Setting Him Free - R

The engines of the light aircraft seemed to be screaming in protest as it sped down the runway. Buffy Summers gripped the handrest, bracing herself for the moment of takeoff. God, she hated flying. Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on what her hypnotherapist had said. She could never remember. They’d been through this a dozen times and still it made no difference. The adrenaline, the butterflies, the sick, sinking feeling of panic. They were all there, every time. And yet she loved her job. A dream job, really. Quality control manager for Exotic Resorts Inc. Who wouldn’t want to do that? Travelling incognito. Staying in the most beautiful and luxurious hotels. One long round of sun, sea and sand. And, unfortunately, airplanes. The plane suddenly whipped back, her stomach lurched and she began her mantra.

"It’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth it." The island paradise fell away as the plane climbed into a flawlessly blue sky. Four hours tops. Three and a half if they were lucky. Buffy opened her eyes as she felt the plane level out. It would soon be over. She’d soon be on safe, solid land again. A few days of rest. Sort out the next project. And then she’d have to start the worrying all over again.

She had a little look around at the other passengers. There were only six of them in the plane. A couple of nuns. Funny how there always seemed to be a couple of nuns. Buffy couldn’t imagine what they could have been doing at the Tropicana Club. The small airport pretty much only served the hotel complex, and it was well known as one of the wilder resorts. A picture of them disco dancing on Fetish Night popped into her mind. Actually, they would have blended right in, she realised with a smile. The obligatory business man sat a few seats in front of her. At least she assumed that’s what he was. He’d started checking reports the moment he’d got on the plane, totally unconcerned that this giant tube of metal not only needed to achieve the extraordinary feat of getting itself off the ground, but that is needed to stay up there for four hours, then land safely at the other end.

The only two other people on the plane sat opposite her. The one by the window in a dark business suit and sunglasses didn’t look very friendly at all. Buffy had him pegged straight away. The suit, the glasses, the slightly nervous twitching. Constantly checking something under his jacket. Bit of a give-away that. She reckoned CIA, FBI, Interpol. Of course, she never really got to check how many times she’d been right in her little musings. Couldn’t very well go up and ask him if he was a secret agent or something, could she?

She turned her attention to his partner. No, not his partner she decided. They sat together, but they weren’t together. Yet they were connected somehow. Buffy settled back into her seat, glad of the distraction, flicking sideways glances so he wouldn’t catch her looking. This one was going to be a lot harder to suss out. He’d already been seated when she’d boarded and she couldn’t have failed to notice him, dressed as he was, all in black. Black tee shirt, black jeans, heavy combat boots. It made the contrast with his white-blond hair even more striking. He lean face looked almost gaunt, but not because he was thin. His body was toned, the muscles well defined against his tight top. No, there was something in his face that gave him an almost tragic look. Not just the arrangement of features, but something that came from deep down inside. He stared straight ahead, as if he was in a trance. Hadn’t spoken to his companion once. Hadn’t spoken to anyone. He had ‘keep off’ written all over him. And as Buffy checked him out, she felt herself being drawn to him. Not just because he was good-looking, but because she suddenly really wanted to find out what terrible thing had happened to put that look on his face. Wanted to know why he stared at the world with eyes that didn’t seem to see anything. Wanted to know why she couldn’t turn away from him.

And that was when she noticed the handcuffs. On his left arm, the one that rested loosely between him and his companion. Handcuffed to the seat. How had she missed that before? Now she understood the look. It was the look of a once proud animal trying to maintain some shreds of dignity against the horrors of captivity. It was the look of a man on the edge. The look of someone who’s life was in the balance. A small shiver ran up her spine as he turned his head and looked in her direction. He knows I’m looking, she thought. Knows I’ve seen it. And she knew he wanted her to see it. He continued to stare at her, almost daring her to look away. She couldn’t. Whatever pain he was in, for some reason he was sharing it with her. What did he want? Comfort, understanding, condemnation? What the hell had happened to him that had brought him to this point? Handcuffed to a seat on a plane. As they gazed at each other, all she could think of was a caged bird, beating it’s wings against the bars of a cage. Her brother had trapped one once, and presented it to her. Then he’d hit her because all she’d wanted to do was set it free.

A ghost of a smile flickered across his features, almost as if he was reading the image in her mind. He shook his head and turned his gaze back to the headrest in front of him, retreating back into his shell. Buffy felt him go. The moment of connection severed so abruptly that she had to catch herself. She’d almost put her arm out to stop him, the pull had been so strong. The air hostess appeared, pushing a small trolley and standing between them, blocking her view of him. Buffy reached out and accepted the drink, chose a snack. Wondered if he’d still be there when the hostess moved. Wondered what colour his eyes were. Realised that they’d been blue.

The hostess moved on and Buffy picked up her magazine, needing a barrier between him and her. She didn’t want him to look at her again. Not like that. She went back to mentally helping the pilot to fly the plane, concentrating on engine noises, searching the hostess’s face for signs that something was wrong. Looking at her watch and noticing that they were only ten minutes into the flight. Kicking off her shoes. Anything but look at him again. Whatever he’d done, he’d pay. He didn’t need her pity. Could be a whacked out serial killer for all she knew. That puppy dog look probably had women falling at his feet. Well, not this woman. Fear of flying was the only thing that marred Buffy Summer’s perfect life and when she got back to the States, she was going to sort that one out once and for all. Then her life would be, perfect. And god-help-her, it was going to stay that way.

><><><><><

Spike stared at the back rest of the seat in front. Stared at the remnants of his life. His arm was beginning to get a cramp. He moved it, trying to twist into a more comfortable position. She’d seen the handcuffs then. Hid it well though. Her eyes had widened only for a split second before she’d brought her guard down. He couldn’t hide them. Had to sit and endure it. The humiliation, the pity, the disgust. Mothers ushering their children out of his way. What the hell did they think he was going to do? Eat them? But the fear he could cope with, could understand. He’d been someone who inspired fear. Counted on it. That was what made him so good. But the pity. He couldn’t stand it. Every look that told him he was a sad, pathetic creature another little part of him out. Put up another bar to his cage. Trapped him in the sad ruins of his life. Made him feel sorry for himself. It was a bad place to be.

She pitied him. He could tell. Sending out waves of the stuff. What was it with women and tragic figures? He could be a mass murderer for all she knew and yet, here she was, giving him that I could be the one to reform you look. He wondered what she’d do if he looked her square in the eye, let her really see what he’d become. A big fat load of nothing. An empty shell.

She’d been shocked. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected her to make him smile with the depth of her reaction. There was still something left inside him then. Perhaps he should have snapped that stupid policeman’s neck after all. Giving up had been the easy option. He realised that now. But he was tired. Tired of being hunted and tired of running. If this was the end, then he was glad. Time to finish it. There wasn’t a single reason left why he’d want to go on living. The hostess came with the trolley, the policeman leaning across him to take a drink. He really was stupid. Should have had him in the window seat. Didn’t he realise how quickly he’d have those keys off him if he’d wanted to? He could see his gun, for god’s sake. Two seconds is all it would take. He’d point the gun at the nuns, the pilot would fly him somewhere safe. Then what? It would start all over again. That’s what.

Spike chose a whiskey, downed it in one and saluted the policeman with the empty glass. The man grinned back at him and tore open his packet of peanuts, tipping them into his mouth. He thought he had Spike’s number. A pussy cat on a lead. Spike closed his eyes and leaned back against his seat. He really was a stupid, stupid man.

Two hours or so into the flight, every one of Buffy’s flying nightmares came true at once. First off, she noticed that the air hostess was looking slightly worried. Now, everyone that’s scared of flying knows that’s the first sign of trouble. She craned her neck to get a better view. Maybe the girl just had indigestion or something? Buffy’s heart started to beat a little faster. She’d studied hundreds of air hostesses, knew all their expressions. That one definitely looked worried. As the woman passed her, she called her over.

"Is everything okay? I thought I felt a bit of a jolt back there." Buffy watched her carefully. She’d tried this one a dozen times and she was always met with the same answer. "No problem miss, planes do that, there’s nothing wrong."

Only this time there was the slightest hesitation before she said them. Buffy was a world-class expert on this, and she knew. Knew that the woman was stalling her.

"Are you sure, because I definitely felt..."

"There is nothing wrong miss, please calm down or you will scare the other passengers."

The hostess hurried back to the front of the plane, disappearing into the cockpit. Buffy looked around. The other passengers didn’t seem to be worried at all. The business man was still checking his papers, the nuns were engrossed in their magazines, the policeman was asleep, snoring lightly, and the other man? Buffy hadn’t decided on a name for him yet. There was usually something that fit, the policeman - if he was that- she’d already christened Mr. Slimy. He had a sleazy air about him. And the business man was Mr. Cool, because he seemed so unfazed by anything. The nuns were sister Maria and Sister Joan - two she remembered from her catholic school upbringing. But Mr. Blond? That name didn’t fit at all. And she hadn’t been able to think of anything else for him. The best she could come up with was Mr. Broody, because he looked so very unhappy, but she didn’t think he’d appreciate that one. Anyway, he was still in the catatonic position that he’d been in for most of the flight. No-one seemed in the slightest bit worried. But her.

Ten minutes later, the plane gave a lurch, and banked steeply to the right. Buffy grabbed at her armrests and looked wildly about her. What the hell was that? She had to hold on tight as it righted and she was flung to the other side of her seat. The hostess appeared, and this time there was no mistaking the fear on her face.

"Ladies and gentlemen, she began in a voice that didn’t inspire confidence in Buffy at all. "There may be a small problem."

"Small problem?" Buffy’s heart started a heavy thudding that got faster with each beat. What problem? There couldn’t be one. Her hypnotherapist had told her that the odds of a plane actually crashing were, well, she couldn’t remember, but they were small.

The hostess was doing something with her arms. Crash position? What the hell was she talking about crash positions for? This wasn’t happening.

Only it was. And the measure of the seriousness of the situation was echoed in the fact that Mr. Broody had opened his eyes and was actually paying attention. He was craning his neck around the seat in front of him, and watching the air hostess. And he looked, not exactly scared, but definitely concerned. And if he, who had hardly blinked during the flight, was showing any sort of emotion, then it had to be serious.

Buffy looked over at him and he caught her eye again. He pointed to her seat belt and then he actually spoke to her. If she hadn’t been seated, she would have taken a step back at the sound. He hadn’t said a single word the whole flight and now he was speaking to her in a low, gravely voice that sounded as if he didn’t use it much. And he was English. A very slightly clipped accent, only a little rough around the edges. Like the kind of accent that might have changed over the years.

The plane gave another lurch, accompanied by a loud scream from one of the nuns. Buffy kept her eyes squarely on his face. He was talking, but she was so terrified that she couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. As she was jolted out of her seat, all she could think of was that maybe he was trying to say something important, and that she would never know what it was. Because they were all going to die.

><><><><><

"Do your seat belt up," Spike shouted across at the blonde. She was looking at him, but she didn’t seem to be hearing him. "Your seat belt, do it - fuck." He watched helplessly as she was thrown out of her seat. He couldn’t reach her. He stretched out as far as he could, but the handcuffs stopped him. The policeman started babbling and pulling him back. Spike pushed him off and reached out again. This time he managed to lock a hand around her wrist and pull her up towards him.

"Can you hear me?" He had to get through to her, get her back in her seat. The plane banked again and he pulled her in against him. If he let go, she was going to be seriously injured. He felt her hands grab hold of his arms, her nails digging into his flesh, her sharp intake of breath. Saw the terror in her eyes, only inches away from his own. He knew what she was feeling because he’d felt it too. Before. But not here. He didn’t care if the plane crashed. Didn’t care if they all died.

Only that wasn’t quite true. For some strange reason he cared if she died. And if she wasn’t going to die, then he couldn’t either. He had to hold on to her, stop her from crashing against the side of the plane. He had to save her life, and in doing so she was saving his.

For the first time in the last two years Spike wanted to live, instead of die. And the irony of it wasn’t lost on him. He’d regained the will to live moments before the plane in which he was travelling was going to crash to the ground, and probably kill them all. And the thought of it made him want to laugh. So he did.

><><><><><

He was laughing. What kind of idiot was he? Buffy gripped at his arms so tightly, her nails pressed hard into his flesh, that she saw blood seeping between her fingers. She heard herself scream as her head slammed against his chest, felt his arm go around her back and anchor her to him. Heard the nuns praying, the policeman babbling incoherently. And he was still laughing. The plane righted once more and she lifted her head and looked into his face. He stopped laughing abruptly, as if he was aware of the effect it was having on her.

"What’s your name?"

He was asking her name. What did he want to know that for? She was so scared she could hardly remember what it was. What did it matter anyway?

"Your name, love. What is it?"

She opened her mouth twice before any sound came out. "Buffy, Buffy Summers."

"I’m Spike. Now be a good girl, and get back in your seat, and do your seat belt up." He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if addressing a child. "Can you do that for me Buffy?"

"I, I can’t." She gripped him even tighter. "Don’t let go of me."

She felt him urging her back to her seat. "You’ve got to Buffy. Go now, we may not have much time."

"What do you mean?" There was no way she was letting go of him. His companion continued to babble and grab at him, obviously terrified too. Suddenly she felt herself being pushed away. She landed hard against her seat, managed to get herself into it, fumbled with the belt. Looked over at him. Saw his approving smile. He had a nice smile, she thought. Should smile more often. Looked down at her hand and noticed the blood.

His companion was totally hysterical now, as the plane lurched and banked. The business man was no longer Mr. Cool. One minute she could see the sky, the next the green of the jungle below them. And then the plane just dropped.

"Get your head down Buffy." He was bent forward, showing her what to do, though he could only do it with one arm.

She got in position, arms bracing her head, no idea if it was right or not. She, who had memorised every safety procedure, every position, knew where all the emergency exits were. Suddenly she couldn’t remember any of it. Her stomach seemed to be flying out of her mouth as the plane plummeted. Wasn’t your life supposed to flash before your eyes, she thought? Her mom, her dad, she tried to picture them but they wouldn’t come. All she could think about was Spike and the way he’d held on to her. She’d hurt him with her long nails, but he hadn’t flinched. Had just kept on holding her. She wanted to close her eyes but she couldn’t do that either. So she turned her head and looked over at him and found that he was already looking at her. He gave a little nod and she reached out her hand to him. And his strong grip around her wrist was the last thing she was aware of as the plane hit the thick forest below.

Spike opened his eyes and flinched as a sharp pain ripped through his left arm. He righted himself slowly, wondering how badly he was injured. Marvelling at the fact that he was still alive. He, who’d had a death wish, had survived a plane crash. Was someone up there trying to tell him something? He flexed his right arm, moved his legs and took a couple of deep breaths. Everything else seemed okay. His left arm he reckoned was broken, and his head hurt where he’d banged it against the seat, but if that was all, then he’d gotten off lightly.

Buffy. That’s what she’d said her name was. He almost couldn’t look across at where she’d been sitting. The last thing he remembered were her enormous eyes almost pleading with him to do something. He’d grabbed her hand and then they’d hit.

She was still in her seat. Not moving. He could just about make her out in the dim interior of the plane. The lights were all out and they were surrounded by trees. Some of the branches poking through the shattered windows, blocking out the light. Couldn’t see if she was breathing or not, so he reached across and took her arm, feeling for a pulse. For an agonising moment he couldn’t find one. Stretching across to her made his arm hurt like hell but he paid it no heed. She couldn’t be dead. He tried again, finding it hard to concentrate against the roaring pain in his head. When he’d first come to he’d been kind of numb, but now he was beginning to feel it all over. And he needed to get out of the handcuffs, so he twisted back into his seat and reached into the inside pocket of his very-dead companion’s suit and felt for them. He spared him no sympathy, as he’d been given none. The man still had a surprised expression frozen on his face at the jagged piece of window glass that had ripped through his neck. Spike pulled out the keys and quickly unlocked the handcuffs, suddenly in a desperate panic to get them off. His hand was shaking badly as he opened them, easing the metal away where it had bitten into his skin. He took a couple of steadying breaths and gingerly lifted his arm, inhaling sharply at the pain that sliced through him. He needed to find a first-aid kit. Get it immobilised. But first there was the grim task of checking on the other passengers.

One look at the front part of the plane left him in no doubt as to their fate. It was a crushed tangle of twisted metal, having taken the brunt of the impact. He’d still need to look though. One of them might still be alive and badly injured. But he doubted it. And then there was Buffy. He twisted out of his seat and placed a trembling hand on her chest.

It was moving. Slowly but surely, up and down. He leaned in and listened for her breathing, just to be sure and when he felt her breath on his face, his legs gave way with the sheer relief and shock of it all, and he fell to his knees beside her. He didn’t know whether she was badly hurt or not. Only knew that she was alive, and that somehow it was important. As he knelt there, looking at her, he tried to fathom it. He wasn’t a religious man, but he’d done some praying in the last two years. Prayed for his life back. Realised that no-one was listening, no-one cared. But now he was feeling something. Something he thought he’d never feel again. Connection with another human being.

He knew it was probably the shock. The adrenaline. He’d been in enough hairy situations to know what that could do to you, how it made you feel. A good fuck, get drunk, tear up the town. All good ways to burn it off. Not an option now though. He reached for her wrist again, feeling the pulse strong and steady. Kept hold of it as he laid his head on the armrest of her seat. She was just a girl. And he’d known plenty of them. What was so special about this one? Apart from the fact that they were alone together in a life-threatening situation. He gave a little laugh. Yeah, that was enough to make her special. The next few days, they were going to have to depend on each other. The plane would have some sort of homing beacon, but if they’d come down in the thickest part of the jungle it might be a while before they were rescued.

He was only just realising that her being alive was a double edged sword. If she’d been dead, he’d have been out of there. The jungle posed no threat to him. His survival skills were the best. He could have one more go at disappearing, only this time he’d do it properly. They’d only caught up with him last time because he’d decided he’d had enough. But now he had another chance of freedom, and he wanted to take it. But he couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. Couldn’t leave her by herself.

The plane was eerily quiet. He knew he should go check on the other passengers, but he just needed a few minutes to get his legs back. He twisted them under him so that he was sitting down in the aisle, his head going between his knees as he felt his blood pressure falling. Not the time to pass out. He breathed and tried desperately to fend off the nausea, flopping against the seat behind him. In front of him Buffy started to move. He tried to call out to her but his voice sounded very far away as the waves of blackness washed over him again. And then she was kneeling in front of him and he could hear her saying his voice over and over again. He groped for her hand and felt himself slipping away. And now that he knew she was there, and that she was alright, he let himself go.

><><><><><

"Spike. Don’t die." Buffy unsnapped her seat belt and slithered to the floor, her heart lurching as she caught sight of his companion sprawled across the opposite seat. Blood everywhere. She shut the image out. Spike was dying, in front of her. He couldn’t die. What if everyone was dead, and she was all alone? She didn’t even stop to question if she was injured or not. Or to wonder at the fact that she’d survived. She just knew she didn’t want Spike to die, here, like this. It just didn’t seem fair, she didn’t know why. It just didn’t. She wanted him to escape, have another chance. And it wasn’t just a romanticised ideal based on him being a tragic hero. She just had a very strong gut feeling that he deserved another chance. If he hadn’t thrown her back into her seat, she’d have been running up the aisle in panic when the plane went down. He’d saved her life. That must count for something with whatever powers-that-be ran these things.

When he started to stir, she breathed such a sigh of relief that it made her tremble right down to her toes. He was alive, and she wasn’t going to be alone. He’d know what to do. Get them rescued. Only that would get him caught again, wouldn’t it? She sat herself in front of him, in the cramped aisle and held his hand as he woke up. Stroking it gently, feeling his fingers grip hers as he came to. She hadn’t been big on hand-holding before, but it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be holding his. He opened his eyes and looked at her, a little groggily.

"Buffy."

It came out as a hoarse whisper, as if he was in pain. He shifted and she noticed the awkward way he was holding his left arm.

"How bad is it Spike?" As she asked the question, she prayed that he wasn’t badly hurt. Not just because she didn’t want to see him in pain, but also for the purely selfish reason that she needed him whole, to look after her. She was an expert at partying, people and generally having a good time. She was a wicked organiser and could do hard-nosed business woman when she had to. But jungle survival? She didn’t have a clue. There were probably snakes out there, and what were they going to do for food? He just looked like the kind of man who would know what to do. He couldn’t be badly hurt, he just couldn’t.

"My arm. Left one." He grimaced as he tried to lift it. Must have got yanked against the cuffs as we hit. Just that, and I feel like I’ve been in a plane crash."

He was looking at her intently as her gaze flicked to the discarded cuffs and then back to him. So much non-verbal communication. It was almost as if they had a psychic connection or something. She knew exactly what he was thinking as she looked at the handcuffs. Knew by the look on his face that he was wondering if she felt she needed to fear him. She’d almost forgotten about them, but now that he’d drawn her attention to them, she had to wonder. What had he done? And she knew that he’d mentioned them deliberately, almost as if he was testing her.

"Let me see." He held out the arm, supporting it with his right hand and she felt along the length of it as gently as she could. She had no idea what she was looking for. Only that she’d seen people do this in films, and she had to do something.

"Need a sling. Can you go find a first -aid box? Got to be one. In the galley, maybe, at the back."

Buffy looked from the back to the front of the plane. The rear part was intact, virtually untouched apart from a few broken windows. The front, however was crushed almost flat. For the first time since she’d woken up she thought about the other passengers and the crew. How could they have survived that? Someone needed to go check on them. Maybe she could get through if she crawled on her hands and knees, but the thought made her stomach lurch.

"Sit down Buffy, the sling can wait." Spike rested his broken arm on his lap and held out his other one. "Come over here. Shock’ll get you if you don’t sit down for a few. Think you’re okay, then wham. It hits you."

He was right. She was starting to feel a bit wobbly, even though she was sure she wasn’t badly hurt. She twisted herself around and reached for her carry-on bag, that was, miraculously, still on the floor where she’d left it, it’s strap tied around the leg of the seat. She yanked it free and pulled it over with her as she scooted into his embrace.

She unzipped the bag and pulled out a bag of candy and a bottle of water.

"Haven’t seen a problem yet that couldn’t be solved by large doses of sugar."

That got a chuckle out of him. She unwrapped the candy and offered it to him. He hesitated for a moment and then opened his mouth so that she could feed it to him. She unwrapped herself one and leaned back against him, closing her eyes. His lips had brushed very slightly against her fingers as he’d taken the fruit-drop and it had done funny things to her insides. She knew about this. Happened in books all the time. Hero and heroine in great danger. Adrenaline pumping. It always led to frantic, desperate sex. And then to great crashing waves of regret the morning after.

She had to be careful. He was some sort of criminal, a desperado. Only she didn’t know what kind. But as she sighed and relaxed against him, she did know that she could trust him not to harm her.

"Spike."

"Yeah."

"Do you think the plane’s gonna blow up?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"No."

"Oh."

She didn’t care either. All she wanted to do was just sit and reflect on the fact that they were both still alive. And her legs had turned totally to Jell-O now, and wouldn’t hold her if she’d wanted them to. And her head was starting to hurt, where she’d knocked it. Five minutes. She just needed five minutes, sitting here with him, then she’d go check on the other passenger. There’d been no sound at all from them. Then she’d go fix him a sling for his arm.

This was a rare luxury. It had taken a plane crash to get Buffy Summers to sit still in a man’s arms and not be thinking about the itinerary, the next hotel, what she was going to wear to the disco so that she’d blend in with the clientele. None of that seemed important any more. This wasn’t just a luxury. It was a gift. True, the down side was that they were in a wrecked plane, somewhere in the jungle. Spike was hurt, maybe they wouldn’t get rescued and they’d die here. But, she realised, she wouldn’t trade these five minutes to be anywhere else right now. Mad though it seemed, the only place on earth she wanted to be was here, doing this, with him.

"Can you hear the sea, Spike?"

"Huh?"

"Close your eyes, Spike. Right now, we’re on an endless beach of white-gold sand. There’s one of those sunsets where the sun looks as if it’s melting into the earth. No wind, and the surf’s making those funny little sucking noises. And it’s warm, and it’s safe. Can you see it Spike?"

"Yeah."

She felt his hand squeezing her shoulder. "And it’s just the two of us, and everything’s gonna be okay. And I’m going to start crying now, sorry."

She soaked the front of his tee-shirt, there were so many tears. And he continued to hold her, and stroke her hair as she let them fall.

"I’ll meet you there someday, Buffy. When I’ve got my life back, we’ll go to that beach and..." His voice trailed off and he lapsed into silence.

Buffy’s tears subsided into a series of hiccups. She groped in her bag for a tissue and blew her nose. "I’d like that Spike. Get your life back, and I’ll be there."

She looked at her watch. Five minutes were up. Time to start the process of surviving this ordeal. Only they’d already started. Had given each other the most important thing they could. Strength. And together they’d get through this. But he wasn’t coming with her. She was going to make sure of that. If, and when the rescue came, she wanted him as far away from them as possible. She wanted to set him free. But would he go?

Spike sat quietly as Buffy fixed a sling for his arm. There wasn’t much they could do about setting it, just had to make sure he kept it as still as possible until they were rescued. The painkillers she’d given him hadn’t done much to dull the aching, but it had made his head feel a bit better. And now that he could move without the world spinning, he could go check on the other passengers. Buffy had wanted to do it, but he’d stopped her. Not something she needed to see. It was bad enough that they still had the gruesome spectacle of the policeman just behind them. They’d have to get rid of him if they were going to use the plane for shelter.

None of this worried him. He’d seen dead bodies before, been the cause of them. Blood and gore didn’t phase him at all, but Buffy?

He held his arm still against his chest as she slid her arms around his shoulders to tie up the knot, wincing as she pulled it a little too tight.

"Tell me if I’m hurting you Spike."

She looked at him with such concern in her eyes that he just wanted to lay his head on her shoulder and stay that way. Let someone else be the strong one for a change. He was just so tired of everything.

"No, it’s okay, go ahead."

He leaned forward so she had more room to work and her hair brushed across his cheek. He kept very still, savouring the moment. Breathing in her perfume. Trying to memorise the feel of her gentle fingers as she tended to him. Something to take with him when this was all over.

She sat back on her heels and surveyed her handiwork. "All done." Then she looked towards the front of the plane. "Do you think we should..."

Spike put out his good arm and stopped her. "I’ll go. Should be able to get through that gap."

She pulled him back. "No Spike, you’ve got to keep that arm still. Let me."

He turned back to her. "It’s not something you need to see Buffy, won’t be pretty."

"Neither is he." She pointed to the dead policeman, but she wasn’t looking at him. Had been carefully avoiding him since she’d woken up. God knows what the sight of mangled, dead nuns was going to do to her.

"Do you ever do as you’re told?" he said with a soft smile. He already knew the answer to that one. She had a look on her face that said she was used to getting her own way, and she’d do it anyway. With or without him.

"Not really. Look Spike, let’s do it together, okay?"

He gave a brief nod. "Okay, but I’ll go first, deal?"

He managed to squeeze himself through a gap in the seats, then reached through to help Buffy, as she wriggled after him. He kept hold of her as he let his eyesight adjust to the darkness. It didn’t look like a plane any more and he didn’t want her stumbling over any of the bodies.

"Stay with me Buffy." He slipped his hand in hers and looked around. He’d already seen them. The two nuns, the business man in a crushed heap to one side of them. No sign of the pilots. No sign of the cockpit. All that was left was a tangle of metal and a gaping hole. He pushed Buffy behind him to stop her falling through it. Spotted the air hostess at the same time as she did. Felt her hand tighten in his, heard her sharp intake of breath.

"Go back. Buffy." He urged her back towards the gap, and breathed a sigh of relief when she went, He knew what she must be feeling. Had felt it himself, a long time ago. That feeling of disbelief, that what you’re seeing can’t be real. He wasn’t worried about the dead. They were beyond anyone’s help. But he’d been hoping that the radio might still be intact. There was a chance the homing beacon would work, but he’d have preferred a working radio.

He checked the bodies mechanically, wondering where the pilots were. Knowing that they needed to get the dead away from the plane before they attracted any wild animals. Then he squeezed back through the gap to Buffy.

She was watching for him anxiously and moved tentatively towards him as he re-appeared. He shook his head in response to her unanswered question, watching her face crumple a little as she fought back the tears. And he envied her the compassion that she was able to feel for complete strangers, while he was struggling to feel anything at all. He only knew that he needed to keep this beautiful, brave, girl safe, but beyond that there was nothing. Right now she was all he had, his only reason to be here at all. And she had no idea how much he needed her.

-----------------------------

Buffy didn’t cry, because she knew that if she started again, she’d never be able to stop. There weren’t enough tears for what she’d seen in there. Spike was right, she shouldn’t have looked, but in a way she was glad she had. She’d only have spent the next few days fretting that maybe one of them was alive after all. And Spike had pulled his sling off, so she busied herself with the mundane, because that other thing was too much to comprehend. She clicked her tongue like you would to a naughty child and reached for the sling, pulling it back into place.

"Now look what you’ve done, after all my hard work."

She fretted over him, and he let her, seeming to know that she needed to anchor herself somehow. Needed to feel something warm and real, not cold and dead like the others around them. She smoothed the sling back in place, then her hands were moving of their own accord, across his chest, gliding over the smooth cotton of his tee shirt, feeling his muscles twitch beneath them. They didn’t look like they were hers. <i>She</i> wasn’t doing this.

Then why could she feel him, warm and hard beneath her fingers? She watched in fascination as her hands moved and only now was it really sinking in.

"We’re alive, Spike."

"Yes."

It was a simple statement of fact, but it summed everything up beautifully. They'd both survived. Luck, or destiny? Who knew? Who cared? The two of them were here, and the others weren't. Buffy thought she'd been alive before, but she was only just realising what being alive really meant. How it really felt.

His hand was making it’s way up the side of her arm, leaving a fiery trail where it touched. She leaned into it as he reached her shoulder, his thumb making little circular movements as it lingered there. She could feel his laboured breathing under her hands as they rose and fell where <i>they </i>touched <i>him.</i> Proof that she wasn’t imagining this, that he really was alive. Which meant that she was, because how could she be feeling this if she was dead?

She let her head drop to his chest and listened to the steady thudding of his heart, and she realised that normal rules didn’t apply any more. There was a dead body just a few feet away and all she could think of was how he felt, and how he was making her feel as his hand moved over her skin. She breathed in the tangy smell of his sweat-stained tee shirt and knew that if he made a move, she’d let him do anything he wanted. And not just because she needed to feel something. She shivered as the thought crossed her mind. This was a dangerous attraction.

------------------------------

As soon as she touched him, Spike felt himself hit by such a feeling of pure unadulterated lust, that it nearly floored him. When she'd fixed his arm, it had been vaguely erotic. Little pulses of feeling. Drowsily relaxing. Her nearness, the way her fingers fluttered over his skin, her smell. They worked on his senses in a pleasurable, controllable way. But this? The force of it slammed him in the gut, and he wanted to have her, right there and then. In the aisle, with the dead body right next to them, hard and fast. He wanted to hear her scream his name. And it would be good, something they both needed, and something they'd both probably regret like hell.

Her skin felt deliciously soft as his hand worked it’s way up her arm. It had no business being there, doing that, but she wasn't stopping him. He could feel her skin tingling under his fingers, as they moved towards the curve of her shoulder, working their way under the thin straps of her top. And he caressed her slowly, deliberately, proving to himself that he did still have control. That he could resist this wild, primitive feeling as long as he had to. But as she laid her head against his chest, he knew that the inevitable was going to happen. It wasn't arrogance, or ego talking. He just knew that when they finally said goodbye he would never know another woman like this one.

His hand dropped to the middle of her back and he pulled her close to him.
Why couldn't he have met her before? She might have saved him. He rubbed his cheek in her hair as her hands slipped around his back.

She might still.

---------------------------

"What happens now Spike?"

Buffy leaned back so that she could look into his face, but her hands stayed where they were, lightly resting on his hips. Every moment that passed brought a new realisation of the danger they were in, and she needed this comfort. This reassurance that he was offering her so freely. It was weird. He made a circle of safety with his arms, and she just stepped right into it. And she’d fixed his sling and worried about him without hesitation. Would she have been feeling like this if it had been the policeman that had survived and Spike had died? She felt sorry for all the dead, and would have helped them without hesitation, but there wouldn’t have been this. This was more than just two people thrown together in a dangerous situation. It had to be. She’d known him a couple of hours, and she felt as if she’d been in his arms a lifetime. Just felt like she belonged there.

As he looked down at her, she caught a momentary flash of something in his eyes. It was there for just a split second before he masked it off, but it was enough to make her breath catch in her throat, and her hands grip at his hips. God, he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

Why not give in to it? No-one would know. But she’d remember. Every last detail would be etched on her mind for the rest of her life and she’d never be the same again. Whatever happened, they weren’t going to be together. Better to step away now, because if she was going to persuade him to run, then she had to be detached. She couldn’t let emotion cloud the issue for her, or him.

She let go of him and stepped back, watching him narrow his eyes, as she moved away.

He gave a small nod of understanding. "Reckon we need to move him."

She hugged her arms around herself as he walked over to the body and pulled open the policeman’s jacket. A small feeling of panic welled up inside her as he stripped him of his personal possessions. Wallet, watch, ring, was he stealing them? Had she been wrong about him after all? He held them out to her.

"Find a bag or something to keep these in. Gonna need them for ID."

She hesitated for a moment before taking them, relief filtering through the panic. Of course, the next of kin would want the things back, needed to know that their loved ones really had been in the plane.

"There’s a carrier bag in my carry-on." She accepted the things, thinking that they looked sad sitting there in her hands. These few things that said nothing about who you were. "Do you need to get the rest?"

"In a bit." Spike had hold of the body, rolling it onto the floor and dragging it awkwardly, with his good arm, the few feet to the emergency exit. He struggled with the opener for a few moments then pushed at the door with his shoulder. It gave with sharp crack and he unceremoniously rolled the body over the edge, letting the door close again under it’s own momentum.

There was a soft thud as it hit the ground, and Buffy looked away because she didn’t want Spike to see the look of horror on her face. How could he do that in such a cold, disrespectful manner? It was a human being, probably someone’s husband, father, and he was being treated like no more than a sack of potatoes.

When she turned back, Spike was wiping his hands on the seat. He caught her expression, she hadn’t been able to mask it.

"Sorry Buffy, needed doing." He continued wiping his hands, his face impassive. "He’s dead, and he’ll attract flies, or maybe something bigger." He turned to face her. "Trust me on this, I know what I’m doing."

She could tell that much. All this death and gore didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. Just how did you get to the stage where none of this touched you? The front of his tee shirt, and the sling were streaked with blood. It made her feel sick.

"You’ve got blood all over you." She pointed to his chest, remembering how she’d touched it. Shuddering at the thought of touching it now.

He grabbed the bottom of his tee shirt, looked at it, and pulled a face. "Need to get this off, I reckon. Would you?" He looked at her almost apologetically, as he asked for her help.

And her fingers were trembling as she stepped forward. Whether from the thought of touching him again, or because of what she’d just seen, she wasn’t sure. Maybe both, she thought, wondering how she was going to get it off him without hurting his arm. Slipping it off his good arm was no problem, but getting it past the sling was another matter. And he was ticklish. The last thing she expected was to hear the giggle that escaped him as her hands brushed up his side. Such a strange sound to be coming out of him. She looked at him in astonishment, and she couldn’t resist it. Her hand went back to his side and sure enough, there it was again, along with a wriggle of his hips as he tried to evade her.

"Hey, cut that out." He didn’t look as if he meant it. Almost looked as if he was daring her to do it again.

She moved her hand towards him, then moved it away quickly, smiling at the way she’d made him flinch. It was totally inappropriate behaviour for two people who, only a few moments ago, had been preoccupied with dumping a dead body out of the door of a crashed plane. Or for two people who were becoming more and more attracted to each other with every moment that passed. But the rules didn’t apply any more. The dead policeman was already out of her mind as she pulled the tee shirt over Spike’s head, and pondered how she was going to get it past the sling.

It took quite a bit of manoeuvring, and touching, and meaningful glances before she finally got it off. He gave a small groan of pain, then a look of approval as she slipped it down his broken arm, bunched it up, and threw it out of the window. And then he was standing in front of her looking exactly like she’d imagined he’d look without a shirt on, and they were both back to square one. The breathing, the racing heart. It was all happening again. Buffy forced herself to look away and knelt down, groping for her carry-on. She rummaged inside and brought out a multi-coloured, oversized tee shirt with Tropicana emblazoned on the front of it. She stood up again and held it against her, her eyebrows raised. The look on his face was priceless.

"I am not wearing that. No way." He tried to back away, but the seat stopped him. "Look, I’m okay without a shirt. It’s hardly cold."

"Don’t be such a baby," She threaded her hand through the neck of it and moved towards him. "Get your head in there, will you."

"Don’t see why I have to wear it." He was actually pouting. His bottom lip was definitely sticking out in a defiant manner.

What could she say? I need you to put this on because the sight of your bare chest just makes me want to throw myself at you? Because those rippling muscles are doing funny things to my insides and I just want to start touching you and never stop? Hardly.

She blew out a long breath. "Just get it on will you? Believe me, you need this on."

She wasn’t sure if he’d caught her meaning but he relented and bowed his head so she could slip it over. It was slightly easier to get it on than the other had been to get off because it was a lot baggier, but the ritual was the same. Lots of touching and heat. She was so hot when she’d finished that she felt as if her cheeks were on fire.

It was a good job that he looked utterly ridiculous in it because that broke the tension. As she tried to stifle the laughter that was going to come out anyway, she realised that it just didn’t make him look silly. It made him look normal. Just like another tourist. If he’d wanted to disappear, he could have done it. Then why was he at the Tropicana dressed in that black get up? Advertising to the world that he was there? The black didn't look like a costume or a disguise. It looked like him.

He'd wanted to be caught. But why?

Oddly enough, the thing that freaked Buffy out more than anything that had happened so far was finding the gun. She was returning from the galley with a tray of food that she reckoned they ought to eat up or it would go bad in the heat, when a can of cola rolled off the tray, and went under the seat near to the emergency exit. She put down the tray, crouched down to look under the seat, and there it was, staring her in the face. She sat back on her heels, the can of cola forgotten, and then looked to the front of the plane.

Spike had gone to sort out the other passengers. She hadn’t asked him what he meant by that, only knew that she didn’t want anything to do with it. Funny how they’d already resorted to primal roles. She was preparing food, while he was dumping bodies. What was he going to say when he squeezed back through that gap? ‘Honey, I’m home?’ She’d thought it couldn’t get any weirder until she saw that gun.

It wasn’t so much the gun itself, as much as the fact that Spike had hidden it and not told her about it. It had to have come from the policeman, and Spike was the only one who could have put it there. She flicked another glance to the front of the plane before reaching towards it with trembling fingers. It was a kind of morbid fascination. She'd never handled a gun before, but she'd always wanted to. And it felt strange as she weighed it in her hand. Something else totally outside her range of experience. Was it loaded? How did you tell? She turned it in her hand and slipped her finger gently behind the trigger. Would she be ever be able to kill something or someone, if she had to? All it took was a small squeeze, and you could kill someone with no effort at all. She shivered at the thought, knowing for certain that she could never do that. How did they do it? Bring your other hand up, brace your arms straight, then sight along the barrel. Bang, you’re dead.

And people used guns to kill themselves didn’t they? If Buffy was certain of anything, it was the fact that there was always hope. Or there should be. She lifted the gun towards her head. How could anyone do this? Take their own life? She couldn't imagine anyone getting to the stage where they'd want to do anything so horrible. Just pretending made her feel slightly queasy.

Suddenly a strong hand grabbed her wrist and her arm was twisted behind her back. The momentum threw her face first against the seat, and as she felt the gun slip from her grip to the floor, she heard Spike’s angry voice.

"What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?"

><><><><><><

Spike had just finished dumping the bodies over the front of the plane, collecting up personal possessions and bagging them up. Seemed right to do so, despite the fact that he didn’t really care about any of them. The businessman had a very large amount of cash, and a pocket full of condoms. The nuns had a cross and a ring each and not much else. The hostess a few items of jewellery. He peered over the edge where he’d dumped them all. Still no sign of the pilots.

Then he’d squeezed back through the gap and seen Buffy with the gun. Kneeling down and waving it about like she had no idea what it was capable of. Pointing it at her head. And he immediately flashed back to a hotel room in Thailand. To someone else who’d wanted to kill himself, but had been too cowardly to do it. Someone who dispensed death without so much as a backward glance, until that day when he just couldn’t do it any more. Not even to himself.

He pressed her face into the seat as he shook her hand, getting her to release the gun. Didn’t she know how easily these things went off? He hadn’t checked it, but it had to be loaded. And the safety catch? Didn’t know if it was off or on. Or had she really been trying to kill herself? It didn’t make any sense.

She gave a muffled whimper and he realised that he was holding her too hard, pressing her too roughly into the seat. And he was still angry. Angry at what he’d seen her do, and angry at himself for showing her a side of him that he hadn’t wanted her to see. She hadn’t even heard him coming. He was still that good.

"Buffy?" He slowly released the pressure on her arm, turning her to face him. Her eyes were huge as she looked at him, and there was fear and shock there, and his heart sank as he searched for words to explain why he’d reacted as he had. He still had hold of her hand, because he knew that if he let go she was going to get up and run. There wasn’t anywhere to run to, but she looked as if she wanted to be as far away from him as possible.

He closed his eyes, and took a few breaths to try and calm himself.

"Buffy, love, what were you doing?"

She just kept on staring at him, as if he’d turned into a monster. He tried again. "Buffy, what were you doing? Half scared me to death love."

She shook her head a little. At least it was a reaction. He leaned down and looked right into her face. "Don’t ever mess with a gun like that again. You had your finger on the trigger, for god’s sake."

She was still trying to talk, her mouth opening and closing. The words making no sense. Looking at the gun, then looking at him.

"I wasn’t, I didn’t... I was just playing...Spike?"

And his anger began to turn to relief. He’d seen someone accidentally shoot themselves. It happened in a heartbeat, one minute you were messing about, laughing, joking. The next you were stone dead. Like she could be right now. They hadn’t survived this for him to lose her before... Before what? He continued to stare at her frightened eyes, her mouth. Then he let go of her hand and brought his to the side of her face. He wrapped it around her cheek and brought her face slowly towards his. Watched the expression in her eyes change from fear, to something else. A question. Then acceptance.

He really wanted to kiss her. And why not? She wouldn’t stop him, he didn’t have to be a genius to figure that one out. He could feel her shaking with the shock of it all. They both had a bucket load of tension to work off, and it was only going to get worse. And he knew that one kiss wouldn’t be enough. Would she want him to stop? Would he be able to? He’d already told himself it was going to happen, so what was with the noble crap, all of a sudden?

Because, afterwards, when she’d calmed down and started seeing things a bit more rationally she’d say he’d taken advantage of her. And she’d be right.

He let his hand move into her hair and wound it round his fingers, then he rested his cheek against hers. She tried to turn her face to him, but he held her firm.

"I’m sorry, Buffy."

"No, no, it was me, I was being stupid. Spike?"

He could tell that she couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t let her kiss him, so he let go of her and sat back on his heels. "I didn’t mean to scare you."

"I know." She looked slightly dazed by what had happened, and confused by what hadn’t happened. "I didn’t even hear you coming. You moved like..."

It wasn’t a question, but he knew she wanted an answer. What the hell did he tell her? She was still looking at him. Expectantly, warily. She wanted an answer, but she didn’t look as if she was expecting to like what she heard.

Spike sighed and reached over for the tray of food. He placed it between them, then twisted round to sit more comfortably. "Looks like I got me a dinner date." He picked up a vacuum packed sandwich and began to unwrap it, offering her one. "Okay, what do you want to know?"

><><><><><><

Buffy accepted the sandwich and took a bite. He’d come out of nowhere. And the way he’d pinned her to the seat, and held her there. Well, he’d definitely done that move before. She was no match for his strength, but she was no weakling either, yet she hadn’t even been able to struggle. And he’d only had to use one arm. Whatever he was, he was good at it, and whatever he told her, she was certain it wasn’t going to include teddy bears and pressed flowers. She chewed on her sandwich, avoiding his gaze as she pondered whether she really wanted to know.

"I enjoy myself for a living." She reached for the canned drink and popped the tab. "Must have the best job on earth." She took a swig from the can, then offered it to him. Perhaps he’d open up if she told him about herself. She didn’t know what to ask him. What did she say? Are you a serial killer? And what if he said yes?

"The only downside is that I’m afraid of flying, which you probably noticed. I always thought the plane would crash, and I was right, wasn’t I?" That got a small smile from him. Why hadn’t he let her kiss him? He must have known she wanted to. "Do you like flying?"

"Never really bothered me." He took the can and tipped his head back for a drink. The gun still lay on the floor where it had landed, but she knew he hadn’t forgotten about it.

There were a few moments of silence as they both chewed on their food. He wasn’t picking it up, and she was usually so good at this. Getting people to open up, tell her what they really thought about things was her job. He was English. So ask him where he’s from, that’s always a good one. She opened her mouth, but he got in before her.

"I used to kill people for the British Government."

He said it with no emotion. Said it, then continued eating his sandwich, as if he’d just made a comment about the weather.

"Oh." It was all she could think of to say, and she was never stuck for words. But then, no-one had ever told her anything like that before. Then, before she could stop herself she was asking him if he enjoyed his job. What a stupid thing to say. She squeezed her eyes shut, cringing inwardly, then opened them slowly.

He gave a sharp laugh, contemplated the remains of his sandwich, then looked at her.

"What would you say if I said yes?"

Her mouth had dropped open a little, and it didn’t seem to want to close. She really didn’t like what she was hearing. It didn’t fit with the image she’d built of him in her mind, at all.

"I’d say, how could you?" At least they were having the conversation now. She wouldn’t have to spend the next few days wondering. Perhaps that’s why he hadn’t let her kiss him, or tried to kiss her. Because he knew that when she found out what or who he was, she’d regret it. Feel contaminated by it. Wish that she hadn’t.

"Easy. Yeah, I enjoyed it, at first. They picked me out, you know - of the military. Said I had potential. Fuck, I proved them right." He shook his head as he said it, as if remembering.

"At first?" Buffy reached for another sandwich, but suddenly she wasn’t hungry any more A knot of tension was growing in her stomach, making her feel slightly queasy. She’d been wrong when she’d thought the gun was the strangest thing that was going to happen. Okay, so she thought he must have done something bad to be in those handcuffs, but part of her had really hoped it had been embezzlement or tax evasion, or something safe. She hadn’t expected to hear this. And yet, looking at him now, what he was saying wasn’t surprising at all.

"You said, at first," she prompted.

"Yeah, I was a regular 007. Licensed to kill and all. Adventure, glamorous women. That’s how I met my wife."

Wife? That was something else she hadn’t been expecting. And something she hadn’t wanted to hear.

He acknowledged her look of surprise. "Yeah, wife. Didn’t last long though. She’s dead. That’s what this is all about."

"You killed her?" Her voice came out as a bare whisper. Please don’t say you killed her.

"No, they say I did. But I didn’t. Do you believe me?"

"I don’t know." Buffy searched his face for evidence that he was telling the truth. How did she know if she could believe him, or not? Just because she was attracted to him didn’t mean he was safe to be around. Women formed attractions for killers didn’t they? Wrote them letters in prison. Morbid fascination, that’s what it was. How did she know she wasn’t doing the same? He was attractive, strong. Radiated sexual magnetism like no-one else she’d ever known. She wanted to believe him, and give him his due, he hadn’t done anything to make her think otherwise.

"Why didn’t you let me kiss you just now, Spike?"

He looked slightly confused at her answer. "Buffy..."

"Was it because you thought I’d regret doing it once I found out about you?"

"I suppose so." He picked up the can again and stared at it. "How would you have felt knowing you’d kissed a killer?"

"I won’t know that until I try it."

He snapped his head up. "Buffy, what are you saying?"

"I’m saying that if I have nothing to fear from you, then you can kiss me right? You didn’t kill your wife, then prove it to me. You don’t like killing any more, then show me. Make me know that I won’t have anything to regret."

He wasn’t moving, just continued to stare at her with narrowed eyes, as if trying to make her out. It was insane logic, but this was an insane situation. She was trapped in the middle of nowhere with a killer. And she didn’t feel the slightest bit afraid of him. She half tried to convince herself that she was doing this for him. To show him that she trusted him, but that wasn’t the only reason. She really, really wanted him to kiss her. Was still tingling with the anticipation of the nearly-kiss, and she had so many emotions and feelings running rampant inside her that if they didn’t do something soon she was going to explode.

She knelt up, and pushed the tray out of the way. "Well?" She wasn’t a shrinking violet when it came to men, but her knees were trembling slightly as she waited. And was this really going to prove anything other than they were both horny as hell?

She breathed an inward sigh of relief as he made his decision and dipped his head towards hers. And it wasn’t anything like she’d expected. Instead of a dam-breaking, passionate torrent of a kiss, he gave her the sweetest, most heartbreaking kiss she’d ever experienced. Just a feather-light touch of his lips, and the words "I will never hurt you," whispered so quietly against her cheek that she thought she’d dreamed them. And when he sat back, he looked so sad that she thought he was going to cry.

"Spike, don’t." She scooted towards him and gathered him up against her, feeling no resistance as he sank his head against her shoulder and slipped his good arm around her back. He needed this more than she did, she realised. And she’d been dumping it all on him, expecting him to look after her, because he was a big strong man, and she was a woman.

He was tired. And not just physically. She could feel it in the way he was holding her. Almost like a child when it needed reassurance that everything was going to be okay. She couldn’t give him that. Had no idea what the future held for him. But she could give him this.

"I’d trust you with my life, Spike." Her fingers threaded into his hair and she stroked through it soothingly. He gave no indication that he’d heard her, just continued to hold her.

"You rest, Spike. That’s what you need. Just for tonight, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s just you and me, and nothing else." She sank back against the side of the seat, letting his weight fall on her, and carried on stroking his hair. "I’ve got you Spike, I’ve got you."

Buffy simply held him, and all the while Spike hardly moved except to breathe. She kept up her slow, steady, caress of his hair, his shoulders and back, and she felt him relaxing so much that she thought he’d gone to sleep.

It was starting to get dark, and the jungle seemed to be coming alive with noises. It didn’t worry her too much, she was used to exotic locations, and to the heat, but she really could have done with a shower right now. She thought with longing about peeling off her sweat-stained clothes and stepping under a cool jet of water. Soaping her body, shampooing her hair, rinsing it all off. It had only been this morning, but she couldn’t remember what if felt like to be fresh and clean.

Spike was practically stuck to her. There seemed to be a pool of liquid heat between their bodies where they touched, and he didn’t smell any better than she did. It wasn’t a complete turn off though, which she found surprising, because she’d always been so fastidious about bodily odours. In fact they both smelled like a couple who’d just had sex on a very hot day, only without the sex.

She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, remembering the last man she’d been in that position with. Poor Riley. He just hadn’t been able to understand why she couldn’t love him the way he’d said he loved her. She’d tried. She really had, but there was just something missing. Something she hadn’t been able to put her finger on until now, she realised. She’d been with Riley for over a year before they’d reluctantly called it a day, and she’d never felt anything remotely like this. Spike called to her on a level she never knew existed, had done since the first time he’d looked at her just a few hours ago. Everything about him seemed to go straight to some sensitive part of her, and set it on fire. His voice, the touch of his hand on her face, his lips brushing across hers. She shivered just thinking about it.

And the way he trusted her enough to just lie quietly in her arms and let her give him comfort. It was a great compliment, she thought. For some reason, men always seemed to think that she needed looking after. Riley had been forever with the macho-trip, never even letting her drive when they went out. And he was always sweeping her off her feet in some mistaken belief that women liked being carried. She had enjoyed it once or twice, but after a while, all it did was make her feel powerless. She wanted to be swept off her feet by a man who couldn’t help himself, not by one who thought she was too incompetent to walk. Okay, so she’d watched Gone With The Wind once too often, but Riley had never once carried her to bed.

She lifted the hem of her top and flapped it up and down a few times, trying to cool herself, and wondered if Spike had ever carried a woman to bed. Guessing with a smile that he might have. Then he started to stir, rolling his shoulders and lifting his head to look at her drowsily, and a little sheepishly.

"That was nice." His voice had a slightly sleep-roughened edge to it, even though she was sure he hadn’t been asleep. He pushed himself up using his good arm, grimacing a bit as he adjusted the position of his broken arm, and then leaned back against the seat beside her.

"Thank you." He said it very quietly, a slight tinge of self-consciousness in his voice as he stared down at his feet.

They both sat quietly for a few moment, neither of them seeming to know what to do next. Buffy stretched her arms above her head, working out the kinks, needing to do something to fill the slightly awkward beat between being so intimate, and then suddenly not being. Even though his closeness had been making her body overheat, the loss of contact was startling. She would have stayed like that forever if he’d asked her to. She wanted to reach out and pull him back, needed to make the most of this time together, because soon he would be gone and she probably wouldn’t ever see him again. But all she heard herself saying was, "You’re welcome, Spike." And god, that sounded awful, why had she gone so formal all of a sudden?

He turned his face to hers. A small smile on his lips, as if he understood what she was feeling. "Need to go to the bathroom?"

"Yeah. We can’t use that one, I suppose." She indicated to the back of the plane and Spike shook his head.

"Strictly outdoor plumbing." He pushed himself to his feet, shoved the gun back under the seat with the toe of his boot, then stretched out a hand to her. She let him haul her up, and then he turned and struggled with the door catch for a moment, not seeming to be able to open it as easily as he had earlier on, so she stepped in and helped him.

Together they managed to open the door, the activity smoothing the transition from intimacy to more practical matters, but it was quite a drop to the ground. She stared down in dismay. If they jumped out, she wouldn’t be able to get back in and Spike probably wouldn’t either. Not with his broken arm.

"We need a step." He was looking around for something loose that could be used when she had a brain-wave.

"In the galley, there’s one of those food boxes." She rushed back and hauled it out, then he helped her to push it over the side. It still didn’t look high enough.

"It’ll have to do." He nodded at her. "You want to go first? Then if it’s too low I can pull you back in."

"Okay." It was nice that he wasn’t insisting on going first, but she was a bit dubious about what was out there. The noises hadn’t bothered her when she was in the plane with Spike wrapped around her, but there could be anything lurking in those trees. And the body of the policeman, it would be there too. She looked back at him and he squeezed her arm.

"It’s alright love, I’ll be right behind you. You can do it."

"Okay, Spike." The word love rolled off his tongue so easily. She understood that it was probably just an endearment that he used all the time, but it made her feel good all the same. She took a breath and sat down at the edge of the opening, then she swung herself round and paddled her feet until she felt the box beneath them. She lowered herself and hopped off onto the ground, then stumbled sideways and nearly stepped on the body that was lying there. For a few seconds she just stared at it, unable to tear her eyes away from the horror. And it was horrible. The flesh was already being rabidly consumed by a whole host of creepy, crawly creatures that swarmed over him in a frenzy. She felt the panic rising and knew she was going to scream. Tried to stop it by shoving her fist in her mouth. Ordered herself to look away, but she couldn’t. That could have been her lying there with ants crawling out of her mouth, her eyes.

Then she was aware of Spike jumping down, and his arm was around her, pulling her away, shoving her face against his chest so she couldn’t see it any more. And she breathed against him, grabbing handfuls of his tee shirt and twisting them round as the panic subsided.

He looked down at her, concern in his eyes, and she let go and held her hands up. "I’m okay, I’m okay." She got herself under control and blew out a breath, running shaky fingers through her hair. "God, that was gruesome."

"It’s not nice." Spike steered her away from the body. "You sure you’re okay?"

"Yeah, starting to get used to it, I think." She wasn’t really. The blood was still coursing through her system, every nerve ending on edge. All she needed now was to meet a snake or something, and she was going to run around screaming, and flapping her arms above her head like everyone’s stereotype, hysterical female. The thought made her smile and when Spike saw it he gave her an encouraging hug.

"You’re a good girl, Buffy."

"I’m not a girl, Spike, or hadn’t you noticed?"

"Oh, I’ve noticed. Which tree do you want?"

"The one with hot and cold running water, the flushing toilet and the hot tub."

"That’ll be that one then." He pointed to the left. "I’ll have the one with the marble bath and the gold taps. Be quick."

Buffy briefly hugged him back before letting go of him. "Now you’re getting it, Spike."

><><><><><><

For a moment while she’d held him, Spike thought he had died in the plane crash after all, and inexplicably, he’d gone to heaven, instead of the hell he was expecting. As he’d rested against Buffy’s soft breasts and felt all his earthly cares slipping away, he couldn’t imagine that he was anywhere else. Every stroke of her hand lifted another bit of the burden he’d been carrying around for so long, and he just wanted to stay like that for the eternity that it would take to lift them all.

He’d taken what she was offering, because at that precise moment she had strength to spare and she’d offered it so willingly that he couldn’t refuse. Up till this morning just getting through the day had taken every ounce of his willpower, and he’d been that lost in despair that he’d practically walked into the police station by himself. But now he had Buffy in his life and that gave him a reason to go on, for the next few days at least, and it made him feel stronger than he had for a long time.

What they were doing now had been her idea. Not that he needed any encouragement to hit the bottle, but she’d been in a strange, restless mood since they’d got back into the plane. Pacing up and down the aisle, tapping her foot, unable to sit still. Then she’d spotted the drinks trolley and a look of almost childlike glee had crossed her face as she’d started to sort through the drawers and compartments.

He picked up the whiskey bottle and poured himself a generous glassful, while he surreptitiously studied her as she knelt at his feet. She seemed to understand him on some instinctive level that he couldn’t fathom. She didn’t even know him, and he didn’t know her, yet they fit together perfectly. A more obvious example of that analogy popped into his mind. Yes, they would fit together perfectly doing that too, and that was the complicated bit, wasn’t it?

"What can I get you?" She looked up at him, her smile a little too forced, her voice a bit too jolly.

He held up his glass and she pulled a face. "Boring. I’m going to try everyone of these. Let’s see, Blue Lagoon, Pina Colada - are you sure you don’t want one?"

"No, I’m a straight whiskey man, with the occasional gin and tonic thrown in."

"I could get you one. Do you want one, because I could...?"

"I’ll stick to this, thanks." Spike picked up the whiskey bottle, tucked it under his arm, then picked up the whiskey he’d just poured. "So where’s the party?"

Buffy got to her feet, balancing her cans of cocktails in the crook of her arm, a glass in the other. "Not much room for dancing, is there? How about we set up shop here?" She pointed to the pair of double seats at the very back of the plane that were facing each other. "Looks like the most comfortable place. Wait. We need snacks."

Spike sat himself down while Buffy scuttled back to the trolley and sorted out some bags of peanuts and chips. There was even a small jar of olives, which she held up triumphantly. "Hey, now we just need some music."

He took a big swig of whiskey, welcoming the fiery trail it left in his throat as it went down, and gave a small laugh. "You’re crazy, do you know that?"

"I’ve been told more than once." Buffy slipped into the seat opposite him, and threw him a bag of nuts. It hit him squarely on the head, unable as he was to fend it off without spilling the whiskey he was holding.

"Hey, what’s with you all of a sudden? You found some happy pills?"

She popped the tab on the can she was holding. "No. Just an extreme reaction to an extreme situation." She planted her feet on the seat next to him, and virtually downed her cocktail in one. "I don’t know, I just feel very silly all of a sudden."

Spike smiled to himself, understanding perfectly what she was feeling. He could see her swinging between despair and elation as she tried to make sense of the situation they were in, and right now she was definitely on an ‘up.’ Putting on a brave face, bravado, whatever you wanted to call it.

And then there was the kiss. He’d felt her disappointment as he’d pulled back, but then wasn’t the time to do what he’d really wanted to do, which was to kiss her senseless so that she’d put up no resistance when he made love to her. It would have been cheating, somehow, and he still didn’t know whether there was any more to it than her just feeling sorry for him.

He shook his head. Might as well join her. Here there was nowhere to run and no-one to run from. They could just be themselves. He almost found himself wishing that they did have some music so that he could dance with her, and he was definitely feeling more peaceful and relaxed than a man in his situation should be. That would be her too. The way she’d held him and just let him be had been exactly what he needed and for the first time in what seemed like an age, he let a small spark of hope ignite somewhere in the back of his mind.

Why this, why now? Of all the bizarre twists and turns of the last few years, this was the one that had made him stop and think. It was almost like an unseen hand had grabbed him by the collar, swung him around and set him down on a completely different path. The question was, what did he do next? He knew what he wanted to do, and he knew what he ought to do. He just didn’t know which was the right one to choose.

><><><><><><

Buffy popped another can, and took a big swig, grateful for the temporary high the alcohol was giving her. She knew that another one would probably send her to sleep, but Spike was smiling indulgently at her and she liked seeing him smile, so she wriggled her toes and wiggled her shoulders, then pulled a face as she caught a whiff of how awful she smelled. He laughed this time, and she felt a warm feeling deep inside her. Laughter was good medicine, and something, she suspected, he hadn’t done a lot of in the last few years. She kicked off her sandals and her foot came to rest beside his thigh. She let it stay there, needing the contact, then with a devilish grin she slid it up his side and tickled him with her toes.

He spluttered and nearly dropped his whiskey. Without putting it down he was almost helpless, so she took full advantage and tickled him again. Flirting with him, she realised. Making something happen.

"You little..." He managed to put his glass down and grabbed her foot.

Buffy almost screamed at the look he gave her. She could only just make him out in the dim light but she suddenly knew exactly how a mouse felt just before the cat pounced. She tried to back up in her seat but he had her firm, and there was nowhere to go.

He contemplated the foot, and then stared at her for a few seconds. She stared back, eyes wide, heart racing in anticipation of what he was going to do. She was ticklish too, as she suspected he was about to find out. She braced herself for the assault and thought she might as well cave in to the hysteria that was building as he held her. It would definitely be a release of sorts, something she needed after that kiss. It had been sweet, but frustratingly brief, and it had left her wanting more, but that wasn’t what he’d needed then.

Now, however, was a different matter. She could feel his mood changing.

"Apologise." It was a tone of voice she hadn’t heard him use before, calm, but with a silky, deadly edge, and a brief shiver rippled through her.

Buffy stuck her tongue out defiantly at him. "No." Then she felt herself sliding down the seat as he hauled her towards him and she let out a small shriek. "I’m not ticklish, Spike," she managed to gasp out, and as she slid forward, her skirt went the other way and hiked itself practically up to her waist. She gave it a token pull down, knowing that he was looking at her exposed thighs, and that she was moving them in a way that would make him want to look.

Just at that moment, it was almost comical. Him holding her by her foot, her lying practically at his. She wasn’t sure how much he could see of her as darkness was falling rapidly now, but she could feel it coming off him in waves. The sexual predator and the prey. Only she wasn’t sure which of them was which. Every time she wriggled her legs, his grip on her foot tightened and his breathing became a little more uneven. And it was rapidly getting to the stage where neither of them were going to want to stop.

><><><><><><

Spike narrowed his eyes, trying to focus on those gorgeous legs of hers, because right now, she didn’t look, or feel, the slightest bit like she felt sorry for him. She was practically inviting him to look, but it was getting too dark to see properly. He could just make out the flash of white that were her panties, which she was making no effort to cover up, and the sight of them made him hot and hard. She wriggled again, reminding him that he still had hold of her foot, and that she hadn’t apologised for tickling him, so he ran his thumb lightly across the arch, causing her to bow off the seat in an explosive giggle.

"’Are you going to apologise, then?"

"No."

She certainly had spirit. Knowing what he was - a cold blooded killer, and still letting him do this to her. For a moment, he found her trust in him so touching that it almost disarmed him. But not quite. She’d issued a challenge and he wasn’t one to back down.

"You’re asking for it, Buffy."

"I know."

There was no hesitation in her voice, nothing but a simple honesty. She’d caught the double meaning, and she was telling him what she wanted. What they both wanted.

So this was it. The point of no return. The mood shifting subtly from playful banter to one of surrender to the inevitable.

He heard her quiet sigh as he dropped his lips to her ankle, his tongue tracing a wet trail along her calf, and when he couldn’t go any further, he slid out of his seat so that he was on his knees in front of her, pushing her thighs apart so that he could continue kissing and lapping at her salty flesh. His hand followed where his mouth and tongue had been, and all the while, she was so still, and so quiet, that he thought that she’d stopped breathing, almost as if she didn’t want to break the spell that they were both now under.

He stopped what he was doing and knelt up, groping for her in the darkness. She caught him by his broken arm, but he bit back the pain as his mouth found hers in a slow, dreamy, kiss that just seemed to go on and on. Mouths melting into each other, tongues leisurely exploring, as if they had all the time in the world. He wanted to go slow and savour every inch of her, but he already knew that if he made love to her all night, it still wouldn’t be enough.

"Buffy, love." He whispered it against her mouth. "This is going to lead to nothing but heartache."

"If you’re gonna break my heart Spike, then I’d rather you did it this way." Buffy renewed the kiss, more desperate now, pulling him to her hungrily, and he gave back with the same desperation, knowing that he was going to regret this, because once he’d done it, he’d never, ever forget her.

"Me too," he managed shakily, feeling her hands pushing his head down to finish what he’d started. He lowered his mouth to her thighs and continued tasting and kissing her, making her gasp this time as he swirled his tongue over the front of her panties, and reached her most sensitive spot.

If he didn’t do this, then he was going to regret it even more.