Chapter Four
The hospital was noisy and busy, and they weren’t allowed in to see Tara. She was in her own room in ICU - “Only bloody way to get any privacy in the NHS,” Spike grumbled - and only close family was allowed in. But Tara’s family lived far away and Willow didn’t have a phone number for them so she was sitting alone by her girlfriend’s bed, trying hard not to cry.
Outside, Buffy, Anya and Xander sat on hard plastic chairs, looking at peeling, faded posters advertising hepatitis jabs.
“Man, this place is depressing,” Xander said.
“Do you think she’ll die?” Anya asked.
“No, of course not,” Buffy said quickly. “They said it was just head trauma...”
“Hate to break it to ya, Buff, but head trauma doesn’t go very easily with the word ‘just’,” Xander said.
Buffy sat back in her chair. “I hate this,” she said. “I liked Tara, she was nice. A little quiet, but she was nice. It’s not fair she should get clubbed over the head with an Inca spear.”
“At least she wasn’t stabbed with it,” Anya said helpfully. “Those things can go right through you.”
They both looked at her.
“I saw it on the Discovery Channel.”
“You two need to get out more,” Buffy said, as Giles and Spike rounded the corner. She had yet to figure out what the connection between them was: how on earth had a curator and a - a - a whatever-the-hell-Spike-was got together? He wore biker boots, for God’s sake.
“Summers,” he said. “You’re with me.”
“Will you stop calling me Summers? I have a first name.”
“Buffy? What sort of a name is Buffy?”
“The name my mother gave me. Spike.”
“That’s a street name and I earned it. Now come on.” He took her arms and Buffy pulled it back.
“What? No. Where?”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Away from here. I’ll explain on the way.”
“Giles,” Buffy said helplessly, but he waved her away.
“You’ll be safe with him, Buffy.”
“I thought you said he was a reprobate!”
“Well, yes, he is,” Giles started cleaning his glasses, “but he’ll look after you.”
Buffy looked up at Spike. He grinned.
“Okay,” she sighed. “Where are we going?”
“Away,” he said, and led her from the ward.
“So remind me again,” Xander said, “who the hell is that guy?”
“He’s a - well, it doesn’t matter,” Giles popped his glasses back on. “I really think it might be best if you two don’t get involved in this.”
Anya looked affronted. “Why not?”
“Involved in what?”
“The Angelus group is very dangerous and they clearly want something that Buffy has. We think,” he lowered his voice, “we think they’re behind the break-in last night. Their treatment of Tara shows how brutal they can be to bystanders. Poor Tara was just staying late, doing some paperwork for me.” He sighed. “My point is, I don’t want you two to get caught up in this. I really think you should move on.”
“Back to America?”
“Well, maybe not. Just away from Buffy. Until we have a handle on this. I never suspected... Well. You should pack your things. You can get to almost anywhere from London.”
*
Buffy found herself being dragged along the pavement by Spike, who kept pushing her into the edge.
“What the - hey, will you let go?”
“Nope.”
“I could Mace you.”
“Be amazed if you got that through customs.”
Buffy wrinkled her nose. “I’m not going to run away.”
“No but someone might try and nick you.”
“Nick me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Spike grinned. “Steal you. You know, to nick, nicking... It’s a word.”
“Maybe, but that’s not what it means where I come from.”
He tugged her along a bit further, then down into the deep pit of a Tube station. Some of the lines were very deep under the ground and they had to travel down several steep escalators that made Buffy dizzy.
“You have to tell me where we’re going.”
“Back to Giles’s.”
“Why?”
“To get your stuff.”
“Why?”
“You do like to ask questions. Okay, Summers, we’re going on the run.”
“What’s that going to solve?”
Spike looked surprised.
“See, I can be practical,” Buffy tossed her hair haughtily.
“No doubt, love. But so can I. Best if the Angelus doesn’t catch you. We can hide out somewhere outside of London. Giles has... associates who can deal with things in London.”
“What kind of-” Buffy began, but then the train lurched to a stop and Spike led her out onto the crowded platform. They were back at Kings Cross, and it took only a few minutes to get to Giles’s house. Spike had a key - at least, he had something that opened the door, and he gave her a little shove towards the stairs.
“Go and pack,” he said. “And be quick.”
Grumbling, Buffy went up the stairs and started throwing things into her suitcase. This was ridiculous. All she needed to do was get hold of someone from this Angelus group and show them her ring and they’d see it was nothing to do with them. Just a silly trinket Riley had given her.
The phone rang and a minute later Spike called up the stairs, “Summers? Phone for you.”
Buffy frowned. She went to the top of the stairs, spied an extension in Giles’s room, and picked it up. “Got it,” she called down.
“Buffy?” squeaked a familiar voice. “Who was that? He sounded really cute.”
Buffy smiled to hear her sister. “Hey, Dawnie. He’s just a friend of Giles’s. What’s up?”
“Mom just bought this really ugly couch. I’m not kidding. It’s brown and it has these studs... Ugh, it’s like a Rottweiler collar.”
“You called to tell me about a couch?”
“Well, no I called because Mom told me to. She wants to know how you are.”
Buffy was hit with a sudden wave of homesickness. “I’m okay. Is she there?”
“At the gallery. Hey, Buffy, it’s not too early there, is it?”
“It’s four in the afternoon. What time is it where you are?”
“Eight am. I’m waiting for the school bus - wait, it’s here! Gotta run, Buff-”
And the phone went dead.
“That makes two of us,” Buffy said, standing up and nearly walking into Spike. “It’s rude to eavesdrop.”
“You were talking kind of loud. Who’s Donnie?”
Buffy frowned as she went back to her suitcase. “I don’t know a Donnie.”
“So you were talking to a complete stranger on the phone, then?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Who were you talking to?”
He looked annoyed, and Buffy suddenly realised what he meant. To an Englishman, Dawnie would sound like Donnie. A guy’s name. But then, he’d heard Dawn’s voice when she called up...
“Her name’s Dommie,” she said wickedly. “Short for Dominique. She’s French.”
“Friend of yours?”
“She’s my girlfriend,” Buffy said solemnly, and Spike stared. Buffy picked up a pair of lacy knickers and folded them ostentatiously.
“Your girlfriend?”
“Yeah. We haven’t been together long. I haven’t told Giles about her yet, so shh,” she put her finger to her lips, laughing hard inside.
“But - your ring, that’s from an ex-boyfriend...”
“Can’t a girl change her mind?”
Spike stood there, hands on hips, looking shell-shocked. “You’re gay?”
“Well, that’s what girls usually are when they have girlfriends,” Buffy said, thinking, I’ll go to hell for this.
Spike was still a while longer, then he said, “Jesus,” and walked out.
Buffy fell on her bed, laughing.
“Really?” Spike said, coming back in, and Buffy covered her eyes and pretended to cry.
“Really,” she said, sniffing, “and I’m kinda missing her now, so if you don’t mind...”
Spike retreated, and Buffy packed in guilty, half-laughing silence.
*
Willow stood looking at the bloodstain on the floor and sniffed loudly. “Giles, she’s really hurt.”
Giles looked awkward. He just wasn’t given to physical displays of affection, but he managed a clumsy hug. Willow clung to him.
“I mean, what if she doesn’t wake up? Anya said the longer she’s asleep the worse it is...”
“Anya has too much free time and needs to watch less television,” Giles said firmly, releasing her. “We need to find out if there’s anything missing here.”
“It’s not exactly easy to figure out what’s not here,” Willow grumbled half an hour later. “And it’s all so messy.”
“Yes, thieves are not as considerate as they used to be,” Giles remarked, piling papers on top of each other. “Just... Just try and work out if there are any gaps. I know you’ve catalogued a lot of the things down here.”
Willow nodded and went back to picking up small artefacts and looking for the boxes they belonged in. It wasn’t easy: she doubted if a lot of people could tell the difference between a four thousand year old Assyrian left shin bone and a right one. She was afraid she was putting half of the things back in the wrong boxes.
“Oh, good Lord,” Giles said suddenly, and Willow made a face.
“I know. Why are we even keeping Assyrian shin bones anyway?”
Giles didn’t answer, and when Willow looked up at him he was staring at a piece of paper, looking white.
“What?”
He turned the paper to her, and on it was written in something red and splodgy that Willow realised was blood, ‘We Will Find Her.’
“Oh God,” Willow said.
“My sentiments exactly.”
*
Buffy found the English motorways frightening. Spike was throwing the car forward at about eight miles an hour, and grumbling because he was stuck in the middle lane. Buffy wasn’t sure why he didn’t just go into the left lane and get past the cars there, but he would only overtake on the right.
The right-hand lane, however, was hurtling along so fast it hurt Buffy’s eyes to watch it. If she thought Spike was going fast, it was nothing compared to the Schumachers on the right.
“Does everyone in England drive like a maniac?”
Spike grinned. “As opposed to America, where you’re all so civilised you undertake whenever you want.”
“Undertake?”
“Going into the slow lane... We have a system where the further to the right you are, the faster you are,” he explained. “Crawlers stay on the left. Old grannies and big lorries. Easier to get on and off.”
He flicked an indicator and slipped into the fast lane, accelerating to ninety-five. The car was old and manky, but it flew under Spike’s foot.
Buffy closed her eyes and tried to remember a prayer or two.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere big and empty. A bit like your friend Xander’s head.”
“Hey, don’t make fun of my friends.”
“Or what?”
“Or - well, I’d make fun of yours but you don’t appear to have any.”
Spike scowled at me. “It’s lonely at the top, love.”
“Top of what? Britain's Most Wanted list?”
“Yeah, everyone wants me.” He paused, glancing back at her. “Well, nearly everyone. Listen, Buffy, if you’re... Then why did you-”
“Hey, look, my Mom has that car.”
“That’s nice. Buffy-”
“Except hers is a sort of gold colour. Mmm. Maybe it’s more platinum.”
“Buffy-”
How thick was he? “I really don’t want to talk about it, Spike, if that’s okay?”
He glared at the road. “That’s fine.”
It seemed like hours and hours in the silent car (the radio didn’t work), but finally he pulled off the dark motorway and onto a smaller road. Then off that road onto a lane. Then off the lane onto a rutted farm track. The old car bounced over the mud and Buffy felt he spine jar.
“Is it much further?”
Spike nodded at something illuminated in a flash of the headlights. “Right there.”
Buffy looked with dismay at a crumbling cottage. There was a dead vine hanging off the front, and the shutters were broken. Maybe it would look better by daylight.
They got out of the car, and Buffy stretched gratefully. Spike got her suitcase out and she pulled it after her without waiting for him to take it. He looked surprised at first, then his expression settled.
“Where are we?”
“North Yorkshire. Whole lot of nothing out here.”
Buffy peered through the darkness at the moor rolling around the cottage. “Yeah, I see that.”
Despite the ramshackle look of the cottage, the door was heavily locked, and it took Spike quite a while to open up. He walked in, flicked a switch, and a bare bulb glared at Buffy, assaulting her tired eyes. When she could see again, she made out a table against the wall with a little camping stove on it, and a kettle, and stacks of tinned food. There were a couple of chairs at the table, then some crates and boxes, a dirty fireplace, and that was it.
“You have got to be kidding.”
Spike looked round at her. “You’d prefer o stay in London so the Angelus group can cut your finger off for your ring? ‘Cos they will.”
“They could just take it off-”
“They won’t,” Spike said grimly. “Believe me.”
Buffy sat down on her case. “So how long do we have to stay here for?”
“Oh, a while.”
“How long is that?”
Spike shrugged. “Until we have to move again.”
“Oh, gee, you’re helpful.”
“All part of my job.”
Buffy looked around dispiritedly. There was just this one room, quite large, but also pretty damn cold. She had a feeling she’d want to cuddle up to Spike for warmth, and that couldn’t end well. Good job he thought she was gay.
She stood up. “So where’s the bathroom around here? Or do I need to find a bush?”
“There’s an outhouse,” Spike said. “By the barn.”
“This place has a barn, but it has no bathroom? The English are insane.”
“As we’re often told. Here.” Spike chucked a toilet roll at her, and Buffy went out, blushing.
It was very cold outside, and windy too, and Buffy had to keep pushing her hair out of her eyes as she stumbled across the rough earth to the hulking barn. It looked pretty desolate, a crumbling stone structure, and she went all the way around twice before she found the little hut tacked on the side, like something out of Shrek.
Inside was even worse, and Buffy did what she had to before rushing away from all the lacy cobwebs and scuttling nasties in the dark. No light out here. She made a mental note to drink nothing.
Coming back out, Buffy picked her way across the dark ground by the barn, aiming for the little patch of light coming from the small back window of the cottage. God, this place was primitive. And there could be anything in these shadows-
Quite suddenly, an anything grabbed her and shoved her inside the barn, hard against the wall. Buffy was winded, unable to see or breathe. She knew the Angelus had got her. Bye bye fingers.
“Who are you? Where the hell is Buffy?” demanded a familiar voice, and Buffy dragged in a breath, his fingers tight at her throat.
“I’m right here,” she croaked, “Spike, you’re choking me-”
Instantly he moved his hand, and Buffy sucked in as much air as her lungs would hold.
“Jesus, Buffy, you scared me. You didn’t come back and I thought,” he kissed her forehead desperately, “I thought-”
“I’m okay,” she reassured, stroking his hair, which shone pale in the moonlight coming in through the big, open barn door. Spike kissed her face, her neck, as if he was checking she was really there.
“God, Buffy-”
He moved his lips to her mouth, and it wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was angry, and hurt, and relieved, and a whole lot of other things that Buffy had no time to think about as his hands slid around her body, and his hard muscles pinned her against the stone wall. She buried her fingers in his hair and held him to her. He felt good, really good.
His hands were all over her, pulling her jacket open so fast buttons popped all over the floor, unnoticed by either of them. Buffy reached inside his leather coat and felt his hard, hot body under his T-shirt, and then his hands were under her clothes, feeling for her bra under her sweater, lifting her legs around his waist.
Buffy needed no encouragement. Wrapping herself around him, she reached down to his jeans and unsnapped the button at the top. She hardly had to move the zipper. Spike was big and hard enough to be doing that for her.
He moaned against her mouth as she wrapped her hand around him, and he bit her lip, hard, 'til blood nearly came. She didn’t really notice his hands under her skirt until his fingers were inside her knickers, and then it wasn’t just his fingers, he was inside her, and Buffy was so shocked she snapped her head back against the wall, staring at him.
Spike looked shocked too. And then Buffy rearranged her legs around him, and his face sharpened with pleasure, became almost ugly, before he brought his head down and nipped at her neck with his teeth.
He was as brutal as she’d fantasised, Buffy knew later she should be ashamed for wanting to be ravished but to be fair, she was doing a bit of ravishing herself. Spike was holding her up against the wall, but Buffy’s hands were everywhere under his clothes, kneading and gripping, and it got faster and harder, 'til they were both gasping and crying out, neither making a coherent word, until Buffy came with a scream, “God, Spike...”
He came too, losing his balance, both of them toppling to the ground, breathless and mindless, a tangle of legs and leather, neither able to move for the effort of getting oxygen, both wondering how the hell that had just happened.
“Jesus,” Spike gasped eventually, reaching for Buffy who was fighting for breath beside him. He rolled onto his back and pulled her against him. “What’s your girlfriend gonna say to that?”
Buffy started laughing. Her body shook and she gasped for breath, tears running down her face.
“That’s funny?” Spike asked uncertainly, trying to figure out if she’d really shut his brain down, or if she was insane.
Possibly it was a combination of both.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Buffy hiccupped.
“You don’t?”
“No. I just said that to... to... to put you off.”
“Obviously you were successful,” Spike said drily. “So... you’re not gay?”
“I think we just proved that.”
“Well, you never know. When Red came to England she had a boyfriend back home to write to.”
“Red?”
“Willow.” Spike curled his arm around her shoulders, and Buffy snuggled against him. “Well, there go my lesbian fantasies. Guess it’ll have to be Red and stutter-girl.”
“It’s not fair to make fun of someone who’s in a coma,” Buffy said, but she didn’t sound very convincing. She yawned loudly.
“Worn you out, love?”
“Hey, I’ve had a hard day.”
“And you can have a hard night too, if you want.”
Buffy rolled her eyes. Then she looked up at him, and the amusement faded from her face.
“What?” Spike asked softly.
“We just had sex.”
“Yep.” He stretched in a self-satisfied way.
“I hardly know you.”
“You know me a lot better than most of the girls I have sex with.”
“Okay, I did not need to hear that,” Buffy sat up, wriggling a little bit because her body felt so good. “I think we should go back inside.”
“Fine by me.” Spike rearranged his clothing and pulled Buffy towards him for a long kiss, much softer than before. “I’ve got plans for you.”
Chapter Five
He met Giles at the museum, and it took ten minutes to get the information he needed and get to the hospital. Anyone who knew the London transport system would have been amazed.
“Tara McClay?”
“The Benson Ward, sir, down here and to the left. But I’m afraid you won’t be able to-” the nurse looked at the ID in front of her. “Oh. Of course. If you’ll follow me.”
He found Tara barely conscious, her hand held by a pink-eyed redhead wearing a fluffy jumper.
“Giles?” she said when she looked up, and then she took him in. “Hey, I’m not sure you’re...”
He ID’d her, and Willow fell silent.
“Is she awake?”
Willow shook her head. “She’s - well, she’s asleep, she woke up an hour ago but - what are you doing here? Why is this-?”
“I can’t explain now.” He shook Tara by the shoulder. “Ms McClay? I need you to wake up.”
“But you can’t-” Willow began, and he silenced her with a look.
“Ms McClay?”
An awful silent second, then Tara’s eyes flickered.
“Who was the last person you saw before you woke up?”
Tara’s head moved and she mumbled something incoherent. He sighed impatiently.
“Tara. The last person you saw?”
“I really don’t think-” Willow began, about to push the button that would call the nurse. But then Tara’s lips moved, a tiny sound escaped.
“What? What was that, baby?”
Tara’s eyes moved again, with effort. “Spike,” she whispered. “I saw... Spike.”
*
Buffy didn’t sleep much that night. Spike seemed endlessly fascinated with her, waking her when she got drowsy, promising impossible things to keep her awake, and then actually fulfilling those dreadful, embarrassing, kinky, erotic promises. Buffy wasn’t exactly innocent, but she had no idea there was so much to sex. Spike seemed to want to see and touch and taste every little bit of her, some bits more than others, and he positively encouraged her to return the favour.
Over and over he roused her in some ludicrous way: nibbling at her collarbone; licking her breasts; slipping his fingers between her legs and watching her orgasm before she was even fully awake. For Buffy the night seemed to last forever, a twilight of impossible pleasure, but when Spike finally let her sleep, curled against his exhausted body, it was over far too soon.
He had an incredible body, she thought drowsily as she drifted away, Spike’s fingers sleepily stroking her shoulder. Like a big cat, all lean muscle. Not bulky, like Riley had been. Not built up. Every sinew here had a purpose, every muscle was used only when it was needed.
Although Buffy figured she’d woken up a few muscles tonight.
It was nearly dawn when her eyes finally properly closed, and not long after when she woke to lazy fingers counting up her ribs.
“Don’t you sleep?” she murmured, too exhausted to move.
“Only when I don’t have anything better to do.”
“And now you do?”
“Yeah.” He licked her nipple. “You.”
Buffy smiled, opening her eyes. “So now I’m something to do?”
“Mmm.” He moved his attention to her collarbone and Buffy felt her tired body arching under his tongue. “Best hobby I’ve had in years.”
“Since when?”
“Well, I seem to remember I had a big thing about hog racing a few years back.”
“Bikes? Bike racing is better than me?”
He ran his tongue over her lips, her sore, bitten, bruised lips, and gently brushed them with his teeth. Buffy slid her nails down his back and flexed her fingers against his lovely tight buttocks.
“Bikes never answered back,” Spike said, and captured her mouth with his own.
“I don’t-” Buffy took his tongue between her teeth “answer back.”
“Bollocks,” Spike said.
“Well, if you insist...” Buffy let her hands travel round over his hips, and she watched him suck in his breath.
“Jesus, Buffy, don’t-”
“You don’t like it?” she asked innocently.
“You,” he grabbed her hands and lifted them above her head, pressing them down against the blanket they were lying on, “are a bloody menace.”
Buffy pouted.
“Did I mention how much I like dangerous women?”
She wriggled her body against his and sank her teeth into his bony cheek. Spike moaned-
And then he gasped, and slumped against her, and Buffy was embarrassed for a split second, until she realised that someone had kicked the door open and had a gun pointing at them, and it occurred to her that half a second before Spike had gone dead and heavy against her, there had been a sharp punch in the air, like a gun being fired through a silencer...
“Get the fuck away from her,” said the person with the gun, and Buffy froze, because although she couldn’t see his face, she didn’t need to.
“Riley?”
*
Anya sat back in her seat and sighed.
“Xander, I’m bored.”
He gave a strained smile. “Everyone’s bored, honey. Hearing about how bored you are isn’t helping.”
“But they’re not doing anything! Just standing there, talking.”
“Three’s nothing for them to do, sweetie. There is no plane. They can’t board the plane until the plane arrives. And the plane is stuck in France.”
Anya sighed again. “Lousy French.”
“Hey, if it wasn’t for the French we’d have no champagne.”
“Like we’re going to get any on this stupid flight. Damn low cost airline.”
“It’s all we can afford, honey.”
“Then you should earn more.” Anya frowned. “Why don’t you have more money?”
Xander gave her a very tired smile and was about to explain that he’d spent all his money on this trip in the first place, when a shadow fell over them.
“Xander and Anya Harris?”
Anya looked up hopefully. “Yes? That’s us. Are we getting money for our flight being late?”
He hesitated. “You’ll be getting something.”
“Will it be money?” Anya persisted, and Xander pushed her back in her seat. He looked over the man in front of him: tall, imposing, dark hair and eyes, a sort of hunted expression on his face.
“If you’ll come with me...”
Anya leapt up, dragging Xander with her, and pulled him after the man in the black shirt.
“Sweetie, I’m not sure-”
“He’s going to give us money,” Anya said earnestly, as they followed him into the secluded bay of a jetbridge. “You’re giving us money, right?”
“You’ll get what you deserve,” said the man, and Xander felt a chill run down his spine. He pulled Anya a little closer, protectively behind him.
“Did you say you were from the airline?” he asked uncertainly, but he never got an answer, for the man hit him in the eye and for Xander, everything went black.
*
“But, Riley,” Buffy said, when her powers of coherent speech had returned, “what are you doing here?”
“Protecting you,” he said, kicking Spike aside and hauling Buffy to her feet. He noticed with apparent distaste that she was naked and hurriedly pulled up the thick blanket to cover her.
“But - from what?” Buffy said, and Riley aimed another steel-capped kick at Spike’s ribs. Buffy looked down and saw that the man who’d been making love to her all night was slumped inelegantly on the rough floor of the cottage, his body rapidly turning purple where Riley had kicked him, an awful spreading red patch on his back.
“You shot him,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome.”
“But - but-”
“I saw what he was doing to you, Buffy,” Riley said, slipping an arm about her shoulders and pulling her close. “My God - if he - if he violated you-”
Buffy stared at him in incomprehension.
“Did he,” Riley began, and it seemed hard for him to say. “Did he rape you?”
This concept was so ridiculous Buffy found herself laughing long and hard, holding onto Riley because nothing in her life had ever been so damn funny. Vaguely, she was aware of other people coming into the small, low, dark room, and over her head Riley said, “She’s in shock. Hand me her clothes? I’m taking her out to the car.”
“But,” Buffy pulled on his arm as he tugged her away, “but, Spike, I-”
“We’ll take care of him,” Riley said, closing his arm firmly around her and pulling her outside into the early morning dew.
The air was very fresh and clean, Buffy noticed. Later, it seemed that the air was all she could remember, that and wondering if, in Southern California, the air was this pure so early in the morning. Maybe it was just in England. Where had Spike said they were? North Yorkshire?
“They have good air here,” she told Riley, who set her in the back seat of a car and pressed her clothes on her.
“Get dressed. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Buffy pulled her clothes on, her body sore and aching, partly from the rough floor but mostly from Spike’s brutal exploration of her.
Had he raped her? He’d certainly taken charge... and that time in the barn, she couldn’t have stopped him... he’d raised her hands above her head and she’d been helpless... the first time she actually saw him naked she’d edged away because he was so big, he’d hurt her, he’d break her, surely he hadn’t been that big when he... but Spike had laughed and said he was flattered, she wasn’t getting off that easily...
Riley came back out to the car and tapped on the window without looking in. Ever the gentleman.
“Are you dressed?”
As if Riley had never seen her naked before.
Buffy pushed the door open. “I’m dressed,” she said. “I had a, a suitcase...”
“It’s in the trunk. Are you ready to go?”
Buffy looked at the little dark cottage, where she could just see Riley’s friends moving around inside, and she nodded.
“Take me far away,” she said.
*
For the first time since she’d known him, Giles looked shocked. And Willow wasn’t surprised: he’d entrusted Buffy to someone bad, someone very bad, someone who’d almost killed Tara...
As it was, without immediate medical attention, Tara could have easily died. She was damn lucky the cleaners had come in early and found her. But Buffy... Buffy might not be so lucky.
“She could be okay,” Willow said bravely. “Buffy seemed like a pretty smart girl, she’s probably figured it out. She could have escaped by now. She could be in London, still.”
“Or Spike could have delivered her straight to the Angelus. I knew he had ties to them, but I thought... I really thought...”
“Or,” Willow said as brightly as she could, “maybe Riley found her. He seemed pretty determined.”
“He always was, when it came to Buffy,” Giles said distantly.
“Were they together long?”
“A year, I think. Yes, a year: he gave her the ring for their anniversary. They broke up shortly after. He was sent out to South America...”
“Do you think he knew?” Willow asked. “About the ring?”
Giles lifted his shoulders and let them drop again. “I didn’t think he knew anything.”
*
Anya sat huddled in the corner of the cargo hold, her lip bleeding where Angel had hit her. Xander lay unconscious five yards away. She’d tried going to him but Angel had a gun and he didn’t like her moving too much.
“He needs help,” she said. “If you let him - if you let him die...”
Angel shrugged. “Do I look like I care?”
“If you let him die I’ll be widow,” Anya sobbed quietly. “I’m twenty-one and I’ll be a widow. I’ll never have sex again.”
“Wouldn’t count on that,” Angel said, his eyes flicking over her body.
“He won’t be able to tell you anything,” Anya said, her voice a little stronger. “Let me help him, then he can talk to you.”
“Who says it’s him I want to listen to?” Angel said, and Anya felt her whole body start to shake horribly.
*
Buffy was aware she was in shock. A little bit at the back of her brain kept asking, How did Riley know where you were? But the rest of her thought, I’ve been raped, he kidnapped me, I’m so glad Riley rescued me, oh God, I can’t believe he’s back, Riley, my Riley...
She reached out and grabbed his strong arm, clinging to him. Riley stroked her hair and told her she’d be okay now, they were going far away. Buffy wasn’t sure where - she’d not been concentrating at the airport - but she knew that as long as she was with Riley, she’d be okay.
Later, through passport control, after Riley had taken control at customs, he got a taxi to take them to a hotel. Buffy looked around at street signs in a foreign alphabet, and managed to get her brain together enough to ask, “Where are we?”
“Prague.”
Right now Buffy couldn’t even remember which country that was. “Why are we in Prague?”
“Because it’s far away and you don’t need a visa.”
“Oh.”
He got them a room at an ornate hotel where everything was beautiful. There was a pair of beds in the room and a large bathroom with an enormous white tub. He filled it with hot water and added the bath foam the hotel had provided and told Buffy to get in.
“I don’t want a bath,” she said.
“You have mud on your back. Buffy, it’ll relax you. Wash your hair, get clean. Do you have pyjamas in your suitcase?”
She nodded numbly and watched Riley try to find them, frustrated when he didn’t know where they were, but not quite sure herself if she’d even put them in.
“I might have left them at Giles’s,” she said in a little voice, some time later.
Riley gave her a patient look and picked up the phone to Reception. “Get in the bath,” he told Buffy, “I’ll get it sorted out.”
Buffy looked at the hot water with renewed interest. How long had it been since she’d washed her hair? Before... Before Spike, before the car journey, packing her things up, the hospital - God, was Tara okay?
“Riley!” she yelled.
“What? Are you okay?”
“What about Tara?”
“Who?”
She opened the door, and Riley blinked. Buffy realised she was naked, and closed the door so only her head was peeping out. “Tara,” she repeated. “She hadn’t woken up.”
Riley frowned. “She was the museum girl? She’s woken up. She’s fine.”
Buffy nodded, and her head wouldn’t stop moving, like a nodding dog in a car.
“Buffy? You want to get in the bath? The hotel have sent up a robe...” He passed it to her, soft and clean and white, and Buffy took it and closed the door. She looked at the hot water again, feeling like Eliza Doolittle looking at the steaming tub, and dipped a foot in. That didn’t seem to be too bad, she wasn’t dissolving or anything, so she followed it with the rest of her leg. Okay. Still good.
It was when her back hit the water, her back which was more sore and bruised than she’d realised, that Buffy gasped and arched in pain. The water stung more than it soothed, and she found herself huddling in a ball at one end of the bath, hugging her knees and crying.
Eventually she must have fallen asleep, because she was woken by Riley shaking her shoulder. She must have forgotten to lock the door. He put a towel in her hands and left.
Buffy washed her hair and lathered herself with body lotion. Her face in the mirror looked reasonably normal: Spike hadn’t hit her or anything, although her lip looked rather bitten. There were bite marks on her neck and shoulders, her breasts and thighs, and she was bruised all over from his hard fingers and the rough walls and floor of the cottage.
She wrapped herself in the hotel robe, feeling cleansed, and went out into the bedroom. Riley was sitting there, looking faintly exhausted but solid and dependable, the Riley she’d fallen for a year and a half ago.
“Hey,” she said quietly, closing the bathroom door behind her.
“Hey. Feeling better?”
Buffy nodded.
“I saw - I was trying not to look - but you had bruises, a graze on your back...”
Buffy nodded again, her eyes prickling. “I’m okay.”
“If you want to talk-”
Buffy closed her eyes, but immediately a zoetrope of images flashed across her mind: Spike’s hands on her body, his lips on her skin, his face when he came, the hot, throbbing ache of the night filling her body. She swayed and Riley caught her, sat her down beside him on the bed, and held her as she cried against his hard chest, cried because Spike was gone, because she’d been stupid and trusted him, because he’d raped her and she’d loved it.
Chapter Six
Tara awoke to see Willow crying softly.
“Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
Willow looked up excitedly. “You’re awake! I mean, properly awake. How do you feel?”
Tara thought about it. “Okay,” she said cautiously. “To say I’m in a hospital bed with no recollection of how I got here.”
“You were attacked, baby. At the museum. They left a note and they hit you over the head. You’ll be okay,” Willow reassured her girlfriend, holding her hand tightly. “They said you’ll be fine.”
Tara nodded, wincing at the pain in her head.
“But you’re on a lot of painkillers, so don’t worry if things seem a little fuzzy,” Willow added.
“I don’t remember anything,” Tara said.
“Apart from Spike.”
“Spike?” Tara frowned. “I don’t - he came to the museum...”
“You said he was the last thing you remembered.”
“I did? When?”
“This morning. When Riley was here. You don’t remember?” Willow asked anxiously.
Tara closed her eyes. “He was... he was tall. And... dark hair. American.”
“Who? Riley?”
Tara nodded and opened her eyes. “He’s Buffy’s boyfriend?”
“Well, I think he used to be... He’s in the army or something official. He said he really needed to find the people who’d hurt you. I didn’t think - I didn’t think it would be Spike...”
Tara frowned, her brain too foggy to work it all out properly. “Spike hurt me?”
“That’s what you said. The last person you saw. Spike, right?” Willow asked, gripping Tara’s hand in panic.
She nodded, confused. “But I didn’t think... I don’t know... Willow, I don’t remember...”
Willow nodded and stroked Tara’s hair. “It’s okay, baby. You need to rest. Don’t worry about it. Riley’s gone after Buffy and she’s safe now.”
“She’s safe?”
“Yeah. He got his army buddies to call Giles. He and Buffy are out of the country.”
“And Spike?”
“He said you don’t need to worry about Spike any more.”
*
Spike opened one eye and found that the other was glued shut. Wherever he was, it was too dark to see anything, so he closed his eye again, because it hurt like mad.
He tried to figure some things out. One, he was lying on a hard floor. Cold, like cement. Two, he was wearing nothing at all. Three, he hurt. Everywhere. And four, there were chains on his wrists. And ankles.
He rolled onto his back and immediately wished he hadn’t, because it hurt like someone was stabbing him. Back on his side, he opened his eye again and looked around.
“What are you doing here?” asked a very faintly familiar voice. American, female, frightened. And also slightly annoyed.
“Anna?”
“I thought you might be dead,” she said, and sounded like she’d been crying.
Spike tried to sit up. He wasn’t entirely sure Anna was the right name, but it would do for now. Hauling on the chains on his wrists, he found they were attached to the breeze-blocked wall and he could just about gain enough leverage to sit up. His vision adjusted to the darkness, and he could make out two bodies, one huddled in the corner, the other chained to a wall, hands outstretched, head down, either dead or unconscious. Both were out of his reach.
“I’m not dead,” Spike said. “Do you know where this is?”
She - the figure in the corner - shook her head, and Spike heard a metallic clink. She was chained too.
“I think it’s a - a basement or something, they come in over there,” she flicked her dirty brown hair at a concrete staircase in the opposite corner. Five steps, a metal railing, and a metal door at the top. There were a couple of very small windows, too small for a person to get out of, high up above the girl’s head. They were dirty and Spike couldn’t see the sky, just that it was dark outside, almost as dark as it was inside.
“Who are they?”
She sniffed. “A man and a woman. He brought us here. I think. He tricked us. She came in with you. She’s very strong. You’re - you’re Buffy’s friend, right? William?”
“Call me Spike. Look, Anna-”
“It’s Anya.”
“Right.” He nodded his head, painfully. His neck felt like it had been broken and stuck back together with Pritt-stick. “Did you see their faces?”
She nodded.
Damn. That meant they weren’t planning on letting them go. At all.
Not that this would have been a huge problem to Spike, usually. He’d escaped from worse situations than this. But not totally naked. No weapons. One working eye and what felt like a bullet wound to hamper him.
“Can you describe them?”
She sniffed again and lifted a manacled hand to push her hair from her face. “He’s tall. Dark hair. Good-looking in a Heathcliff sort of way.”
Angel.
“And her?”
Anya wrinkled her pretty nose. “Odd-looking. Black hair, pale eyes, like a cat.”
“Does she speak oddly? London accent, sounds kind of crazy?”
Anya nodded. “You know her?”
Drusilla.
Spike ground his teeth. “Used to be in love with her. Don’t worry,” he added as Anya shrank away, “I came to my senses. Unlike her. She’s cracked. Don’t goad her.”
Anya sniffed again. “Why did she bring you here?”
He sighed. “You know Buffy. I know Buffy. She has something the Angelus want.”
“They’re the Angelus group?”
“In charge of it.”
“Oh God,” Anya whimpered, and Spike ignored her.
“Who’s he?”
She looked up at the slumped, chained figure, and her voice cracked. “My husband.”
Spike peered closer. He did look slightly familiar. Only last time Spike had seen him, Xander Harris hadn’t had a broken jaw.
“Why are you naked?” Anya asked suddenly, and Spike looked down at himself.
“Left in a hurry.”
“Left where?”
“Where I was hiding with Buffy. Where is she?”
Anya sniffed. “I thought she was with you. You were taking her to safety, right?”
Panic flared in him. “She was with me before I woke up here. I think I was shot. They didn’t bring her here too?”
Anya shook her head. “Just you.”
She wasn’t here. Angel or Dru or whoever had shot Spike and brought him here and Buffy... Buffy was somewhere else, maybe being tortured on her own, maybe already dead, miles away, facedown in a river with her finger cut off...
No. He forced himself to think as straight as he could. If they’d got Buffy’s ring, then they wouldn’t be keeping him and Anya and Xander alive - if indeed Xander was still alive. They didn’t know where Buffy was, and that at least was something.
*
Buffy woke to the sound of bells, old church bells, lying between clean soft sheets in an unfamiliar bed. Her body ached and her sinuses felt blocked, like she’d been crying for a long time.
She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes, slowly remembering the hotel and the flight and Riley rescuing her. And then she remembered Spike - or rather, her body did - and she squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that came with the thought of what he’d done to her.
Or had he? She hadn’t exactly protested. She’d been willing. And it had been good. Could that classify as rape? Riley seemed certain it was. But Riley wasn’t there...
Except for when he shot Spike...
She sat up and looked around his him. His bed had been slept in and loosely remade, but he wasn’t there. The bathroom was dark beyond its open door. But there was a note by her bed, she suddenly saw it, and she recognised Riley’s writing with a slight wrench.
‘Gone out to see a contact. It’s best if you stay in the room. Rest. Order whatever you like from Room Service. I’ll be back later this morning.”
Buffy glanced at the clock. Already nine am. She must have slept fifteen hours last night. She’d cried for ages, cradled against Riley’s strong body, until he’d gently lifted her and put her into bed. She’d nothing to wear but her hotel robe, so he took a t-shirt from his kitbag for her to sleep in. She remembered this t-shirt. He used to wear it all the time.
She sat back and picked up the room service menu Riley had thoughtfully placed on top of the phone by her bed, and ordered cereal and orange juice. When it came she sat and ate in bed while she thought about what to do next, then when she’d finished, got up and rummaged through her suitcase for her address book.
“Giles,” she said, feeling tearful when she heard his voice on the other end of the line. “It’s not really early there, is it?”
“It’s just after eight. Buffy, where are you? Are you all right? We got a very cryptic message last night from one of Riley’s friends...”
“I’m okay, Giles,” Buffy said, touched by the flustered concern in his voice. “I’m in Prague. I think. Riley brought me here.”
“What happened?”
She sighed and tried to put it all together. “I was with Spike-”
“Did he hurt you? Where did he take you? God, Buffy, I can’t believe I trusted-”
“He didn’t hurt me,” Buffy said, and amended to herself, Well, not on purpose. “I’m fine. He took me to somewhere in Yorkshire, I think. A little old abandoned cottage-”
“My shooting cottage,” Giles said.
“Oh. Yeah. Very, er, cosy. And then Riley burst in when we, er, were sleeping, and shot Spike and took me to the airport and, uh, here I am. How’s Tara?”
“Tara? Well, yes, she’s all right. Getting better. If it hadn’t been for her, you might still be with Spike. Buffy, I’m so sorry I let him take you...”
Buffy pressed her hand to her forehead. “I don’t understand. Why did Riley shoot Spike? What does Tara have to do with it? And why are you sorry? Spike didn’t do anything. Did he?”
“He attacked Tara,” Giles said, and Buffy was glad she wasn’t standing up. “She said he was the last thing she saw. Riley came to talk to her and then he set off after you and Spike. I’d thought he might have taken you to Yorkshire.”
“He attacked her?” Buffy whispered.
“Yes. I called the police about him but they said the cottage was empty when they arrived. You don’t know where he might have gone?”
Buffy felt tears spill down her face. “We left him there. Riley said they’d deal with him... I think he might be dead...”
Silence, then Giles said, “Oh Buffy, I’m so sorry to have put you through all this.”
“You didn’t know,” Buffy hiccupped.
“I should never have trusted him. I knew what he was like. Well, you’re safe now. And he didn’t hurt you?”
Buffy debated telling the truth. “I’m okay,” she said, as the door opened and Riley came in, wearing a fur hat and a long coat. “Riley’s back. I’ll speak to you later.”
She replaced the receiver and explained, “Giles,” to Riley’s enquiring glance.
“I’m not sure that was a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“They could trace the call.”
“Who could? Riley, who are you hiding me from?”
He sighed and sat down. “I don’t know if Mr Giles explained any of this to you...”
“About the ring and the Angelus group, yeah, I got the Cliffnotes. Why are you here? How did you know...”
“I’ve been thinking this might happen. The Angelus have been looking for that ring for a long time, Buffy. They want all five, together they’re worth more than the president.”
“Doesn’t say much,” Buffy said under her breath. “If you knew it would happen-?”
“I didn’t know. I thought it’d be safe with you. You’d be safe with it. I didn’t mean any of this...” Riley ran his hands over his face. He was still handsome, Buffy noticed with detachment, but he looked older, more capable. His hair was shorter and his face more serious. He was a grown-up now, she realised.
“Buffy, you could give up the ring and you’d be safe. I’ve been talking to a jewellery dealer who would very much like to get his hands on an Angelus ring-”
“That’s what it’s called?”
“That’s what it’s called now. No one really knows what they were called, if anything. Made by an Italian jeweller in the sixteenth century, probably for one of the Medicis. The Angelus have been looking for them for years, trashing museums and private collections, killing jewellers and historians... Your friend Giles could be in a lot of danger. He sent Xander and Anya home.”
Thank God, Buffy thought. Spike knew them now. He knew they were close to Buffy. He’d already attacked Tara and God knows what kind of trap he’d been setting for Buffy, seducing her and keeping her in that cottage until morning, when the Angelus group would come and cut off her finger...
But just under her skin Buffy could remember his touch. Remember how, out in the barn after the first time, he’d kissed her so sweetly. How she’d fallen asleep with his arms tight around her, hid fingers stroking a lazy pattern on her ribs. How he’d looked at her naked body like it was a jewel, how he’d exalted in her pleasure. He couldn’t be all bad. He’d kissed her with his eyes closed. Buffy had sneaked a look.
“Buffy,” Riley said, and she looked up. He looked serious.
“Riley.”
“When I found you. Yesterday. You were... He was...”
“Both totally naked?” Buffy felt like she should be more traumatised by this. Surely she hadn’t cried out all her tears already? She even sounded a little light hearted...
“He was trying to...” Riley seemed to be having trouble with the words. “He was trying to rape you, wasn’t he?”
Buffy thought about it, and her mind felt detached. So Spike had nearly killed Tara and possibly betrayed Buffy to the Angelus group. He could have raped her, too. And yet, and yet...
And yet, surely that caress was not the caress of an evil man?
Suddenly, Buffy realised what was going on. For Riley it was much easier to imagine she had been raped by Spike, making her a victim he could take care of, than to think she had gone to him willingly. If Buffy said she’d voluntarily slept with Spike, Riley would be crushed. And whatever her other thoughts on the matter, the facts remained that Riley had rescued Buffy from someone who had nearly killed her friend, and that Buffy, try as she might, still had feelings for Riley.
“He tried,” she said quietly, “but I’m okay.”
Riley slumped in relief. “You’re sure? You’re covered in bruises-”
“He knocked me around a bit,” Buffy said, and she wasn’t lying exactly. She knew Spike would be in pretty bad shape too. “But he didn’t force me into anything. Thank you, Riley.”
Riley pulled her into his arms, and Buffy knew it was her turn to comfort him.
*
“Okay,” Spike said, so bored he was actually considering crying for something else to do, “I spy with my little eye, something beginning with... W.”
Anya looked around. “Is it walls?”
“Nope.”
“Windows?”
Spike shook his head.
“W... W... W...” Anya repeated for a bit, while Spike nearly fell asleep. “White.”
“What’s white?”
“Your teeth.” She peered closer. “Mostly. Some of them look a bit bloody...”
“Yeah. Thanks. Can’t see me own teeth, can I, love?”
“Then what is it?”
Spike flicked his head at Xander, still hanging off the wall. “Wanker.”
“Don’t call my husband that! I’ll have you know he no longer-”
The door opened, and Spike thought he’d never again be so glad to see a kidnapper.
“Dru,” he greeted, stretching his shoulders. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
She stood there, looking regal and bonkers, the light filtering through the dirty windows giving her dark hair a sort of halo.
“Is he dead yet?”
Spike looked at Xander. “Give him an hour or so.”
“No!” Anya cried, but Spike glared at her.
“If you kill him now, that’ll be a release,” he went on, looking steadily at Drusilla, who descended the steps slowly.
“He needs to be awake,” she said, and lifted a small bottle of water to splash in Xander’s face. “If he’s not awake, then he can’t see. And if he can’t see he won’t speak.”
Anya looked at Spike in fear and confusion. But Spike understood.
“He’d have told you, if he knew,” he said quietly. “He doesn’t know anything. Neither of them do.”
“She doesn’t,” Drusilla shot a contemptuous glance at Anya, who, to her credit, managed to look straight back without cowering. “Pretty boys scream and girls squeal. But she said nothing.” She aimed a swift kick at Anya, and Spike winced, feeling it in his own bruised ribs. “But he must know. He knows the girl. Besides,” she trailed a long nail down Anya’s wet face, “Angel wants to play with you.”
“He doesn’t know anything,” Spike repeated. “He’s as dumb as shit. Torture her and he’ll lie to you to make you stop.”
Drusilla pouted. “Maybe I’ll torture her anyway,” she said. “Or you, for being such a naughty boy. You lost her, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t lose her,” Spike said through gritted teeth, “I got shot and now I’m here. Why did you shoot me, Dru?”
For a second she looked confused, a human, adult confusion. Then, “Poor Spike,” she said, and her childish voice was back. “He’s so hurt he can’t remember.” She bobbed down in front of him. “Would you like me to kiss it better?”
Her breath was sweet and clean and Spike remembered her kisses, her soft body in his arms, her nails in his back. The handcuffs and the whips and the guns.
“Dru,” he said, his face inches from hers, “I’d rather wear pink nylon.”
She pulled back, snarling. “You know where she is.”
“I don’t know,” Spike said tiredly. “I’m hurt and I’m knackered and I don’t have any bloody clothes on, Dru, why would I know where she is?”
“You smell of her. Was she good, William? As good as me?”
“Well, she was better than fucking an ironing board, so yeah. Better than you, Dru.”
Drusilla stood up and lifted one foot with a hefty heel on it, and stamped it into Spike’s chest. He cried out, doubling over, and when his head was down she smashed her foot into the side of his face.
Then she stalked away, heels clipping up the steps, the door clanging shut behind heavy locks. Then there was silence, as Spike tried to catch his breath and figure out if Drusilla had broken any ribs. Maybe one or two. He was having trouble breathing.
“Spike?” Anya said, and she was holding something in her chained hands. A black shawl. Drusilla’s shawl. “Catch.”
It landed a foot from Spike’s leg and he pulled it closer with his heel. “What?” he mumbled, his mouth full of blood.
“She dropped it. You could wear it. Like a, a sort of sarong. Like David Beckham...”
Spike tried to smile at her as he covered himself up, but his whole body ached and throbbed. Dru had done quite a number on him before she dragged him into the cellar, and now she’d made it worse. He concentrated on breathing.
“And Spike?” Anya said, her smile brittle. “Really like an ironing board?”
“Worse,” he croaked. “Ironing boards warm up after a while.”
*
It took Buffy a week to work up the courage to escape, then a day to work out her plan. Sergei, the lovely boy who brought up her room service meals, kept asking her if she was all right, why didn’t she leave the room, she was always crying. Buffy told him she was unwell, and having trouble sleeping. Sergei brought her a whole box of sleeping pills.
At least, she thought they were sleeping pills. She hadn’t a clue what the unfamiliar writing said. But she was fairly certain that a couple of them would lay out a full grown man. A man, say, Riley’s size?
It wasn’t that he was mistreating her. He was being perfectly lovely, but that made Buffy want to scream. She wasn’t made of glass, she was completely all right, if a little crazy from being locked in this hotel room all the time with only foreign TV for company. Riley was out a lot, talking to ‘contacts’, occasionally sent on flimsy errands by Buffy for a certain kind of shampoo or some cream for her bruises or perhaps a new nightgown. Because the truth was that, much as she’d missed him when they broke up, as grateful was she was for his rescuing, Buffy couldn’t stand being around him.
And she still wasn’t sure she’d been rescued - that there had been anything to rescue her from. She was pretty sure now that it was just Riley’s paranoia that had convinced her Spike had raped her. Buffy knew her own strength and her own boundaries, and she knew she’d never have let someone do something like that to her. But Riley would have preferred to believe that Buffy hadn’t gone willingly to this evil man, so she let Riley believe she’d been raped. And part of her believed it sometimes, when she remembered that Spike had nearly killed Tara. For all Buffy knew, Spike had been leading her into the arms of the Angelus. He wasn’t a good man.
But he hadn’t raped her.
Buffy knew she had to get Riley to sleep so she could escape. She’d gone on a tidying binge that day, packing her suitcase when Riley was out, and she’d called reception and asked them to book her a flight to London, any airline, any class, any airport. Fifteen minutes later they called Buffy back with a reservation number and said they’d get a taxi for her when she was ready.
She found herself shaking as she planned it. She had to get back to London and talk to Tara - maybe Tara knew something about this Angelus group. Maybe Spike had said something to her. Or maybe Giles knew, but with his typical reticence just hadn’t thought to tell her. But she had to get away from Riley. She needed his room key and the local currency he carried to pay the taxi driver, and she knew he kept them in a money belt while he slept.
And Buffy new that Riley was a very light sleeper.
So she had to knock him out. She could hit him over the head, or she could... Buffy took a deep breath as she thought of it. She could seduce him. Riley slept like the dead after sex. He’d never wake up, even if she hired a brass band to play America The Beautiful over his head.
So she sweated and shook all day, trying to persuade herself that it was the best course of action. She put on her prettiest, clingiest dress - she’d lost weight and it didn’t suit her, but Buffy knew she’d just have to live with that - made herself up very carefully so that the cosmetics were invisible, washed her hair and sprayed a tiny bit of perfume down her cleavage. And she waited for Riley.
She ordered some champagne - partly for seduction purposes, but also to calm herself down - and when Sergei came, he was obviously impressed.
“Miss Buffy, you look better zan all veek.”
“Well, I feel better, Sergei.” Buffy took the champagne.
“I vos vorried you vere not sleeping...”
Buffy stared at him. Sergei, she thought, you’re a bloody genius.
“No,” she said, “not sleeping at all. I only wish...” she sighed.
“Vish vot?”
“That I had my sleeping pills. They were prescription, quite powerful, but I left them in America... I don’t suppose.. I don’t suppose you’d have anything here like that, would you?”
Sergei tripped over himself in his haste to fetch them for her, and Buffy could have kissed him in relief. But instead she tipped him with American dollars, which impressed him greatly, and shut the door. She took out several pills and mashed them into powder, sprinkling them into one of the champagne glasses. Her heart was thumping. She was about to change out of her seduction outfit, when the door opened again and Riley came in.
He stopped, and stared at her.
“Buffy? You look - wow.”
She smiled. Riley had always made her feel pretty.
“I was tired of vegging around in my jammies,” Buffy said. “Riley, I want to go out. Just down to the restaurant for dinner, maybe? Not even very far. I’m so bored up here...”
Riley’s sharp eyes swung to the ice bucket. “Champagne?”
“Well, I felt like celebrating,” Buffy gave him a smile. “The end of my depression.”
“Well, I...” He looked her over again, and Buffy all but fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I guess one glass couldn’t hurt. I’ll open it.”
Yeah, Buffy thought, because a girl who trains with fifteen pound weights couldn’t possibly get the cork out of a champagne bottle, could she? But she gave him a pretty smile and picked up the clean glass for herself.
Riley poured her drink first, then his own, clinked her glass, and drank. Buffy’s heart was thumping like a rave beat and her hand was shaking. The champagne bubbles were choking her. She felt sick with nerves. What if it didn’t work? Or she’d given him too much - what if the sleeping tablets reacted with the alcohol and killed him? God, she didn’t want Riley to die.
“So where did you go today?” she asked, her smile aching.
Riley sat down and started to take off his boots. “I went to talk to the jeweller,” he said. “A collector. He’s really interested in the ring you have.”
Buffy closed her fingers into a protective fist.
“The ring that people have nearly died for? I can’t imagine why.”
“If you sold it to him you’d have a lot of money,” Riley went on earnestly. “And then the Angelus group wouldn’t be chasing you any more.”
When he put it like that it did make sense, but...
“Then they’d come after him instead,” Buffy said. “And who’s to say they’d even believe I didn’t have it any more? They might catch me and - Spike said they were vicious-”
“And you believed what Spike said?” Riley snapped, but there wasn’t a lot of anger in it. He was already starting to look sleepy.
“I don’t want to give up my ring,” Buffy said stubbornly. “It’s beautiful and I love it, and it reminds me of - of what we had...”
Wrong thing to say. Riley looked up at her, and Buffy caught her breath, because he had the look he used to give her when he was about to make love to her.
“You still think about that?” he asked, taking her free hand and pulling her towards him. Buffy considered throwing her champagne in his face, but she didn’t want to wake him up too much. She put the glass down on the table and sat beside him on his bed.
“Well, of course I think about it,” she said. “It was a whole year, Riley, and what we had was special, but it’s - it’s over now...”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Riley said, stroking her hand, turning his lovely hazel eyes on her. He brought his hand up to her face and gently brushed away her clean hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “God, I’ve missed you, Buffy...”
He brushed his lips against hers, and Buffy thought in panic, surely he should be passing out soon, surely...
Riley kissed her, and Buffy felt like a wooden doll. She kept her mouth closed, wondering when it was that she’d got over Riley. His kisses used to melt her. Now they did nothing, but make her feel vaguely grubby. But if she wasn’t responding, Riley barely seemed to notice.
“Buffy,” he mumbled, “I love you, Buffy...”
And then he fell heavy against her, and Buffy knew he’d passed out.
“You know, that’s just not a turn on,” she said, and he lay still. “Riley?”
She checked his pulse, rolled him on his side so he wouldn’t swallow his tongue, and searched his pockets for the door key and his money. She scribbled a note on hotel notepaper, left it by his bed, took her suitcase, and was free.