to go, Buffy. Somebody has to take care of him!”

“Spike can take care of himself, Dawn. You should know that by now.” Retrieving a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator, she avoided her sister’s accusing gaze. “Whatever’s wrong with him, I’m sure he’ll be fine again in no time. Just leave it alone.”

“Oh, right.” Dawn’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Just like he would have been fine this morning when the sun came up and turned him into vampire flambé. If I hadn’t gone after you, Buffy, I never would have found him in the alley. He’d be ashes now and we never even would have known what happened to him!”

Buffy froze, clutching the glass she’d pulled from the cabinet. “You found him in an alley?”

“Yes! He was all beat up and unconscious. It was right by the police department. I was looking for you, but you weren’t there. I would have told you later at the Magic Shop, only Spike made me promise not to say anything. And I was mad at you anyway.”

Buffy turned, orange juice and avoidance tactics forgotten. “What did he say happened?”

“He said that a bunch of demons jumped him because of a misunderstanding over a poker game. But he was lying, Buffy, I know he was. He never lies to me, but this time he did. It’s got to be something really bad.” Dawn clutched her arm again and gazed at her imploringly. “Please, Buffy, I know you don’t really like him, but he’s my friend. He took care of me when you weren’t here. Whatever did that to him – it’s really dangerous. He’s hurt so bad. What if it comes after him again? He won’t be able to protect himself!”

After a long pause, Buffy finally nodded. “I’ll go…but you have to stay here.” She held up a hand, cutting short her sister’s protest. “Stay here, and I won’t tell him you broke your promise.”

Biting her lip, Dawn hesitated then sighed. “Okay. Just take care of him, please?”

“I’ll…do what I can.” It was a weak promise at best but enough to reassure Dawn.

Ten minutes later, Buffy stood outside Spike’s crypt, wondering for the first time if she should knock instead of barging right in. Not knowing his condition and uncertain of her reception, she opted for the latter. Not surprisingly, she found him in the lower level sprawled face down across his bed. Also not surprisingly, he lay there without a stitch of clothing on, not even a sheet covering him.

Normally, she might have appreciated the sight. Now, her eyes slid away from the ugly bruises covering his back. She hadn’t realized…

Unlike the rest of him, Spike’s face had been hidden from view. But suddenly he stirred, demon senses awakening to the presence of a slayer in his lair, and his head turned.

Buffy felt sick.

His face was a swollen and mangled mess. It looked so much worse than she’d expected, especially since she knew his preternatural healing had already kicked in. No wonder Dawn had been so upset.

Her mouth went dry. Oh god. Dawn. What would her sister say if she knew who had given him those brutal cuts and bruises?

Buffy swallowed, belatedly realizing she could see a hint of blue through the swollen, narrow slit that passed for an eye. Spike was silent, watching her, waiting.

“I…I came to see how you were.”

She was sure he raised an eyebrow at that, or would have, if he’d been able. Glancing away, her gaze fell on a bowl of water sitting on a stand next to the bed. There was a clean washcloth beside it. She guessed that Dawn had fetched it there, intending to wash the dried blood off Spike’s face, but he’d obviously sent her packing before she could even start the task.

Without realizing she’d moved, Buffy found herself standing beside the bed, wet washcloth in hand. Hesitantly, she touched Spike’s shoulder, urging him over until he lay flat on his back. His lips parted but she hushed him before he could speak.

“Don’t. Just…let me help. Let me fix it.”

For the next two days, little happened. Willow called to report on the coven’s continuing efforts, which had thus far had failed to produce anything of note. Illyria kept her distance, except for a brief appearance as “Fred,” which Buffy had found more than a little unnerving. Giles continued to research Spike’s condition, assisted by Xander, who also checked in with Dawn via long distance.

At first, Buffy had asked him not to tell her sister about Spike but changed her mind when she realized that, by keeping the news from Dawn, she’d be guilty of the same offense as Giles.

Dawn, naturally, had been halfway out the door before Xander had persuaded her to wait a few more days until she’d finished her final exams. She argued loudly but reluctantly stopped when Xander insisted Spike would want it that way. He promised to keep her updated and to call her the second anything changed. They also agreed it would be better for all concerned to keep Andrew in the dark, at least for now.

During those two days, Buffy rarely left Spike’s side. She hated being so helpless, the way it made her feel. She longed to go out and kill something just to prove she wasn’t totally useless. But even though it might make her feel better, it wouldn’t help Spike. So she stayed and took care of him, bathing him with a cool sponge in hopes of keeping the intermittent fever in check, talking to him in low, soothing tones, or trying to coax blood down his throat whenever he opened his eyes. She had little success with the latter, and it frustrated her to the point that she actually considered hauling off and punching him, as she had Angel all those years ago, just to force him to feed.

Buffy froze, eyes widening. God, how could she have forgotten? Faith had poisoned Angel, causing almost the same kind of symptoms Spike now exhibited. What if…?

She was halfway to the door when she stopped, mind racing. She couldn’t tell Giles, not yet. If Spike had been exposed to the same kind of poison, on the tip of a blade or the point of an arrow, then there was only one cure. And it was one that Giles would never agree to let her try, not after she’d almost died forcing Angel to drink from her.

She straightened, her resolve hardening. If her blood could save Spike, nothing would keep her from giving it to him. Nothing, that is, but Spike and his inability to feed.

Buffy sighed and contemplated kicking the wall with her stylish yet affordable boots. Even if she had the knowledge and equipment needed to draw and bag her own blood, which she clearly didn’t, the intravenous feeding had done little more than sustain him, while his near-catatonic state kept him from taking blood the usual way.

But there was a time when he might be capable of it – during one of his spells of fever-induced delirium. He moved on his own, spoke on his own, and it didn’t matter that he wasn’t truly conscious of his actions. All that mattered was that he did act. That meant, with the right approach, it should be possible to arouse his natural instincts, which in turn would lead him to feed.

And Buffy had a pretty good idea as to how she could arouse those instincts.

First, she checked to see that the door was locked. The prospect of an unexpected visitor didn’t really worry her. It was late, and they’d been left largely undisturbed since that first night. But Buffy wasn’t taking any chances.

As she made her way back to the bed, she began to disrobe, discarding her shirt and everything else piece by piece. A rueful smile curved her lips. All else aside, it was really too bad Spike wasn’t awake to witness her little strip tease. Something told her he would have really appreciated it. If he had survived the shock, that is.

Sliding beneath the sheet, she pressed up against him. Slowly, she matched her breathing to the steady rise and fall of his chest, marveling anew at the anomaly that was Spike, and waited. And waited. And waited.

Just as she began to fret that nothing would happen, she felt him stir, the rising warmth of his body signaling the return of the delirium.

“Fred…where…can’t lose…Fred, luv.”

Buffy tried to ignore it, but the timbre of his voice as he spoke Fred’s name sparked a hot pang of jealousy. She remembered the brief glimpse she’d had the day before of a sweet, beautiful, intelligent woman who seemed to feel entirely too much affection for Spike. A part of Buffy that she didn’t like to acknowledge was relieved that woman no longer existed, while the rest of her felt deeply ashamed.

But this wasn’t about her and what she should or shouldn’t feel. This was about Spike and what he needed – something only she could give. Buffy ruthlessly silenced the little voice that told her there were thirty-odd slayers right down the road who could also give Spike what he needed. The point being, it was her place to do it, not theirs.

Buffy brought her lips to his ear. “I’m here, Spike,” she whispered. “I’m going to make you well again.”

Gazing into his face, she placed a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose. Tenderness between them had been so fleeting. It felt wrong somehow that now, as she freely gave him what he’d so desperately craved, he wouldn’t even know. But there was no other way. She wouldn’t consider the method used with Angel, and that left her only one other form of persuasion.

Lips grazing his cheek, whisper soft, she thought of all the times he’d pleaded for a chance to love her. All the times, she’d turned him down. Not just turned him down, but beat him down, turned him away, sneered at the creature who thought he could be a man.

There was only one monster in that relationship, and it had never been him.

Tears of remorse stung her eyes as she nuzzled at his neck, inhaling the sharp, heady scent of him, colored now by the faintest tinge of sweat. Once upon a time, there’d been a trace of Buffy, too, marking him as indelibly hers. Even when she’d hated it, she’d just as fiercely relished it. She wanted to mark him again, though she couldn’t be sure he would still welcome it.

“No, you don’t. But thanks for sayin’ it.”

Buffy shut out everything but here and now and the man lying next to her. She let her hands roam, mindful of his injuries, reacquainting herself with the form she’d once known so intimately. Soon, his mindless muttering turned to gasps and his body responded in a way that left little doubt about his ability to feel. He arched up into her hand, blindly seeking more, and she gave it to him.

Just as his movements reached a fevered pitch, her hand fell away, her heart leaping at the loud groan of protest that escaped his lips. At the same time, she glanced up and was disappointed to see his human face. He’d never changed during their sexual encounters, but a part of her had always suspected it took a conscious effort on his part. That he’d held back out of fear he would lose her completely if he did.

Now, when she desperately wanted to see his vampire visage, he remained stubbornly human. Stronger measures were needed to coax him out.

Slowly, gently, she moved above him, taking care not to burden him with her full weight. Head lowering, her mouth settled against the strong column of his neck, tasting the salty tang of sweat. His body shook and words spilled from his mouth, but she didn’t let it distract her. Spike had always been vocal during sex, with dirty endearments and passionate promises peppered throughout their lovemaking.

It had always been lovemaking, at least for him. Of all the harsh truths she’d had to face after Spike’s return from Africa, this had been the hardest for Buffy to admit.

Her mouth continued its erotic play on his neck, teasing and tantalizing with moist kisses and gentle tonguing. When she fastened on a tender spot and scraped it with her teeth, his body jerked spasmodically beneath her. She pressed in closer, nipping and worrying and alternating with a steady licking. His breathing was harsher now, his movements more frantic. With a silent prayer, she closed her eyes and bit down hard, so hard she wondered if she might draw blood.

The result was electrifying. Spike arched wildly beneath her, his body slamming into hers as a loud growl reverberated through the room. Letting go, Buffy lifted her head and came face to face with the vampire. There was no recognition in his gaze, only a feral hunger, but it made her heart sing. She tilted her head, exposing her neck, then closed her eyes and waited for the strike.

It never came.

Her eyes flew open. Spike was still in game face, but his head had fallen back against the pillow. He was still aroused, and no doubt starving, but apparently unable to act on it.

Buffy almost howled with frustration. They’d come so close. It had almost worked. There had to be a way.

Her eyes darted frantically about the room and lit on a half-empty water glass sitting on the bedside table. In one fluid move, she grabbed the glass, dumped its contents, and shattered it against the table’s edge. Then, grasping the largest shard, she pulled back just enough to drag the jagged edge across her forearm. A thin, red line appeared in its wake, trickles of blood running down to her wrist.

His head jerked, the scent of her blood causing his nostrils to flare. She lifted her arm, placing the cut over his lips.

“Please, Spike,” she urged softly. “Drink from me…please.”

He moved faster than she would have expected, his lips fastening on her arm, voraciously mimicking her assault on his neck, though fangs never penetrated flesh. She watched his throat move as he swallowed, mouth working to draw in still more of her slayer-enhanced blood. The low growling noise he made touched a primal place inside her, while his faint moans as he sucked moved her to tears. She shifted off of him, still holding her arm in place, and settled at his side, touching her forehead to his cheek.

Buffy was tempted to let Spike feed for as long as he wanted, to seduce him into biting her so he could have as much of the life-giving blood as he needed, but she knew it would be foolish and probably fatal. Reluctantly, she pulled her arm away, his wordless snarl of protest knifing through her heart.

When it died away, there was nothing but the sound of harsh breathing, hers and his. After several long seconds, her gaze lifted to his face. She froze.

He was looking at her. He was looking at her. Staring at her through amber eyes.

His mouth worked silently. For an instant, she had the crazy thought that was speaking and her brain just couldn’t process it. Then a faint word reached her ears.

“…Buffy?” Spike spun around, gaze darting frantically. “Buffy!”

Where the bloody hell had she gone? She’d just been there. He was certain of it. He looked around again. For that matter, where the bloody hell was he?

“She’s pretty worried about you.”

Spike whirled again, coming face-to-face with…Fred? Stunned, he stood gawking like a school boy in a brothel.

Fred smiled indulgently. “Thing is, she shouldn’t be. She’s only going to mess things up.”

Giving his head a quick shake, Spike resisted the urge to pinch himself; but only just. “Fred…” He squinted then straightened. “Hang on...you’re not Fred.”

“You always were a lot smarter than most people gave you credit for being.” She tilted her head. “It’s probably the hair.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not too inclined to take fashion hints from somethin’ that can’t even wear its own body. Speakin’ of…” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a dangerous level. “Get. Out of. Her. Face…Now.”

“Fred” laughed lightly, slapping playfully at his shoulder. “Oh, stop it, silly. We don’t have time for things like that. Haven’t you even wondered where you are?”

Spike frowned as he shot a sideways glance at his surroundings. He had been, actually, just before the appearance of the thing that looked like Fred. But he’d been momentarily sidetracked. Truth was, he’d never been that good at multi-tasking. He’d always been more of a straight-to-the-kill, focus-on-the-goal type vampire. Which was odd, since his thought processes weren’t the most structured, and he loved nothing so much as a good, chaotic brawl. But even then, he usually took it one brawl at a time. The soul hadn’t affected that part of him much, merely made him a little more discriminating about what kind of chaos he embraced.

He sniffed. “Matter of fact, I have. Doesn’t look much like LA.” Didn’t look much like anything he recognized. It seemed to be some kind of void, filled only with the two of them and an endless, shifting sea of mist and fog. Everything, including the not-Fred, was cast in a soft, pink glow.

God, he hated pink. Such a bloody stupid color. Didn’t have the balls to be red, wasn’t good enough to be white. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than living out the rest of his days bathed in such a namby-pamby hue.

That’s it. Must be hell.

“Oh, stop it. You’re not in hell. God, Spike, sometimes you’re such a drama queen.”

“Oi! Out of my head!” He glowered at her. “Nobody invited you to go pokin’ about in there. Wouldn’t catch Fred doin' somethin' like that. She had more respect for people. She was something special, not like some nosy, pain-in-the-ass, pale imitation.”

Not-Fred merely folded her arms, looking enormously amused.

“Anyway, ’s warm enough to be hell,” he groused. “Snuffed it, didn’t I? In the big battle. So, what are you…some kind of gatekeeper?”

“What I am isn’t important, but you’re not in hell, and you’re not dead. At least, not in the strictest sense of the word.”

Spike sighed. Apparently, gutting a Kaznar demon would be easier than trying to get information from this bloody bint. “So where am I, then?”

“In between.”

“In between,” he echoed, eyebrows quirked as he waited for more. When it didn’t come, he clenched his fists and his jaw. “In between what? Life and death? Good and evil? Clay and Ruben?”

Not-Fred shrugged. “Just…in between.”

Spike snorted. “Bloody typical. You get your rocks off givin’ me a bunch of nothin’ and I’m left flapping in the wind. You can at least tell me about the others, right? What happened to them? What happened with the battle?” He sobered. “Did anyone survive?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Head cocked, he squinted into the nothingness. “Remember the alley. Remember the fight. Remember a bloody weird sound and a big wind.” He stopped, his brow furrowed. “And…a room. With people.” He frowned harder, trying to recall. “Rupert…and Red. And Illyria, too, I think.” His gaze turned back to hers. “I wasn’t in the alley.”

She smiled. “Nope. You were there…in England. They pulled you out, you and Illyria.”

“Or maybe I only imagined them,” he challenged. “Like I’m probably imaginin’ you.”

“You are such a knucklehead.” She laughed lightly, her tone affectionate. “They were real enough. So am I, just not the way you see me now.”

Giving that some thought, he slowly nodded. “Fair enough. What about the others, then…Angel and Charlie?” He swallowed. “Are they dead?”

She shook her head and sighed. “Why do you always jump to the worst conclusion? You’re dead, they’re dead, none of this is real…there are other options, you know.”

“Really. Why don’t you tell me about them then?” he asked, sarcasm in full swing.

Before his eyes, all semblance of Fred vanished. The body was still there, but the face was a blank mask devoid of any emotion. The voice, when she spoke, was deeper than before – more like a cross between Fred and Illyria.

“Prophecy is not set in stone, and destiny can be rewritten. You taught us that, William.”

For once, Spike was at a loss. Before he could recover his snark, the being in front of him morphed into Illyria.

“She meddles in things she does not understand. This cannot be allowed, or the prophecy will be altered and a new page written.”

Spike shook his head, bewildered. “Prophecy? What prophecy?” He squinted. “Is this about that shanshu bugaboo? And who is this ‘she’ you’re talkin’ about?”

“She will call you back. You must not go. Whatever happens, you must resist.”

“Who the hell are you talkin’ about?” Spike yelled, his patience snapping.

Her head tilted. “The Slayer.”

That stopped him cold. “The…Buffy? You’re talkin’ about Buffy?” Worried now, he started to pace. “What’s she got to do with this? Is she all right? Not hurt is she? Woman never could mind her own business. But she’s okay, right? Otherwise, she couldn’t be meddlin’ in whatever it is you won’t tell me about.”

He looked up to find Not-Illyria striding away. “Hey! Hang on there…answer me!” He started after her. “Blue! Answer my bloody question! Is she all right?” He started jogging, trying to catch up, but even though she seemed to be moving at the same speed, the distance between them grew. He finally gave up and skidded to a stop.

“Blue! Don’t leave me here like this!” he bellowed after her. “I need you to tell me! Blue!”

“I believe you, Buffy. Unfortunately, he seems to have slipped away again.” Giles rose from his seat at the bedside where he’d been examining an unresponsive Spike. “It is quite encouraging, however, and he no longer has a fever. Did something happen?”

Buffy froze. “Something? What…something?” She surreptitiously tugged at the sleeve of her robe, making sure it still covered the cut on her forearm.

“I don’t know. Some…sign that he was coming out of it? Something you said, something you did differently? Anything out of the ordinary.”

Buffy licked her lips, which had suddenly gone very dry. “No. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

For a vampire.

Giles gave a slight shrug. “I’m at a loss to explain it. There’s something else a bit strange, as well. It almost seems as if his injuries are healing at a faster rate. Not that they were really healing at all before, other than a very slight improvement with some of the lesser cuts and bruises. But looking at him now, I can tell the difference. Perhaps we should try the intravenous feeding again.”

“No!”

He was startled by her vehemence, and Buffy offered a weak smile. “It’s just that…if he is improving, and I think you’re right, then we don’t want to do anything that might interfere with that. Right? I mean, you’ve been feeding him and he didn’t get better. Last night, you didn’t and he did. Maybe we should hold off a little bit. See what happens.”

She waited, holding her breath, until Giles slowly nodded.

“Perhaps you’re right. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. For all we know, he may not be responding in a way that’s normal to a vampire. As long as he doesn’t get worse, I don’t suppose there’s any harm in waiting a bit.”

Giles moved toward the door then stopped. “Buffy. Promise me, that whatever happens in here, you won’t take any unnecessary risks.” He turned to look at her. “If anything should happen to you, even if Spike recovered because of it, do you really believe he would thank you? How long do you think he would stay in this world, knowing he had been the cause of your death?”

Buffy’s shoulders sagged. She should have known. “I was careful, Giles. I didn’t let him take too much. I won’t give him more than a little at a time, I swear. And there’s no real danger. He couldn’t even do it on his own; I had to help him. Believe me, he’s not a threat.”

“Now, perhaps, but what about later as he grows stronger? How much of a threat will he be then?”

“I can handle it. Trust me on this, please.”

He stared at her solemnly. “It would seem I have little choice.” At the door, he paused. “Buffy, I know your blood replenishes itself faster than that of a normal human, but there are limits. Please, don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” she promised, and smiled reassuringly.