Part Three: Finale of Seem
by cousinjean

*

He didn't know how long he knelt there, just staring at her. She held his gaze; it occurred to him that if this had been another time, another place, it would've been a contest. Trying to psych each other out, see who would blink or look away first. But after a few seconds her eyes glazed over, her stare became vacant, and he wondered if he'd imagined the spark of hatred from before. If there was even anything of her left in there.

Finally, she turned her head away and rested it against the wall. Spike snapped out of his near-trance and crept forward. He reached a hand out toward her. She pulled back, whining unintelligibly adn trying to burrow into the wall.

Jesus, what did they do to her?

"Shh, Buffy." He kept his voice calm, soothing. "I'm not gonna hurt you, I only --" He took hold of the buckle on her straightjacket and waited.

She stopped struggling and went slack.

"It's all right, Pet. Let's get this thing off." He undid the strap and slid her arms out of it. Underneath she wore an army-green tee-shirt, at least two sizes too big. It might've started out her size, but she looked like they only fed her enough to keep her alive. Bruises -- some faded, some fresh -- mingled with scabbed-over wounds and older scars, running down the length of both arms. Spike caught a glimpse of bite marks on her left wrist. "Oh, Buffy," he sighed as he reached out to finger the scar.

When he touched her, she flinched away from him and jumped to her feet. She moved a few feet away, to stand with her back to him in the middle of the Spartan cell. "Where do you want it?" she mumbled.

"Where do I want what?"

She turned to look at him then, her glare both contemptuous and incredulous. Not his favorite look to receive from her, but at least it was fully Buffy. So they hadn't managed to completely break her. Yet. "What do you think?"

Spike stood there, at a total loss.

She rolled her eyes. "Last time you wanted me bent over the cot, before that it was face down on the floor, before that, up against the wall ... where now? And remember, if you try to kiss me I swear to God I'll bite off your tongue. Even if it means permanent brain damage."

He let her words sink in, focusing on the last phrase first. Brain damage. Why she didn't try to fight ... "They put a chip in your head."

The look she gave him clearly said, "Duh."

"Then why ..." He looked down at the straitjacket in his hand, then remembered the scar on her wrist. The bite was human, he realized. Self-inflicted. "Oh." He shook his head and tossed the straitjacket aside. "Look, Buffy, I don't want to hurt you."

At this, she laughed, but there was a desperation and anguish in it that chilled him.

He took a step towards her. "Pet, I'm not --" He stopped himself. He'd been about to spill everything to her, but he remembered where he was. They were most likely being watched, or at least overheard. "I hit my head, and I'm not quite myself." He held up placating hands. "I don't know what's been going on between me and you ... although you've painted a pretty clear picture --"

"God, would you just shut up and fuck me already? Or is this a new torture you've devised, having to listen to you talk? Because I'm thinking this is worse."

Unbidden, Spike's brain called up memories of a much healthier Buffy, tearing at his clothes as she bent him backwards over a tomb and whispered breathlessly, "Fuck me, Spike." He shook it off. He couldn't reconcile that girl with the frail, damaged creature before him.

"That's not why I'm here, Buffy."

"Why do you keep saying my name?"

Again, all he could do was stare at her.

She shook her head and hugged herself. "Nobody's said my name in ... nobody here ever uses my name." She went over to the wall and leaned against it, then slid down into a crouch. With one hand she made a gesture as though brushing her hair out of her face, and seemed surprised when it had to go all the way to her head to find any hair. Then her expression became resigned, and she hugged herself again.

For a long time he stood there, watching her, letting the horror of everything she'd been through sink in. Everything he had done to her here. He went to stand a few feet away from her, keeping a respectable distance. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "For whatever that's worth."
She didn't say anything, just stared straight ahead and began to rock a little.

"I'm going to fix this. I'll --" He started to say "get you out of here," but remembered the surveillance. "I'll make it better. I promise you, Love."

At that she looked up at him, her face filled with rage. "Don't you ... ever ... call me that!" She lunged at him, but before he even thought to evade her attack she let out an ear-shattering scream and dropped to the floor. She curled into a ball, clutching her head and moaning.

"Buffy! God!" Spike dropped to his knees beside her. He grabbed hold of her wrists, tried to pull her into his lap. "I'm sorry, Baby. I'm so sorry --"
She struggled against him. "Leave me alone! Please, Spike! Please!" The last word came out in a sob. Spike suddenly saw her, her shoulder-length hair pulled up off her neck, bathrobe coming open, sprawled out on the bathroom tile. He jerked his hands away from her like she was on fire. "Oh, God. Buffy --"

The door behind him opened. "Time's up," said Finn. He came in and looked down at Buffy as Spike struggled to his feet. "She tried to attack again, huh?"

Spike couldn't find his voice. He could only watch as Buffy reached out a hand to touch Finn's boot. "Riley!" she cried. "Please ..."

Finn yanked his foot away like she'd soiled him, then reared it back and kicked her in the stomach.

"Hey!" Spike grabbed his shoulder and tried to shove him away from her, but the bastard didn't budge.

"I said your time's up," Finn told him. "Go wait in the hall."

"I bloody well will not!"

Finn laid a claw on his weapon. "I 'bloody well' won't tell you again, vampire."

Defeated, Spike backed slowly towards the door.

Finn retrieved the straightjacket and threw it at Buffy. "Get up, Slayer. Be a good girl and put that on, now." For a minute there he actually sounded like the corn-fed Iowa boy.

When Buffy could breathe again, she did as she was told. As she slid into the restraints her face lost all expression, and her eyes glazed over again. Finn re-fastened the buckle. "Now go stand against the wall where I can keep an eye on you." Again, Buffy obeyed. "Atta girl," he said, backing out of the room. Buffy looked up and met Spike's gaze as Finn pulled the door shut, her eyes full of accusation. The door closed on that image, already burned into Spike's memory.

Rage filled him, and he threw himself at Finn, knocking the monster into the wall. "What the hell is wrong with you!" he shouted. "You used to love the girl!"

Finn picked Spike off of him like he was an annoying insect, and set him on his feet. "Riley loved her. Riley's dead." He looked Spike up and down and raised one of the scaly ridges that stood in for his eyebrows. "I hope that pesky new soul of yours isn't going to be a problem from now on."

Spike got ahold of himself, smoothed down his coat and shoved his hands in his pockets. "No. No problem."

"Good."

Finn escorted Spike back the way they came. He kept his eyes straight ahead this time, refusing to look at Tara as he passed. Bad enough knowing she was there. The girl was probably better off dead.

When they reached the exit, Finn held it open for him. Fortunately it didn't require an access badge from the inside.

"Same time next month," Finn said as Spike stepped into the cave. "And if I were you, I'd get that little Resistance problem taken care of before I came back." With that, he shut the door, leaving Spike in darkness.

He trudged up the path towards the mouth of the cave. Although he didn't spare the guards a second glance as he passed, he did make the rudest gesture he could think of. At the road, Harmony was nowhere to be seen. Just as well. He really didn't think he could deal with her right then, and he was in desperate need of a good, stiff drink. He took a moment to pull out the badge he'd lifted from Finn, turning it over in his hands as his brain went to work on a new plan of action. Then he put it back in his pocket, and set his path for town.

***

He sat on the edge of the tub and watched. The other remained oblivious to her pleas as she struggled, but he could hear them. He could always hear them when he watched like this. He could see the anguish and fear on her face, hear them in her voice, as she begged him to stop. But he couldn't help her, couldn't make himself stop. He sat frozen, sentenced by his own subconscious to watch as he committed this ultimate betrayal, powerless to change it.

The door opened, and she came in. She looked different, dressed in black leather pants and a white sweater, her long hair gathered at the back of her neck. She looked as she had that night, on the stairs, before ...

"I know I'm a monster," he'd told her then; and here, before them on the bathroom floor, was the proof.

She stepped gingerly around the couple on the floor and sat beside him on the tub.

"Pet, what are you doing here? You shouldn't have to see this."

"Already seen it," she told him. "Been there, done that ... they didn't actually sell tee-shirts."

He looked at her. "Anybody ever tell you you've got a morbid sense of humor, Love?"

"Look who's talking." She met his gaze and smiled. He was tempted to smile back when her desperate cries cut through him from the floor. He looked back down at her, at his own face, twisted by frustration and desperation instead of the demon -- the face of the evil that men do.

She cupped his chin and turned him to face her. "I'm here," she said. "Where are you?"

He jerked away from her touch and looked back at the man-monster on the floor. "There." He hung his head. "How can you even look at me?"

She shrugged. "We always hurt the ones we love."

He choked back a sob and dropped his head in his hands. A soft hand caressed the nape of his neck, stroked the hair there. She gently tugged at him, and despite everything he gave in, gave himself over to her embrace, let her cradle him against her breast as he cried. He slid off of the tub and dropped to his knees before her, rested his head in her lap while she rubbed a soothing pattern over his back. Finally he raised up and looked at her, and asked the question his conscious mind wouldn't allow him to ask, knew that he had no right to ask.

"Can you ever forgive me?"

She reached out and stroked his hair back from his face. "Ask the right question."

"What question?"

"Can you forgive yourself?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Every time I try to make things better, I just bollix it all up." When he opened his eyes, she changed. Her hair turned brown, cropped close to her head, and she wore pajama bottoms and an Army-issue tee-shirt. She was covered in scars and bruises. Spike bit back another sob. "Look what I've done to you this time. God, I keep making things worse for you."

"Then start fixing it," she said. "Make it right."

"How?"

Sadly, she shook her head. "I wish I could tell you."

He closed his eyes again as she leaned down and kissed his forehead. When he opened them, he was seated back on the tub, looking down at her. She lay sprawled on the floor, alone. Her bathrobe lay open, revealing bruises already forming between her legs. He reached down to close it, to try and restore some of her dignity. His fingers brushed her skin as he did. She felt cold. That's when he noticed the wound on her throat.

He shook his head. "No. It ... that's not how it happened."

Her head snapped up, and she looked at him with yellow eyes, her forehead a series of bumps and ridges. She bared her fangs, snarled, then lunged.

With a yelp, he fell backwards into the tub, filled with water that enveloped him, pulled him down. Beyond the tub, beyond light, he floated in blackness. Icy fingers stroked him all over and caressed his body. Then they tore at him, rending his clothes away until he was naked, clawing his flesh. Faces appeared out of the darkness -- some he knew, others faint echoes of distant memories -- passing before him in endless succession.

His victims.

He tried to kick away, to swim up into the light, but they clutched at him, grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him back down, down, into endless night, to live with them always.

He opened his mouth to scream, and cold water rushed in.

***

Spike opened his eyes and jerked his head up with a gasp. It took him a moment to register his surroundings. He was in a booth at Willie's. He was wet. He also smelled like beer. With a grimace, he tasted the liquid dripping from his hair onto his hand. Cheap beer. Lovely.

"Wakey, wakey," purred a familiar voice from the end of the table. He looked up to see Willow, dangling an empty pitcher from her index finger, gazing at him with a serene smile on her face.

Willow. Thank God. It had all been a nightmare, and everything was back to normal now. Except, what the hell was she doing in Willie's? And wasn't she supposed to be in England with Giles? He looked back at the table and saw the napkin he'd been drawing on before he passed out, lying next to Finn's access badge. Oh, balls. Still in Bizarro world. But Willow was alive, there was a good sign. Maybe he could get some Scooby assistance after all.

A stream of beer on the table ran towards the napkin. Spike snatched up that and the badge and put them in his breast pocket. He ran a hand through his hair, slinging beer haphazardly around him.

"Hey, watch it!" Willow barked as she jumped back. She pouted as she wiped the beer from her fur coat. "Werewolf's a bitch to clean."

Okay. Still processing. Willow was acting at home in Willie's. Willow was wearing something that could have been her ex-boyfriend on top of -- well, not very much at all, really. None of that pointed to her being on the side of goodness and light. And it was beginning to seep into Spike's whiskey-soaked, sleep-addled, dream-fogged brain that Willow was also quite dead.

She retrieved a towel from the bar and draped it over his head, then slid into the opposite seat, flashing him an impish smile. "Her Royal Haughtiness sent me out to find you. She freaked when she went to pick you up and you weren't there." Willow frowned. "I wish you'd explain to her that just because she's fucking my sire doesn't make me her minion."

"You're nobody's minion, Red," Spike said absently. He was focused on scrubbing the beer out of his hair, but stopped when that last item registered. Another flashback hit him, driven home hard under the extra weight of his conscience. Pushing Willow onto her bed, music blaring from her radio, drowning out her screams -- and his, as the chip sent its first jolts of agony through him. But here, there was no chip. Never had been. Spike threw the towel down on the table in disgust, then focused on mopping up the rest of the mess.

"That's right. I'm not." Her voice was steel. Something familiar about that, too. It sparked another fragment of memory. Maybe it's not such a good idea for you to piss me off. Spike suppressed a shudder. She narrowed her eyes at him. "There's something different about you."

"Could it be my handsome new scent? Eau de Bud Light?" If she picked up on the soul, he wondered if she'd buy the same William the Bloody schpiel he'd given Adam, or if this Willow already knew better.

She shook her head, and tilted it, examining him. "No, there's something else. Something about your aura."

Shit. Becoming a vampire obviously hadn't curbed her taste for witchcraft. That combination couldn't be good.

The bartender came over to take Willow's order, providing a nice distraction. For the moment, at least. "I'll have a Bloody Mary," she said. The bartender rolled his eyes, and Willow cast a wicked grin at Spike. For an instant, he could see a faint glimmer of her human self. "That joke never gets old."

The bartender went to poke his head in the back room. "Mary! It's your favorite customer!"

Out shuffled a dark-haired girl, pale and anemic-looking. Jesus, she couldn't have been older than Dawn. Willow scooted over and patted the seat next to her as Mary, her eyes downcast, approached the table. "Have a seat, Mary," Willow said conversationally, and the girl did as told. Willow brushed Mary's long hair over her shoulder, revealing bite marks all over her neck, some already turned to scars, some more recent.

"She looks well used, that one."

"Mm." Willow continued to pet the girl's hair. "That's my favorite thing about the human heart. As long as you don't take too much, it just keeps on pumping out more of the good stuff." She leaned over and lapped at the most recent mark, then trailed her tongue up the girl's neck and cheek. Unseen by Willow, Mary's eyes closed and her face knitted in revulsion and fear. Spike had to look away.

"And Mary here is definitely the good stuff," Willow said. She glanced at Spike. "You seem kinda down. I take it things didn't go so well with Adam."

"You could say that."

She continued to fondle the girl as she spoke. "Big guy's not too happy about the Resistance, huh? Oh!" She finally stopped touching the poor bird and turned to face Spike. "I almost forgot"

Spike looked back at her. "What?"

"The Resistance. We captured one of them. I think he's their leader." She grinned. "And you'll never guess who it is."

Spike braced himself. "Who?"

Her grin grew wider as she tilted her chin down and looked at him from under hooded eyes. "Go on, guess."

Spike glared at her. "Got a bit of a headache coming on, Pet. Really not in the mood for guessing games."

Her grin melted into a pout. "No fun."

"Willow? Who is it?"

She straightened up, suddenly serious and deadly. "Giles. I mean, hardly surprising, right? The old man is so predictable."

Brilliant. "What did you do with him?"

"We took him to your house, chained him up in the basement. Josh was all gung-ho to torture him, but I told him you'd want to interrogate him yourself." The grin returned, and a sliver of pink tongue peeked out from behind her teeth. "Besides, I want to watch."

Thank heaven for small favors. "Right, good call." Spike stood up. "We'd best get back, then."

"I'll be along," Willow said, turning back to Mary. "Just let me finish my drink." She pulled the girl into her lap and leaned her back, cradling her like the child that she was. Willow morphed into vamp face and leaned into the girl's neck. She slipped her free hand up under Mary's blouse, and the girl gave out a whimper that sounded more of pain than of pleasure.

Spike mustered all of his authority. "Willow!"

She raised her head and cast an irritated sneer at Spike.

"Sun's up soon. You don't have time."

With a sigh, Willow melted back into human face. "Fine." She ran a finger tenderly down Mary's cheek, then planted a soft kiss on her lips. For her part, Mary remained motionless. "Later, Baby." Willow nudged Mary out of the booth. As she got up, she tossed a couple of bills onto the table. Mary grabbed them and ran into the back room. Willow turned to follow Spike. "So much for being nobody's minion," she muttered.

"Just come on," Spike mumbled as they left the bar. His stomach was beginning to rumble, and he was starting to suspect that butcher's blood wouldn't be so easy to come by in these parts. As much as the sight of that girl had pained him, she'd also begun to look tempting.

Spike pushed the thought aside. Ignoring his hunger, he focused instead on how the hell to save Rupert's ass.

***

END, PART THREE

Part Four: The Devil You Know

by cousinjean

***

Minions hung about in the front yard, dancing on the lawn to music blasting through the living room windows. A few couples of various orientations were all but shagging on the front porch. Looked like a party. Just what he so fucking didn't need.
He shoved a beer-swilling tosser out of his path as he stormed up the front walk.

Harmony came flying out the door and met him on the steps. "Spikey! Oh my God, I was so worried!" She threw her arms around his neck. "Where were you?"

"Went for a drink."

"Ew, and you smell like it!" She pulled away and put her hands on her hips. Spike cast a glance at Willow, who leaned against the porch rail and met him with a smirk. Harmony poked him in the chest. "Do you even care that I was out of my mind with worry? All I could think was what if my poor Blondie Bear wandered off somewhere and couldn't remember how to get home before sunrise!"

He grabbed her and pulled her inside the house. "Let's not advertise my memory loss to the others, right?"

"Sorry," she pouted, jerking her arm out of his grip, "but I was really scared. Don't do that to me."

Spike sighed. The wounded look she gave him made him feel like a prat. "Sorry, Pet. Didn't mean to frighten you." He looked out at the party on the front lawn and his irritation rose anew. The incessant hip hop noise blaring from the stereo wasn't helping. "Tell me, do all these people live here?"

"No, just us. But they caught Mr. Giles messing with one of the traps, and decided to celebrate."

Great. The whole world was shot to hell, Buffy's stuck in an underground cell, so desperate to end her misery that she's willing to chew through her own wrist, and these pillocks were having a fucking party. His irritation boiled into anger as he spun away from Harmony and tore into the living room. With a roar he picked up the stereo and heaved it into the giant TV screen. He stood there, panting, relishing the satisfaction that always came with significant property damage. His conscience had nothing to say on the matter, and in fact felt pretty good about destroying something that belonged to this world's Spike -- considering all evidence pointed to this world's Spike being a right, bloody bastard.

"Spike!" Harmony's shrill, indignant voice cut through the red haze. "What the hell are you doing?"

Ignoring her, Spike strode to the front door. The minions all stood about looking bewildered. "Don't you people have homes?" he shouted.

From her spot against the porch rail, Willow raised an imperious eyebrow. "It's not like they don't have a good reason to celebrate."

"Celebrate when the problem's been eliminated," he growled, and slammed the door. He spun to face Harmony. "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Giles, you daft bint!" She flinched at the name-calling, but he didn't have time to feel bad about it.

"He's in the basement. Josh is guarding him."

Spike pushed past her to the basement door. He took his time going down the stairs, putting on an air of menace, more for Josh's benefit than for Giles's. The Watcher's back was to him. He was thoroughly tied to a support beam, facing the opposite wall. When Spike reached the bottom of the stairs, a tall, powerful-looking young vampire stepped away from Giles and flashed a fangy grin at Spike. This must be Josh, then.

"Master," Josh said, his voice full of pride, "I caught the Resistance leader."

"Did that all by yourself, did you?"

The whelp gave a modest shrug. "Well, some of the guys helped."

"Well done," Spike said absently as he moved around to have a look at Giles. His head hung down, but Spike could see a cut on his forehead. "Hello, Rupert."

Giles raised his head. The cut was just the beginning. One of his eyes had swollen shut, and he had a busted lip. His good eye met Spike's. "Hello, tosser."

Funny how much that hurt. Last time Spike had seen Giles, the older man -- well, the more mature man, at least -- had called him "Son." Of course, they'd both been under the influence of actual amnesia and had made a tremendous leap in logic based on their shared Britishness, but still. It had been rather nice. Not that Spike would ever admit that to anybody.

But that had been a different Giles. This one gazed at him with utter contempt. He'd never seen that before, least not directed at him. Supreme irritation and disappointment, yeh, but not this unvarnished hatred. This would make things difficult.

"Started the interrogation without me, eh?" Spike addressed Josh, but his eyes never left Giles.

"Yeah, but I kept him conscious for you. I didn't think you'd mind, long as I didn't kill him."

"Well you thought wrong." Spike stared hard at the boy until he looked sufficiently cowed, then he turned back to Giles. "Rupert here's not one to break under torture. You can inflict all the physical pain you want on him. He'd sooner die than tell you what you need to know. I'n't that right, Rupes?"

"Sod off."

Spike looked back at Josh. "See?" He stepped closer to Giles, put a hand on his head to hold him still, and said in a low voice, "Remember who it was kept you alive the last time? With Angelus?" He stared steadily into the Watcher's eyes, willing him to get his meaning. Finally Giles jerked out of Spike's grip and looked away.

With a nod, Spike turned back to Josh. "Best to let him sit and stew in his own thoughts. He knows good and well it'll be better for his people if he just tells us where they are. Better'n letting himself be used as bait for an ambush. There's time enough for him to figure that out on his own." He went back to the stairs. "Right, then. Time for beddy-bye. If you're going home, best go while the getting's good."

"I'll stay here and guard the prisoner."

Bugger. Spike shrugged. "Suit yourself, mate." He went back up the stairs, and closed the door behind him. Now what? His stomach growled again, so he went to the fridge. It was well-stocked with an assortment of booze and a bucket of wings -- funny, that. Before the chip he hadn't had much of a liking for regular food. Maybe they belonged to a minion. No blood, naturally. He hadn't really expected to find any. Not like he'd have need to keep it bottled when he could get it fresh off the tap. With a sigh, he pulled out a wing and tore into it. It would do nothing for his hunger, but maybe it would have a nice placebo affect, help him keep going a bit longer. He didn't know what he'd do for blood, but he'd have to think of something soon.

He washed the wing down with a bottle of Bass -- he wasn't quite ready yet to experience this world completely sober -- then, not knowing what else to do, he headed upstairs.

Harmony met him in the hall, blocking his way into the bedroom. Not that he had any particular desire to go in there. "I hope you don't think you're coming to bed all stinky."

"Right. 'Course not." Spike looked past her into Buffy's room and sighed. "Just let me get some clothes and I'll go clean up."

Harmony rolled her eyes. "This is my closet," she said. "Yours is in there." She pointed toward the master bedroom. "But you don't wear clothes to sleep in, Silly. Just go shower and come to bed. Maybe you'll feel better after you get some sleep." She turned and flounced into the room.

Spike moved down the hall to the bathroom. He stood outside the door, fists clenched and eyes closed, swallowing down the bile and fear that rose in his throat. He couldn't go in there. Maybe he could wash up in the kitchen.

Oh, go on, you cowardly git, chided the voice in his head. No getting out of it this time. Not like Buffy got the luxury of avoiding this room, is it?

He hadn't thought of that before, that Buffy couldn't even take a piss in peace without being reminded what he'd done to her. If she had to face it, then so did he. He stepped over the threshold and flipped on the light.

It looked different. Harmony's crap cluttered every surface, and it had been redone in black. The shower curtain, the towels ... a large, black rug covered the floor in front of the tub. Still, white tile peeked out around it. He examined the wall at the opposite end, a bit surprised not to see a Spike-shaped dent in the plaster. But it hadn't happened here. Not really.

He stepped all the way inside and closed the door. Kicking off his boots, he took a deep breath. Didn't smell the same, either. Essence of Harmony had replaced that of both his girls.

Spike sighed. He hated this place.

He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the tub. Suppressing a shudder as his nightmare flashed before him in vivid detail, he turned on the shower as hot as he could stand. The water felt cleansing, comforting. Not like cold, suffocating water of his dream. He put his hands on the wall before him and leaned into the spray, willing it to wash away the film of despair that walking in this world had coated him with. It didn't work. He thought of Buffy, battered and broken, writhing in unbearable pain on the floor of her cell. He thought of himself, this other version of himself, holding her down and forcing her to take him in, not just once but over and over again. He wondered how many times it had taken before she'd given up fighting it, begging him to stop.

Pain shot through his hand and wrist and up his forearm. Startled, he stared in wonder at his fist, clenched tight and resting against a new crack in the tile. He forced his fingers to straighten and held his bloodied knuckles under the water. The torn flesh stung enough to make him wince, but he gritted his teeth and kept his hand there. The pain felt fitting. Just. Deserved.

Spike let out a laugh. He'd sworn before he got his soul that he wouldn't beat himself up about his past, yet here he was doing it literally. Sod this. He had work to do.

He shut off the water and shook out his hand, then got out of the tub and toweled himself off. After grabbing his coat and boots, he went into the master bedroom. Joyce's old room. It'd been a while since he'd thought of her. He'd been surprised by how much it had hurt when she'd passed on, but that had been nothing next to losing Buffy. He wondered what Joyce would think of the way he'd treated her daughter. Probably take another axe to him if she knew.

He shook off that line of thought and went to the closet. He grabbed one of at least a dozen pairs of black Levi's, and after about two seconds' worth of deliberation snatched a long-sleeved tee-shirt, and pulled them both on. Then he simply stood there.

What now?

The glow of daylight filtered in through the heavy curtains, but it was still too early to make his move. Besides that, he felt dead tired. No way in this or any other hell would he go lie down in Buffy's bed with Harmony.

Joyce's, then. It still felt like a sacrilege, but it was the lesser evil. Besides, it would just be for a little while. Couple hours at the most. Just a spot of rest, and then he'd start making things right again for both of Joyce's daughters.

Spike nodded, as if making a promise -- though whether to himself or to the mother of his beloved he couldn't be sure -- then lay on the bed and closed his eyes.

Lazy fingers played with the damp curls around his forehead. "What are you thinking?"

He smiled. "Right now I'm thinking how you never used to ask me that sort of thing."

She gave his locks a gentle tug. "I'm asking now."

He opened his eyes to look at her. Her hair had grown over the summer, back past her shoulders, and it reflected what little light filtered in through the curtains. She smiled at him, and the room brightened tenfold.

"You only ever ask when you're not really here."

Her smile faded into a thoughtful frown, and the little space between her eyebrows crinkled up. "Maybe you should take advantage of it, then. While you still can."

He smoothed out the crinkle with his index finger before brushing her hair out of her face. "God, I miss you."

She trailed caresses down the arm closest to her, then intertwined her fingers with his. "Then come home."

"I'm trying."

Her eyebrows shot up. "This is trying? Trying looks a whole lot like lying flat on your back on my mother's bed."

"Bloke's gotta rest sometime, Love."

"Mm." She snuggled down and rested her head on his shoulder. "You rest too long, though, and opportunity will knock on your window and pass you by."

He squinted at her. "I think you're mixing your metaphors there, Pet."

She raised up to look at him. "Well, it's your subconscious, Mr. ... Poet ... Guy. I'm not the one getting my metaphors mixy, am I?"

He laughed. "S'pose not." He gazed at her for a few seconds, enjoying the sight of her as he had so many mornings over this summer and the last. "You sure you're just part of my subconscious?"

She moved on top of him, stretching her length out along his, and stroked the sides of his face. "Come home, and find out." She lowered her mouth and caught his bottom lip in a languorous kiss. He closed his eyes and reached his arms up to embrace her, to return her kiss.

His arms caught nothing but air.

Spike opened his eyes. Groggily, he sat up and rubbed a hand over his face. Judging by the quality of light behind the curtains, it was midmorning. He'd slept a couple of hours. It would have to be enough. He got up and found his boots and duster, pulling them on before creeping out of the room.

Buffy's door was open. Spike poked his head in to make sure that Harmony slept soundly before sneaking past. He made it down the stairs and into the kitchen quietly enough, stopping to check his pockets for weapons before opening the basement door.

He had two options. He could charge down there, cock of the walk, make up any number of excuses -- hell, he was the Master. He didn't need an excuse. Didn't even need a reason. Get Josh to turn his back, shove a stake in him, and that would be that. But then he supposed that Josh didn't get to be one of his top minions by being an idiot. The boy might put up a fight, raise a big noise and bring Harmony running.

Or, he could sneak down, take out Josh before he even knew what hit him. Risky, as it required no less than expert stealth. Fortunately, he was an expert, and what's more, he'd had a lot of practice going up and down these stairs without so much as a creak. Chalk up a point for his obsessed stalker days.

Stealth, then.

Stake in hand, he opened the door slowly, just wide enough to fit through. With feather-light steps he started down the stairs. The rest of the basement came into view. Giles had slid down the post and now sat on the floor, his back still to the stairs. Josh sat on top of the washing machine, reading a comic book.

Oh, bollocky hell. No way Spike could get to him without being seen first. So much for the stealth approach. Then again, the boy seemed oblivious to Spike's presence. Slipping the stake up his sleeve, he cleared his throat as he stepped out of the shadows.

Josh looked up, startled. "Hey, Spike. I didn't hear you coming."

"No, you didn't. This what you call guarding the prisoner?" He indicated the comic. Violent Cases. Good book. Couldn't blame the whelp for being into it. Still, Spike had a role to play. "If I'd been a Slayer intent on rescue you'd be dust now."

Josh threw down the book and hopped to his feet. "Sorry, Master. I ... the prisoner fell asleep, and I needed something to keep me --"

"Wake him." Spike moved to stand near Josh, looking down at Giles. "I've got a couple of questions for ol' Rupert here."

Josh nodded, went to do as told. As soon as his back faced Spike, the stake went in. Giles opened his eyes and looked up at Spike through a rain of dust, his expression a mixture of surprise and wary bewilderment.

Spike gave him the first genuine smile he'd managed since arriving in this place. "Nice to see the other me hasn't abandoned the grand tradition of surrounding himself with bleeding idiots." He stepped closer to examine Giles's bonds. He was handcuffed as well as tied. Spike looked around the room. "Need the key," he muttered.

"I believe you just dusted it."

Spike looked down at Josh's remains. "Oh. Damn." With a sigh, he began searching for some bolt cutters.

"What are you playing at, Spike?"

He settled on garden shears. "At the moment, I'm playing at rescuing you." He grunted as he forced the shears to close on the chain. They bit through half the link before the blades bent. He tossed the shears aside. "Hold still." Spike pulled on the cuffs, gritting his teeth as he put all of his strength into it. Finally, the link gave. A moment to unknot the ropes, and Giles was free. Spike moved back to face him. "Right, then. Let's go." He held out a hand.

Giles stared up at him. He got to his feet without taking Spike's proferred hand, so Spike put it in his pocket. As soon as he was up, Giles lunged at Spike, wrapping his hands around his throat and bending him backwards over the washing machine.

"Hey!" Spike pried Giles's hands loose and shoved him backwards. The two of them stood there a moment, Spike rubbing his neck and Giles panting. "None of that, all right? I'm trying to bloody rescue you, you git!"

Giles's laugh sounded a little maniacal. It set Spike on edge. "You? Rescue me? You're the one I need rescuing from, you daft bastard!"

Good point. He'd have to be smart about this. Not like trust was even in the same bloody hemisphere with this Giles, was it? He pulled the stake back out of his pocket, considered it a minute, then flipped it and offered it to Giles, blunt end first. "Not anymore, mate. It's the other way 'round."

Giles kept laughing. "Oh, I see. Is this your cunning plan? Get me to think you've switched sides so I'll take you back to my hideout? Tell me, is it that you're an idiot or that you take me for one?"

Spike grabbed Giles's hand and shoved the stake in it. "I'm serious!"

Giles stopped laughing. "So am I."

Spike let go, and backed up a few paces. "I need your help, Giles. We have to get --" He stopped, and scanned the ceiling for cameras. God knew what kind of surveillance they were under. "I can't explain here, but I'll tell you everything. I promise."

Again, Giles laughed. "You want my help? What on Earth makes you think I could possibly be convinced to help you?"

"You'll want to help once you know what I'm after." He spread his arms out in a gesture of supplication. "Look. I just cut you loose, and I'm offering myself up as a willing hostage. What else will it take to convince you I'm on the level?"

"Nothing, Spike." Giles regarded Spike with hard, cold eyes. "I don't trust you. There is nothing you can do or say that will change that."

Spike nodded. "Beginning to get that."

Giles held his gaze a bit longer, then looked at the stake in his hand. "What makes you think I won't simply slay you and be done with it?"

Spike allowed himself a rueful smile. "'Cause you're Giles. You're honorable. And what's more, you're curious as hell." He could almost see the cogs turning in the Watcher's brain. Spike suspected those two things were fundamental truths about this man, no matter which dimension he was in.

Finally, Giles nodded. "All right. I do have questions for you, and I'd rather not ask them here."

"Let's go, then." Spike started for the stairs.

"Hold up." Giles paused at the bottom. "It's daylight. How am I supposed to take you prisoner if you can't go outside?"

Oh, right. Spike sighed, and scanned the utility shelves at the bottom of the stairs. He spotted a couple of folded up blankets, and tucked one under his arm. "Sunlight's never been much of a deterrent for me," he explained, gesturing for Giles to follow him up the stairs. "'Sides, we can take my car." At the top of the stairs, he paused. "Stay quiet, right? Don't want to wake the Missus." He pushed the door open and made sure the coast was clear, then made his way through the dining room to the front door. He stopped, and patted his pockets. "Keys," he muttered. "Where the sodding hell do I keep my keys?"

"Is that them?" Giles whispered, pointing to a set lying on an end table in the living room.

Spike retrieved them and handed them to Giles. "Right, then. Go open the car door and stand out of the way. I'll have to run for it."

"I don't think so," said Giles. "You'll ride in the trunk, or we don't do this at all."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Fine. The trunk it is. But if certain things remain universal, you'll have to clean it out before I'll fit in there."

"Fine." Giles opened the door and went to the car. The porch provided enough shade for Spike to step outside. He unfolded the blanket and watched as Giles opened the trunk. Whatever was in there seemed to give him pause. Then he reached in and pulled out a couple of battle axes, a shotgun, and a mean looking crossbow. Not too surprising, really. Being a Master meant you had to be ready to dole out the occasional execution. And Spike had a feeling the demon population wasn't any more fond of him in this Sunnydale than in his own. Giles looked at him pointedly from behind the armload of weapons before piling them in the back seat. Then he shut the door and looked at Spike. "Right, then! In you go!"

Spike arranged the blanket over his head with a weary sigh. "Once more unto the boot," he muttered, and took off at a run.

***

END, PART FOUR

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