6:

~*~

Bloody hell.

How in God’s name was he supposed to concentrate on keeping his hands and his—other parts—to himself when she looked like that?

It was bad enough that she came to the office every day in cute little skirts and tops that he really wanted to take off of her. No, now she had to dress in black from head to toe. And damn, it looked hot.

Her perfectly shaped legs were encased by tight black leather. Her black halter top accentuated her golden skin and brilliantly blonde hair. She was on the dance floor, a good twenty feet away from him, yet he could have sworn he saw the sparkle in her green eyes.

“You’re brooding,” Dawn remarked, staring at him thoughtfully. She was sitting at his table, dangling a straw into her Coke. Dawn was a good sort. She was young, but smart enough so that unless there was alcohol around, he never even noticed the difference in their ages.

“What? I bloody well am not!”

Dawn only cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Dammit, Bit, I’m just sittin’ here!”

“You’re sitting there, nursing a beer and scowling out into the crowd. That’s called brooding.” Dawn followed her friend’s gaze. Understanding came into her face. “Oh, okay. You’re right. You weren’t brooding, you were moping. Sorry I didn’t make the distinction.”

Though her voice was teasing, Spike glared at her balefully. “’M not moping, either.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Dawn raised her voice to a tragic-sounding falsetto. “Oh, poor me, Buffy will never love me because she’s a cop, and she’s supposed to be spying on me, and she’s so beautiful…”

“Y’know, I got the bouncer his job. It’ll be a piece of cake, makin’ him kick you out.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Shutting up.”

“That’s m’ girl.”

“Dork,” Dawn accused. She checked her watch and stood up, sighing. “Damn. I have to get to work.”

“’S too bad you have to work nights,” Spike remarked, still looked out at the dance floor.

“Yeah, ‘cuz in the business I’m in, day work is so likely,” Dawn retorted sarcastically.

“Hey, you never know,” Spike argued.

“Yes, I do. I’ll be working at night till I’m so old I can’t walk, much less service hungry customers.” Dawn pretended to swoon before giving him a wicked grin. “See ya later. And for God’s sake, if you want to dance with her, then just do it! She won’t kill you…well, probably not.”

She was gone before he could think of a snappy comment.

He growled and looked back at the dance floor. Buffy was dancing with some guy, rubbing herself up against him like—bugger! That was Scott Hope she was dancing with!

Enough was enough, he decided, and stood up with new intent. He wasn’t actually planning on dancing with her, just getting Scott out of the way. It wasn’t like he could stay at the Bronze long, anyway. He and Anya had work to do.

He sauntered up to the gyrating pair and tapped Scott on the shoulder. “Mind ‘f I cut in, mate?” he asked, restraining the curse that appeared on the tip of his tongue when he noticed Scott’s hands on Buffy’s waist.

“Well, yes, actually,” Scott replied. “Find someone else to dance with, Jenkins. Someone who doesn’t mind tiny dicks and even smaller minds.” He smiled almost patronizingly at Buffy.

Spike smirked. “Bad move,” he informed Scott.

Buffy stared at her dancing partner, utter fury in her eyes. “OK, I knew I would totally never want to see you again, but you’re a real asshole, did you know?” When he tried to keep holding on to her, she shoved him away.

“But, Buffy—“

“Don’t you even,” she snapped. “I’ll decide who I dance with, you bastard.” And with that, she turned to Spike.

He was almost ready to jump for joy, the display had been that satisfying for him. He smiled at her as she grabbed his shoulders and started to determinedly dance. “Thanks for that, pet,”

“I didn’t do it for you,” she told him. She was still glaring, but at least it was at him, not Scott.

“Yeah, well, ‘m still glad you did. Hope’s a bloody nuisance. Bastard’s an amateur pimp. ‘Ve met more than one girl who’d been victimized by him.” He moved closer, until he could feel her breasts pressing against his chest. God, she felt so good. Small, compact, but curvy in all the right places. She was damn near perfect.

And currently staring at him incredulously. “Oh, come on, you’ve gotta be kidding me. Like you aren’t the same thing. Oh, wait—“ Sarcasm now blanketed her voice—“You’re a professional, aren’t you?”

“What the bleeding hell are you talking about?” Spike stared at her, wide-eyed, completely confused. Was she off her bird, or had she had a bit too much to drink? Yeah, they profited from their kids, but if they didn’t the business would crash. “What’s your problem, Summers?”

She averted her eyes from his. “It’s nothing. Never mind.” She moved slightly closer, and Spike’s whole body clenched. “Let’s just forget about it,” she whispered.

It was a diversionary tactic and he knew it. She was a cop, after all. If anyone knew about lying and distracting people, it would be her. That’s why you were sitting at the table instead of dancing with her, remember? his mind said nastily. Cops are liars and sneaks. Getting involved with a cop means puttin’ up with a bunch of crap. You don’t want that.

But her body was so soft, and she smelled so wonderful—like vanilla and flowers, a perfect combination—that he ignored the diversion, opting instead to pull her still closer and rest his chin on the top of her head. They swayed together, barely moving, soaking in the feel of each other’s bodies, for what felt like an eternity, though he was relatively sure it only lasted for a few minutes.

Then the song ended, and Buffy jumped away like she’d been burned. Spike was rather disappointed she’d cut the contact so soon, but then, she’d probably realized what trouble them getting involved with each other would be.

And at least she was heading back to their table instead of goin’ to dance with that wanker Scott again. That was an improvement.

He was about to follow when a wave of strong, sultry perfume assaulted him, followed by a, “Spike! What the hell’s up with you and B dry-humpin’ on the dance floor?”

He rolled his eyes at Faith. “We weren’t dry-humping, you silly bint,” he said. “’S called dancin’. You should try it.”

“I know what dancing is. That’s not it.” She grinned at him. “Planning on getting some action tonight, stud?”

“Aside from the kind I get at work, no,” Spike replied. He knew that would distract her—and it did.

“So, got a job, huh?” Faith groaned. “Jesus. I shoulda known. You’re a workaholic.”

“As opposed to you, who never work unless there’s a gun to your head.”

Faith grinned at him. “Or somethin’ else…”

“Bloody hell. ‘M not even attracted to her, Faith.”

“Okay, I didn’t finish high school, but even I’m not that dumb,” she said. “You’ve got the hots for B. You might as well say it. Even that bitch Anya figured it out.”

“Hey. Anya’s m’ sister,” he defended her.

“And a pain in the ass.”

“Well, yeah,” Spike admitted. “She is that.”

“Told ya.” Faith eyes him carefully. “Y’know, you’re not gonna get away with changing the subject. You’ve got it bad for Blondie. Admit it.”

Damn. He’d hoped she wouldn’t notice. “Faith, ‘m not gonna tell you anything. There’s nothin’ to tell.”

“And the frickin’ moon’s made of cheese, right? Damn, Spike, just say it.” Faith was clearly starting to grow impatient; she was tapping a pack of cigarettes against her thigh and wore a pissy expression.

“No.” Faith at her most pissed-off was still better than triumphant Faith.

“’Cuz you know it’s true.” Now she looked amused. Shit.

“Bugger it, Faith, could you just let it go already?”

“Hell, no. This is fun.”

“Right, then. I’ll leave.” He turned and walked back over to their group’s table.

“Hey, Spike, why does Faith look like an evil genius?” Xander asked. “She’s smiling. It’s freaking me out.” He gulped when Anya patted his knee sympathetically.

“’Cuz she’s evil an’ she likes to think she’s smart,” Spike grumbled.

“Ooh, poor Spikey,” Buffy said in a falsely sympathetic voice. “Being bullied around by a girl employee.”

She even looked beautiful when she was teasing him! Jesus bleedin’ Christ, this had to stop! He summoned his most formidable glare. “’M not bein’ bullied!”

“Oh my God.” Cordelia rolled her eyes. “You people are so immature.”

“Hey!” The four of them chorused. Cordelia just cocked an eyebrow. “See? Told you.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re much better,” Anya grumbled. “Dressing like a slut just so you can attract an orgasm-buddy when there’s perfectly acceptable ones sitting right here.”

“They’re both taken,” Cordelia told her acidly.

“I’m not taken,” Xander told her eagerly. “I’m big on not being taken!”

Spike sniggered at that, and Cordelia looked him pityingly. “You poor thing. You really are clueless, aren’t you?”

“What the—oh,” Xander said, finally connecting the dots. Anya glared at him and removed her hand.

“Hey, now you’ve hurt ‘m sister. ‘M gonna hafta kick your ass,” Spike informed him with a wicked grin.

“Yes, please do. Rip his penis off. At least then I’ll be able to see it,” Anya said, pouting.

Buffy coughed into her drink. Spike glanced at her. “You okay, pet?”

She waved his concern away. “Fine, fine.”

Xander was protesting Anya’s statement: “Hey, if you wanted to see it, all you had to do was ask!”

“You never want me. I’ve been coming on to you like some kind of slut for months now! I’ve been acting like Faith!” Anya wailed, tears unexpectedly filling her eyes.

“Oh, great.” Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

Anya and Xander ignored them. “Well, how was I supposed to know your slutiness was directed at me?” Xander asked.

“You could have paid one whit of attention to me!” Anya cried. “What does it take with you men? Am I going to have to corner you and get totally naked, or what?”

“Hey, baby, I’m sorry.” Xander patted her back. “Really, I am.”

Spike was highly amused. The whelp and his sister had this sort of conversation at least once a week, and it never failed to give everyone a good laugh. Why the two of them didn’t just shag and get it over with was completely beyond him. He was starting to think the whelp liked seein’ his sister cry.

“Is this…common for them?” Buffy asked, her eyes riveted on the couple.

“Yeah. They go at it on a pretty regular basis. Don’t worry about ‘em. They’ll be snoggin’ ‘fore the night’s up,”

“Is that so?” Buffy sighed and stood up. “Well, the night is up for me. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

What? She was leaving? Spike couldn’t for the life of him have explained the incredible urgency that rose in him. All he knew was that he wasn’t about to just say goodbye right then and there.

So he stood up, too. “I’ll walk you home.”

She stared at him incredulously. He didn’t blame her, actually. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Not this time, pet.” He flashed her a smile he hoped was charming. “So, what d’you say?”

“And again I ask, are you kidding me? You’re being all…gentlemen-ey.” Buffy narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you drunk?”

“Nope. Just wanna walk you home.” Spike was acutely aware of the stares he was garnering from every single member of the table. He was right there with ‘em. Part of his mind was screaming at him to just sit down, but with her all hot and tight in that black leather—well, a fellow had to try, right?

And succeed, for the next words out of her mouth were, “Okay. Fine. But if you try anything, Xander’s dick won’t be the only detached one around here.”

Not exactly gracious, but he’d take what he could get. “Got it.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

He followed her out of the bar, staring at her leather-encased ass. Behind him, four pairs of eyes stared first at the leaving couple, then at each other.

“I think I speak for everyone when I say, huh?” Xander said finally.

“Oh, yeah,” Faith agreed.

*

Buffy glanced at him nervously as they got to the parking lot. “I, um, walked here.”

“Yeah, I noticed you’re allergic to cars. I walked, too.”

She smiled slightly. Just because he was an enemy didn’t mean she couldn’t smile, right? “Bet Anya threw a fit.”

His lips curled up at the corners. Oh, God, he was sexy, especially tonight, with the loose blue shirt over his customary black…arrrg. His hotness was really getting in the way of her stay-away-from-the-evil-crime-lord plans.

“Yeah, she wasn’t too happy,” he said. “Anya’s a nice bird, but she’d a bit spoiled.”

“And blunt.” Criticizing Anya was good. That way she didn’t have to think about just what those lips of his could do. “But then, I guess blunt can be good sometimes.”

“Preachin’ to the choir on that one, luv,” Spike informed her. “’M more blunt than she is, most ‘f the time.”

Oooh, her knees practically melted when he let that endearment slip. Gah, can’t think, can’t think…luv. He called me luv! Yay—no, not yay. Bad. Very very bad. She hardened her expression. “Don’t call me love.”

“Right then, pet.”

“Or pet!” Now she was almost yelling. How in the world was she supposed to break into the Jenkins’ building if he made her so horny she could barely walk?

“Hey.” He stopped dead and turned to face her. “What the hell is your problem?”

She jutted her chin out. “Nothing. I’m just majorly wiggy because someone who I thought hated me is walked me home. OK?” How far away was Revello Drive, anyway? Three blocks? Could she run three blocks?

She could try, she decided as that bone-melting smirk appeared again on his face.

“You think I hate you?” He stepped forward. She jumped back nervously, and then berated herself for it. She was a grown woman—a cop!—and she was letting him spook her. Could this get any worse?

Yep, it could. He was now leaning forward, looking directly into her eyes, and her heart was racing. “How,” he asked, his accent suddenly more refined, “could I possibly hate any woman as beautiful as you?”

Buffy gulped. OK, he was a major creep! Not only was he coming on to her on a sidewalk, but she was his secretary, undercover role notwithstanding. How stereotypical could you get?

And who was she kidding? It was completely hot. “I—I’m not beautiful,” she stuttered, clenching her hands in fists to keep from reaching for him.

He came even closer, until his hands rested on her waist. “But you are,” he murmured. “I saw you dancin’, and all I wanted to do was grab you and shag you ‘till you couldn’t stand.”

“It’s a little late for that,” she said breathlessly, sinking into the embrace, wrapping her arms around his neck. God, his chest was hard. He had such well defined muscles—all she’d wanted to do on the dance floor was sink into his embrace and never leave it.

He didn’t reply, only stood still, staring into her eyes with a strangely intent look on his face. Buffy gulped as lust rushed through her. All of a sudden she felt like she was back in high school just waiting for the guy to kiss her. And she wanted it. God help her, but she did.

She stood up on her tiptoes. “Spike…” she whispered, feeling his arms tighten around her.

“Buffy,” he whispered back, “We can’t…we shouldn’t…”

“Yes, we should.” She smiled slightly, teasingly. “You know you want to.”

He groaned and leaned his forehead against hers. “You don’t understand, dammit! I can’t…I’m not…”

“Sh.” She silenced his protests with a single finer against his soft, full, strong lips. “I do understand. I want this.” She wriggled ever so slightly against his erection. A wicked smile graced her lips. “And I know you do.”

For a second the world froze, and only the two of them existed. Buffy held her breath—she could see the war being waged in his eyes.

Then he smiled. Buffy gasped—it was the single most beautiful expression she’d ever seen on a human face. So happy and peaceful, yet longing and powerful at the same time. And then he was leaning forward, and all thoughts fled from her head—

They had a seconds’ warning. Their lips were about to touch when both pairs of crime-trained ears heard the telltale rustle. Before either of them could turn and see what made the noise, an enormous body barreled into Buffy.

“Aieee!” She gave a very un-cop-like shriek, kicking the ski-masked man hard in the shins.

“Buffy!” Spike launched to his feet as the man leapt at her.

She fell, rolled, and got up, dealing him the hardest punch she could as she did. “Bastard,” she spat. He reeled, but didn’t seem about to do down. Dammit, why was he so big?

“I can agree with that,” Spike said. He grabbed the guy’s collar and turned him around. His fist then flew into the guy’s face in a stunningly powerful punch.

The man went down like a stone. Before Spike could damage him more, Buffy rushed over. “I’ll take it from here,” she said, and drew her foot back. She kicked the man’s ribs repeatedly, not even wincing when she heard something crack, and stomped on his stomach. When she was satisfied that she’d caused maximum damage, she sat on his chest.

“’ey, you sure that’s smart?” Spike asked.

Buffy smiled at him. “If he tries to hurt me, I’m sure you can handle him.”

“Okay, then.” He was beyond doubtful, but Buffy thanked her lucky stars that he trusted her enough to handle her would-be attacker.

“Now,” Buffy said, “Let’s see who you are.” She yanked the ski mask off, a task made difficult by the fact that the man seemed to be laughing—which was beyond bizarre.

As soon as she saw his laughing face she froze. Ice-cold sweat broke out all over her body. She began to shake, and her trembling fingers dropped the ski mask to the ground.

Angel O’Connor smiled at her malevolently. “Hey there, Summers.” He threw back his head at her expression and started giggling insanely. “It’s been awhile.”

“Oh my God.” She stood up, almost ready to be sick. Spike rushed to her aid instantly. His strong arms encircled her, holding her upright. “What’s the matter, pet? Buffy? C’mon, talk!”

“It’s—it’s Angel,” she managed to force out. Shock still immobilized her, but she knew she had to explain. Maybe if she told Spike what had happened, he’d kick Angel’s ass. Not that she needed it done for her, but the thought was comforting. “He’s a serial rapist, six counties over. Formerly resided in the LAPD Asylum for the Criminally Insane. He must have broken out.”

Her voice was flat and unemotional when she described it. What she didn’t say was that it had been she who arrested him two years ago. He’d been crouched over a bloody, dead little eight-year-old girl. Reliving that experience, from the body to the horrible things he’d said about it, was a nightmare.

“Nice to see you again, little slut,” Angel wheezed, laughing despite his many injuries. “God, you were close to screwing him a minute ago, weren’t you? Is there a limit to the number of guys you’ll fuck, or are you charging now? And I didn’t break out. I was freed.” Another insane cackle. “To come and get you.”

“They let a bastard like that go?” Spike’s voice was rough. “What the hell is wrong with the la—the LAPD?”

“Nothing!” Buffy snapped, a bit too forcefully. “I mean—I don’t know. He’s probably lying. I think he broke out.” Except she knew that he hadn’t, because she would have been alerted had that been the case. Perhaps… “Or someone in the department—the police, I mean—could have let him go illegally.”

“Damn, Summers, maybe you’re not as dumb as you look,” Angel said, attempting to struggle to his feet, still chuckling.

Spike gave him a look that was pure Death walking. “Keep your ass on the pavement if you value your life,” the platinum blonde advised before turning back to Buffy. “You gonna be okay?”

She nodded. The experience had been horrifying, but if she kept acting the victim Spike would have some uncomfortable questions. “I think so.”

“Right, then. ‘ll phone the cops. You walk home. I think you can take care ‘f any potential nasties, am I right?”

Buffy nodded again. “Um—sorry about how this turned out.”

“’S alright, luv.” He glared at the man on the ground so balefully that Buffy almost felt sorry for Angel. “’He’ll be payin’, not you.”

“Good.” Buffy, too, was glaring.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Despite what they’d been doing before Angel interrupted them, she felt her old anger rising up against him. “I’m not a china doll, Spike. I’ll be fine.” Angel’s comments were coming back to her, and heat began to rise in her cheeks. She wasn’t a slut, but still, what he’d said was embarrassing. “See you at the office.”

His eyes narrowed, but he just nodded dismissively. “Yeah. See you.”

Why did she get the feeling that she wasn’t going to get away with this? And not just the whole almost-kissage thing. He’d confront her later about her knowledge of him, and her quick, cop-like summary, and probably even her fighting ability. But right now, she just had to get back home so that she could grab her lock-picks and head over to Jenkins’ Employment.

She was unusually jumpy as she walked, looking over her shoulder at every little noise. Seeing Angel again had brought back all the things Officer Elizabeth had experienced. She knew that in terms of attitude and personality she’d changed quite a bit in the two weeks she’d been away from the force, but the memories were the same, and they hurt.

Angel had been her biggest scare, but there were others, lunatics and just plain evil people whom she’d put away for what she’d thought was forever. But now someone had let one of them out.

How could this have happened? She knew it had to be an inside job. A cop had let Angel go, and probably told him to find her. That meant that someone on the force had it in for her, but why?

Was it because of the undercover work? It wasn’t exactly the hottest job in the world. As far as she was concerned, whoever wanted it could have it.

But what if that wasn’t it? What if someone had some other reason to hate her?

And then it occurred to her: Oh God, what if it’s Riley? She’d dated him for a few months, but she’d broken it off because he was way overprotective. She’d come to realize since then that dating a fellow cop was a big-time bad idea. What if Riley was nursing a huge grudge and decided to sic Angel on her because of it?

No. That was insane. It had to be something else, some little detail she’d missed. Buffy snatched up her lock picks. Who said it had to be just the LAPD’s work? Maybe Spike had decided to get rid of her, so he paid someone to let Angel loose.

She knew, deep down, that the idea was even crazier than her previous one, but she was too mad and confused to care. There were a few seriously missing links in this little puzzle, and she got the feeling that she knew where to find them.

With one hand over her gun in its holster and the other clutching her set of picks, she walked toward the Jenkins Building.

One way or another, she was going to get to the bottom of this tonight.

*

After the cops hauled the lunatic away, Spike lit a fag and started towards his office. Red was gonna kill him for calling her so late, but it was the only way to get things sorted out. That, and raid the files for any information at all on this Angel fellow.

Damn, and he’d thought Scott was a wanker! Angel was downright insane. They’d had to wait a solid fifteen minutes for the cops to come, and during that time, Angel had babbled like the lunatic he definitely was. Spike had heard more descriptions of rape than he’d thought possible. It was enough to make stronger men than he sick.

And Buffy was an even more confusing part of the puzzle. Why the hell would the LAPD send their pet psycho after her if she was feedin’ them information like a good little snitch? It didn’t make any sense.

And of course, he’d had to go and complicate it any more by almost kissing her right there on the sidewalk. Dammit. That had been the dumbest thing he’d done in quite awhile.

‘Course, it wasn’t like he was alone in his little endeavor, though he’d be willing to bet that she was going to try to pull a fast one on him and pretend it had never happened. Spike wasn’t going to allow that. Yeah, it was an immensely stupid thing, gettin’ involved with a cop, but hey, he’d done stupider things—just not in recent memory. He wasn’t gonna just act like they hadn’t been about to start snogging. That wasn’t his style.

Plus, if he had his way, she wouldn’t be a cop for much longer, so that little complication would be gone…

Thoughts, questions, and plans whirled through his mind as he walked quickly toward Jenkins’ Employment, Inc.

~*~

 

7:

Buffy stared up at the building. The huge, dark, deserted building. The suddenly incredibly creepy building.

OK, this was getting ridiculous. First the park, now a building that she went into every day...she was turning into the worst kind of coward.

But it wasn’t really the building she was scared of. It was more what she’d find inside the building. For better or for worse, the truth of this whole thing lay inside those filing cabinets.

She took a deep breath. “You can do this, Buffy,” she muttered as she strode up to the building and began to work on the lock on a side door. “If you can survive a gunfight in LA, you can break into a building.”

It only took her a few minutes’ fiddling with the lock before it opened with a soft click. Buffy turned the knob silently and eased herself inside.

For once she was glad that the entire first floor was one big room. If she’d entered a hallway or something, she would have gotten completely lost. As it was, it took her a few minutes to find her desk.

She turned on her desk lamp before slipping behind it and crouching down. She wasn’t really sure where to start, so she just opened the drawer that held files ‘A-H’.

“Auto insurance...no. Automated appliances...no.” Buffy flipped through the files, trying to decide which ones to read. She did have limited snooping time, so she needed to select files that would give her maximum information.

A lot of the files had names: Calendar, Jenny; one that just said ‘Lily’; and one that said...

Buffy frowned. “Giles, Dawn?” she said out loud. They had a file on Dawn? Well, since they had her working the streets for them, that made sense. But since Dawn was definitely part of the not-quite-right-ness of the company, she decided to check out the girl’s file.

The first page was just commonplace statistics: name, birthdate (unknown—Buffy pitied the girl for that), age (approximately 15), and a brief description. The second page was what caught her eye. She blinked twice, unsure that she was really seeing what her weary eyes told her she was.

The page was labeled “Case History.” Was that what they called their child prostitutes? Cases? There was some sick irony in that...

She leaned against the desk and proceeded to peruse the page. It read: Found in alley between Main and Revello April 15th, 2003. Case’s age approximated at13. Both parents found to be dead. Case fostered with Cordelia Chase for six months, then placed in night position with Doublemeat Palace. Case tithe is 5% per year...

Buffy stopped reading. It was too hard to focus on the letters when her head was swimming with complete, utter disbelief.

Where was the child prostitution? Where was the drug sales? Not that she wanted to read a description of Dawn whoring, but what was up with all the good deeds? Dawn was a prostitute...

Wasn’t she?

Buffy tried hard to think back to Dawn’s comments on her job: Taking orders was hard at first, and sometimes the customers are a little snooty, but if I’m extra fast and super nice, I get tips! She’d thought that Dawn was talking about whoring, but she hadn’t been. She’d been talking about carrying food to people’s tables!

They might be lying, but who would lie in classified files? The cop in her knew that what lay in those files was pure, undiluted truth.

But if that was the truth, then what Captain Rayne told her had to be a lie.

No. She set the file aside resolutely and resumed searching. It must be part of their cover business, the one they ran to keep the police off their backs. Either that, or the Captain had made a mistake. He would never deliberately lie.

And yet, in the back of her head, she heard a sneaky little voice say, would a cover business really take in a homeless girl?

She needed more answers than these opaque files could give her. Wait—there was a file she knew would hold the information she needed to prove to herself that this corporation was just as rotten as Captain Rayne and Harmony had said. Almost every day, someone gave her something to file under ‘lap-dancers’. She’d long since stopped taking it at face value; they probably ran strip clubs, but who needed that much data on the entertainment?

Whatever was the big secret about Jenkins’ Employment, she’d be willing to bet it was in that file.

She shoved Dawn’s file back in its place and opened up the next drawer. Itineraries...insurance...labs...lap-dancers!

She pulled out the desired file and lay it on the floor, too eager to see its contents to bother with sitting at the desk. The file was thick, almost too full, just as it had been that afternoon when she’d put that last packet of papers in it. For more than two weeks now she’d been dying to go through it. Now, this was her chance.

With almost trembling fingers, she slowly opened the file, lifted the top packet of papers up to the light, and began to read.

Two minutes later, the papers fell from her numb fingers. One thought and one thought only dominated her mind:

Oh—

My—

God.

At the top of the paper, emblazoned in huge, black letters, were the words: Los Angeles Police Department: Weekly Report.

LAPD. LAP-Dancers.

She feverishly flipped through the report, her eyes taking in fragments of type. Blonde female, approximately five feet tall—formerly LAPD officer—two new stashes uncovered—five clubs in southeastern LA—

The pages flashed by, each one almost exactly like the previous. Information on her, the LAPD, Captain Rayne—it was all there. And though her eyes saw it, her mind refused to believe it.

No, no, no, no, was the mantra running through Buffy’s mind as she slumped down to the floor. It couldn’t be true. All of it had to be lies. It was a trap, they were just putting lies in there because they knew that sooner or later she’d end up snooping, the LAPD couldn’t have crack houses in southeastern LA, they shut down crack houses...

Tears began to stream down her face as she realized—all she’d wanted, all she worked for , was gone. Gone in a pile of papers she knew couldn’t possibly be all lies.

And she, Buffy Summers, ‘one of the good guys’, was lying on the floor, sobbing her heart out, as all that she’d ever worked for, everything she’d devoted her life to, was smashed to bits.

*

Spike gave Willow a call as he made his way to their headquarters. “Hey, Red,” he said, cutting through her rather desperate threats directed at the evil maniac who dared to call her at such a late hour. “We’ve got a bit of a problem.”

“Problem? What problem? Oh God, is Buffy okay?”

His mind flickered back to that almost-kiss. He winced, inwardly kicking himself for coming on to the enemy. The very hot and definitely shaggable enemy, but the enemy nonetheless. “Um, yeah, she’s doin’ fine. ‘S this ponce who attacked her tonight ‘m worried about.”

“Buffy got attacked? Oh, no!” Spike heard a thump that meant Willow was out of bed and attempting to get dressed. “I’m coming, I’ll be there soon, and then I can, can tell you more about why she got attacked and maybe who did it and—“

“Angel ring a bell? That’s who took a swing at her.”

For a second there was complete silence on the other end, then Willow said, “I’m coming over, Spike. I’ll be there in an hour.”

Spike was surprised, to say the least. Red almost never used that take-charge, serious tone of voice. Generally she was the most timid chit you’d ever find. “’S there something I ought know ‘bout this fellow?”

“Nothing I can tell you over the phone,” was the cryptic reply.

Spike frowned, thoroughly puzzled, but eventually he acquiesced, saying, “Right, then. ‘ll be at headquarters.”

A car motor sounded on the other end. “See you then. And Spike, you should know—“


The line went dead. Spike stared at his cell phone for a minute, completely disgusted with the thing—it could never hold a connection. Sometimes he seriously contemplated just tossing it in the bushes. He hated modern technology.

He slipped through an alley and found himself at a side door into the building. He slipped a key inside and tried to turn the doorknob.

Tried—and failed. He frowned down at it, rattling it none too softly, but still it didn’t move. Did I lock the bloody thing? He stuck his key in and turned it again. This time, the doorknob turned. It had been unlocked when he walked up to it, which meant—

He felt himself grow cold. If the door had been unlocked, then someone was in the building.

When he knew that he was about to face an enemy, he always got much colder, more distant. It was his way of preparing for the physical prowess required for fighting.

Right now, he felt like he had ice running through his veins.

He opened the door slowly, careful not to let even the slightest squeak escape the hinges, and slipped inside. He was about to close the door behind him when he heard something that made him forget entirely about doors.

Someone was crying, sobbing her heart out, more like—Spike could tell that it was definitely a her. And if the lamp on top of the desk was any indicator, they were over by the filing cabinet.

He approached the huge desk slowly, making sure to let his boots tap in order to alert the girl that there was someone else in the huge, mostly dark room. He’d had plenty of experience with this—he couldn’t count the number of child whores he’d approached in much the same fashion as they lay in a dirty alley, crying their hearts out.

“’Lo? Who’s there? You can come out, ‘m not gonna hurt you.”

His only warning was the click of a gun being loaded. A millisecond later, his own pistol was out, pointing directly at his would-be attacker, who in turn was standing and pointing her own weapon.

Buffy and Spike stared into each other’s eyes, shocked hazel meeting wary blue. Guns trained at foreheads trembled in their owner’s hands.

Spike was the first to speak. “Best put that down, luv, ‘fore one of us gets hurt.”

“Too late.” Buffy dropped the gun, only to pick up something else. Spike squinted—neither the moonlight coming through the still-open door nor the weak lamp illuminated the words.

“Having trouble reading it? Let me enlighten you.” Her voice was cold. She held the file up to the light and read in a mocking, heartless voice, “Lap-dancers. That’s what it’s labeled. Funny how I never found that too terribly out of the ordinary. A crime ring would have lap-dancers, wouldn’t they? But this file’s exceptionally thick.”

She paused, flipping through the file in her hands, a mocking smile on her mouth. When she spoke again, her voice was loud and furious. “So I look in it, and guess what? Turns out that lap-dancers is code for the LAPD, which I just happen to belong to!”

Spike licked his lips, frantically trying to come up with something to say. Buffy as his secretary was fiery enough. Buffy as the cop he knew she’d been all along was enough to make him rethink his confrontation idea. “Listen, pet, please, I didn’t—“

“Don’t. You. Dare.” She glared at him, tears in her eyes. “Don’t even start. Are you going to lie to me some more? I know you knew who I was from the beginning. It’s all in here, Spike! You’ve been keeping tabs on me, monitoring where I go, what I do. So tell me—did you know Angel was going to try to kill me? Did you?” She screamed, tears running freely down her face. All Spike could do was watch in horror as her rage and hurt grew.

“Answer me, Goddamn you! What the hell is this? What is any of this?” She grabbed the file and located a page. “Crack houses—brothels—child prostitution—it’s all in LA, Spike. So why was I looking for it here?”

“Wait, Buffy. Please, you don’t understand. We thought—“

”I told you not to tell me!” Suddenly she leapt over the desk, causing the lamp to crash to the floor and illuminate them in moonlight, landing in front of him. She shoved the file in his face. “What answers are in here, huh? Is there something in that stack of papers to tell me why I’ve been working for the bad guys for the past four years? Is there?”

Spike didn’t know what expression was on his face—hell, he didn’t know how he felt inside. All he could do was stand still and stare at the raging woman in front of him. Tears were falling from her face freely, yet she still screamed at him. The hurt in her eyes was breaking his heart.

“Buffy.”

His voice somehow broke through her wrath. She stopped, staring up at him, gasping, trying to control the tears running down her cheeks.

“I thought you knew. I thought you were spyin’ for Rayne and Harmony and that lot. I thought—“

”You thought. Is that all you have to say? Well, what do you think about this?” She shoved him back with all the force she could muster. “Whatever we had, whatever we were, is over!”

She wasn’t just talking about her job, and Spike knew it. “Buffy, wait! Don’t—“

She held up a hand. Such a simple gesture, but it instantly stopped his advance. “Don’t come anywhere near me,” she ordered. Her voice was once again deadly quiet. “You lied to me. You all lied to me.”

He stopped, looking at her closely. She was shaking like a leaf, and though he knew she hadn’t gone completely round the bend yet, she was close. Him pushing would just make her lose that last bit of rationality.

“Please, Buffy, just—“ he began desperately, wanting, no needing to let her know the real truth. He couldn’t let her keep believing that he’d betrayed her, not after what had happened before Angel interrupted.

“Hey! I’ve got an idea: Shut the hell up!” she screamed. “You’re not real. One of this is. It’s all a lie!” She threw the file at him. The papers flew out, fluttering down upon his shoulders and the floor, painting the floor white.

Something in him snapped. He dropped his gentle attitude and stepped toward her menacingly. “Listen here, you idiotic little chit—“

“No! I’m not going to listen! I’m not—I can’t –AUUUGH!” she screamed, before drawing back her arm and punching him.

He reeled back, pain exploding in his head. He could hear her running toward the door. He didn’t want her to leave—knew that if she left, something would be irrevocably changed. She was feeling betrayed, hell she had been betrayed, just not by him. And as he heard the door close, as he was plunged into darkness, he slumped to the ground. The papers that had caused the fallout lay on the cold floor like dirty snow—dirty because of the things written on them, the heinous crimes committed by the people Buffy had trusted and worked for.

Buffy. Oh God, Buffy. Somewhere inside him, he’d known that he would have to tell her someday, but for her to find out like this—it almost broke his heart. She was so innocent, so driven, and he knew that it was breaking her.

And in a moment of clarity, he realized: somewhere along the line, he had developed feelings for her that went far beyond simple lust. And if this night was the end, if she fled from everything in both Sunnydale and LA, he would never be able to survive. She was his, and her pain was hurting him.

He launched to his feet and stumbled toward the closed door. His nose hurt like the devil, but only one thought was in his mind: Gotta find Buffy. Gotta explain, before it’s too late.

 

8:

Buffy ran, and ran, until she could run no more. She was halfway across town, far beyond Revello Drive and the Jenkins Building, when her legs finally gave out on her. She slumped down on the grass next to the road, still sobbing.

All she could think about was Spike. Spike and Officer Rayne and Harmony and Xander and Faith and Anya and...it was a jumble. All of it, everything, was twisted and turned upside down. She felt like she could almost feel her world breaking, shattering, falling away from her forever.

Those files...they were just words. Just words, yet they cut into her like knives. Such descriptions, of drug deals, crack houses, and brothels—filled with horrifying details, yet she’d seen it all before. What ripped her apart was the fact that it wasn’t the people at Jenkins’ who were committing all those crimes. It was the people she worked for.

For four years, she’d been convinced that she was doing the right thing, fighting on the side of good. It was horrifying to learn that all this time, she’d been helping the kind of people she hated.

And Willow...oh God. What if Willow was a part of it? Conspiring with Rayne and the others—Buffy’s tears suddenly increased tenfold. Imagining Willow, gentle, stuttering, compassionate Willow, as a cold-hearted killer—

No. That, at least, couldn’t possibly be true. She knew Willow. They’d been best friends for what felt like forever. Willow was even less likely to be a criminal than Spike was.

That meant, then, that either Willow was being strung along just as Buffy was, or Willow had known all along. If that last was the case—

God, god, god...why me? Why here, why now? And why—why did it hurt so much?

She rocked back and forth, oblivious to the curious stares she was garnering from passerby—though of course, she thought bitterly, none stopped to help.

Drowning. She could feel herself drowning, becoming lost, in a sea of emotions that wouldn’t let up. And what stung most, what hurt her beyond her entire former concept of hurt, was Spike’s betrayal.

And betrayal it had been. He had known. All that time, he had known who—known what—she was, and he had said nothing. He had fought with her, flirted with her, made her think that she might possibly fall for him—

Only to realize that he’d been lying to her all along.

Had it been a ploy? Had he been luring her into a false sense of security by playing with her emotions? She’d like to think he’d been genuine, but that file proved that he was perfectly capable of lying through his teeth. He played others for power all the time, never mind the fact that his manipulations were for the side of good. To Buffy, that little detail didn’t matter. He played with people, and he had played with her.

And the fact that his betrayal devastated her—that knowledge that she had come to care enough for his betrayal to hurt—that was what had her on the ground, crying her heart out.

She didn’t know how long she lay there, didn’t care actually. All she knew was that after awhile, the sobs stopped, and all she could do was stare at the cement sidewalk. Cold. Empty.

Footsteps neared—she didn’t care. A voice, distantly, called out her name—no. The name she’d taken for the job that was helping the evil powers of LA.

“Buffy. Buffy, pet, listen to me.”

It was Spike. Funny how it would be Spike. He was the worst of them all. Worse than Harmony, worse than Riley, worse than Rayne—worse than Angel, even.

She continued to stare at the ground. His voice became more and more desperate, calling that name over and over again. She ignored him.

But when he touched her, when he put a hand on her shoulder, she jumped up and looked at him with frightened eyes. And when she saw Willow next to him, talking to him with the ease of great familiarity, she collapsed.

Willow had been in it all along. Like Spike, Willow had betrayed her.

And now Willow was saying something. “Buffy,” the redhead began, looking at her friend with great concern.

Buffy jumped up. “You knew,” she said in a dull tone. Willow looked guilty but said nothing.

“You knew!” An anguished wail into the sky.

And then she was gone again. Running on legs that burned from exhaustion, running through the woods of the park, fighting through brambles and bushes—trying only to get away from the only two people she’d ever loved, and the only two people who had ever broken her heart.

*

Spike was ready and willing to spring after her. In fact, he would have, and damn the consequences, had Red not restrained him. “Spike. She needs time.”

“She’s half-crazy!” And she was. Anyone with even half a wit could see that much.

“And you chasing after her is only, only gonna make it worse!” Willow cried out, stuttering in her distress. “She’s not—she’s not stable right now. I knew coming along was a bad idea...”

This rebuke, combined with his memory of the look in Buffy’s eyes when she stared up at him, made Spike clench his teeth. “’D thought seein’ you might calm her down a little,” he explained. “An’ since it hasn’t, ‘m gonna go after her. Bloody hell, she could get killed, the condition she’s in!”

He tried to make his voice sound tough, like he cared more about how useful she was than the fact that she might get hurt, but his voice roughened and nearly broke with emotion toward the end of his tirade. Seeing Buffy like that, half in pieces and furious with him, practically mad because of the discoveries she’d made, was enough to make him crazy.

Willow looked at him sympathetically. “I know you’re upset, and I’m upset too, there’s lots of, um, upset-ness, but you can’t get all caveman on her. Buffy’s strong, she’ll be alright, and you should g—“

“Don’t you dare tell me to go home,” Spike snarled. “’M not gonna go away when the woman I care about is lyin’ out there somewhere, cryin’ her heart out!”

“The woman you care about?” Willow asked quietly.

“Well...yeah.”

“Funny how you’ve spent the entire time you’ve known her telling a bald-faced lie.”

“Hey—that’s not true! We talked ‘bout the business around her all the bleeding time!”

“Yeah, in terms so, so vague you knew she wouldn’t understand,” Willow shot back. “And you weren’t exactly honest about the whole knowing who she really was thing, were you?”

“Oh, look’s who’s talking? Little Miss Friend-Since-High-School didn’t bother lettin’ her know you just happened to be spyin’ on the whole bloody LAPD!”

“Hey, no British cussing!” Red frowned at him disapprovingly. Spike almost screamed in exasperation.

“Sodding hell, Red, this isn’t the time to start motherin’ me!” Thunder rolled in a distance, a frightening portend of things to come.

“Well, someone has to!” Willow had that stubborn look on her face that Spike knew meant she wasn’t going to budge.

He groaned. “Red—“

“No. A whole universe of no. Buffy needs time to absorb all this!”


“What about what I need?” Spike demanded. “”Cuz right now, I need to know that she’s gonna be okay!”

“And what about what she needs to know?” Willow demanded.

He stared at her. “What the bloody hell are you talking ‘bout?”

“What I’m talking about is the fact that right now, she’s probably thinking that neither of us respected her enough to tell her the truth. So we need to show we respect her by not running after her like we think she’s a little kid who can’t be trusted out on her own. Because, if she thinks that, then that would, would be bad...” Willow faltered and then trailed off, more than slightly daunted by Spike’s hard stare.

“Look, Red, you can say what you like. ‘S far as I’m concerned, you can sit here all night long an’ speechify ‘bout me giving Buffy respect. Thing is, ‘m not gonna listen. So bugger off, a’right?”

He felt more than slightly bad about giving Red such a telling-off, especially since her eyes were all hurt, but somehow he couldn’t stop. All he knew was that she was trying to stop him from going to find Buffy, and that just wasn’t going to happen.

“Spike, I was just—“

“I know. An’ I appreciate it, but right now, ‘ve got bigger fish to fry. You go home now, ‘k?”

He didn’t bother waiting for her to reply. Instead, he patted her on the head, gave her a slight smirk as a sort of reassurance, and pelted off into the darkness, determined to find Buffy.

It wasn’t easy; his little secretary knew how to cover her tracks. Luckily she was also a predictable little chit—she went straight to her house.

He came upon her as she stumbled up the steps. He watched her fall and scrape her knees—by the time he was close enough to help her, she’d picked herself up and was trying to jam a house key into the doorknob.

He took the steps two at a time. “Buffy!”

She whirled around like an animal caught in a trap. “Don’t call me that,” she bit out.

He smirked at her. “’S who you are, innit?”

“No!” She tried again with the key, still having no success. “So what, you’re gonna torture me now?” she asked, pain laced through her voice. “Laugh at me, mock me? Or were you just planning on killing me since I clearly know too much?”

“We don’t do that. That’s the LAPD’s job.”

He knew he’d said the wrong thing as soon as her face contorted even more. “Oh, s-sorry, I forgot,” she said, her voice wavering pitifully as she attempted to keep a steady tone, “It’s my other boss who’s the evil bastard!”

And that, Spike could now clearly see, was what was torturing her so much. God, he wished she’d stop. She was practically wetting her knickers, she was so upset, and it twisted his heart to see her like that. “Luv, that’s not—“

” Fair? Is that what you were going to say—that’s not fair? Well, sorry, but I’ve got news for you—this whole thing isn’t fair!” She finally managed to get the key in. She gave the doorknob such a savage twist that Spike would have sworn he heard the wood crack and stumbled into her house.

“Buffy, wait—“

“Spike. It’s over.” Her voice was quiet, and he knew she was talking about more than the secretary gig.

“That’s it?” His voice was calm, malicious, even, but inside he was screaming. “That’s the way this is gonna end?”

Buffy shook her head—not a denial, but a negation. “There never was a this, Spike,” she spat. “All there was, was you lying to me. That’s it.”

And before he could say another word, she slammed the door in his face.

He stood there, staring at the door, for a long time. Buggered if he knew why, after the way she’d just got done treatin’ him, but he still cared. Funny how just starin’ at a door could make you feel like your heart was bein’ ripped out...

After awhile the thunder that had been threatening in the distance pealed overhead and the rain began to fall: huge, fat drops that spattered on the pavement and soaked Spike to the bone. Yet still he stood, like stone, staring at the door. There had to be some solution to this problem. He could break down the door...

It was only when the lightning began striking that he realized he was in some danger, standing in the middle of the storm like he was. And though he didn’t care, personally, whether he lived or died, there were dozens of others who depended on him being alive come morning. So once the lightning started striking, he walked home.

This is the end, he thought bitterly as he walked down the abandoned street. The whole bloody thing ended before it could even start.

As he walked up his driveway and entered his own cold, empty house, his tears mixed with the rain. Tears for Buffy, for himself, for the evil that surrounded them and tore them apart.

For what might have been, but now never could be.

~*~

 

9:

Buffy had been in her house for a full half hour, and she knew he was still out there. Even through her grief-induced haze, she could feel his presence just outside her door.

She didn’t know why he only stood there. Surely he knew how to break doors down. The good guys broke doors down, didn’t they? She knew the bad guys did, since she’d seen Riley break down a door more than once...

She was babbling in her head. That was fairly pathetic, but at least she knew it. If I’m gonna be Insane-o Gal, at least I’ll be Insane-o Gal who knows she’s totally cracked.

After an hour had passed, lightning began to crack overhead. It was then that she saw him walk home. When his black-clad figure disappeared into the night, she sank down in her chair, oddly let down. In some strange, perverse way, she’d wanted him to stay. Even though she’d deliberately pushed him away, closed the door on him in fact, she still wanted him to hang around.

She was beyond deranged. She was just completely and totally, utterly whacko. Crazy Buffy, that was her.

No. Not crazy Buffy. Crazy Elizabeth. Because as of tonight, Buffy was gone. Thrown in the trash can. She was Elizabeth once again.

Funny how it felt completely and totally sucky...

She slumped down on the couch and stared into the empty fireplace. Her house—no the house, it wasn’t hers—was kinda cold. She should light a fire.

Her bitter laugh rang in the still air. She should do a lot of things.

But she wasn’t going to. Actually, she should go to sleep, but that wasn’t exactly high on her list of priorities. Right now, she was in a major session of freak-outage. And it was going to stay that way, yes sir, it was.

Wait. Sleep. She should sleep because she had an appointment with Captain Rayne tomorrow. She had an appointment with a guy who was apparently even worse than she’d been led to believe Spike was, in a building full of people who were just about as bad as they got, criminal-wise...

Shit.

What was she going to do? She couldn’t just waltz in there and pretend that the whole world hadn’t crashed down the night before, leaving her standing in the twisted ugly rubble—could she?

Buffy frowned. She’d already tried to get the truth out of the files at the Jenkins’ Building, and that had kind of blown up in her face. She didn’t know if she actually believed the file. She didn’t want to, but the more she thought about it, the more sure she became that she was working for the wrong side.

Still, Rayne deserved a chance to make his case, right? Maybe the whole thing was some colossal mistake that could be fixed with some intervention. Yeah, that was it. She could go all intervention-ey when she met with Rayne, and if it didn’t work out and he really was evil, which she was starting to doubt more every second that ticked by, then, well, she had a gun. And she was a pretty good shot, too.

The part of her brain that hadn’t completely lost it when she read the contents of that file warned her that she was being completely irrational, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. She had to hold on to the hope that Captain Rayne could explain thing. Otherwise...

Otherwise, it’s a one-way ticket to Screwednessville for one Miss Buffy Summers, ‘cuz I probably won’t make it out alive.

And while she was being brutally honest...I couldn’t care less.

Still, she got off the couch and managed to make her way up to her room. If she was going to get all confront-ey tomorrow, then she did need to pack some z’s in before then.

Sleep. That was the priority. Then the confrontation with the Captain. After that—if there was an after—

Life without Spike. She climbed into bed and turned off the light. So, why does that feel just as bad as the thought of no after at all?

Sleep claimed her before she could answer the question in her mind.

~*~

Spike did what any sensible man would do in a situation like the one he was facing: he went out and got drunk.

Oh, he tried to sleep first—he wasn’t that big a moron. But soon enough, he found himself sitting in a bar in one of the worst parts of town, pounding down one shot of whiskey after another. Maybe if he drank enough, the pain would go away and he’d stop seeing her pained, accusing eyes swimming in front of him every time he blinked.

“Y’see,” he explained to the apathetic bartender. “Y’see, the thing is, I knew she’d end up feelin’ hurt. Tha’s why I was gonna tell her...but I didn’ get a chance. ‘Cuz tha’ girl, she’s...ah, she’s really somethin’ mate.” He pounded back another whiskey. “An’ now ‘s all over.”

“Spike? Dude, you’re like...drunk.”

Spike turned around slowly. His vision was a bit blurred, but he could make out one of the people he really didn’t want to see right now. “Xander. Wha’ th’ bloody ‘ell’re you doin’ ‘ere?” His words were so badly slurred that even he could barely make them out.

“I told him we had to go. Going to bars at night makes me hot, and Xander wanted to have sex,” Anya spoke up frankly from her position beside her now-boyfriend.

He rolled his eyes to the sky. “Wunnerful. Jus’ the two people I really don’ wanna see.”

“And why is that?” Anya demanded. “Do you find us repulsive, or are you just drowning your sorrows over something Buffy said?”

“What? Spike has a thing for Buffy?” Xander peered at him closely. “Ah, I get it. Buffy doesn’t like you, so you’re getting drunk.”

”Got drunk, mate,” Spike corrected. “’Ve been ‘ere at least an hour...’ey iznt there a storm goin’ on out there, or somethin’?”

“The storm’s stopped, mostly, but that’s okay since lightning gets me hot too,” Anya said.

“When the ‘ell’re you gonna get some liquor in this bint so she’ll shuttup?” Spike demanded, frowning at Anya. Even his fuzzy brain could tell that she was being deliberately antanonistig—antagonistic, he corrected himself mentally.

“I’m not going to shut up until you tell me what’s wrong. It’s very unlike you to get drunk, since it makes you look like a pathetic shmuck. And it’s clear that your problem is with Buffy, since you haven’t drunk this much since Drusilla,” Anya prattled, either completely unconscious of or bravely ignoring the death-by-slow-torture glare Spike was giving her.

“Was it Buffy, man?”

“Damn right. She knows ‘bout all th’ shtuff,” Spike slurred. “’ey, bartender! Gimme ‘nother!”

“Wait—stuff? What stuff? The stuff, stuff? The stuff she’s not supposed to know about?”

“No, Anya, th’ shtuff she’s s’posed to know ‘bout. ‘Course ‘s th’ stuff she innit s’posed to know ‘bout.”

Xander and Anya exchanged a worried look that the inebriated Spike barely saw before they each grabbed one of his arms. Spike jumped. “’ey! Leggo!” He exclaimed, but it was too late. They were already propelling him out of the bar at a pace that made his alcohol-soaked head spin.

They shoved him into Xander’s car. Anya got in beside him and, giving him a hard look, said, “If you puke in the backseat I’ll kill you. And Mom will shoot you the next time she visits if you puke in the house. So, do us both a favor and keep your puke to yourself, okay?”

“Got it,” he grumbled.

When they arrived at his house, Anya dragged him out of the car and into the kitchen. It was only when she turned on the water in the sink that he realized what she was going to do.

“Uh-uh,” he exclaimed, lurching back. “There’sh no bleedin’ way you’re gettin me ta—“

“Oh, shove it, Big Bad,” Anya advised. She moved quickly—too quickly, in Spike’s opinion. Why wasn’t she drunk, too? It was nice and cozy and warm and—

“AUGHH!” His holler could be heard throughout the house when Anya shoved his head under the icy water.

He came up spluttering. “Wha’d you do tha’ for?”

“You were drunk, and we’re in serious need of information,” Xander informed him. “Really, Spike, ever heard of talking it out?”

“Was’n in the mood for talkin,” he muttered, shaking his wet head.

“Hey!” Anya cried, throwing a towel on top of his head. “Watch it! I don’t want to have to get water stains off the wooden table!” She rolled her eyes in disgust when Spike shook himself into the towel like a dog. “Men!”

“So are you sober now, or what?” Xander asked.

“Sober.” Spike made a face; though the majority of his drunkenness had dissipated with the freezing cold water, he was still a bit dizzy. “More or less.”

“Good.” Xander turned around and called out into the living room. “You guys can come in now!”

Faith, Kennedy, Willow, Cordelia, and Gunn filed into the room. When he saw them, Spike groaned. Just what he needed, the do-gooder team. Why didn’t they understand that he wanted to be left in peace so he could engage in serious self-flagellation for the next century or so over what he’d done to Buffy? “Why the buggerin’ hell did you call them?”

“We heard you was havin’ some trouble with the ladies,” Gunn started.

“Or one lady, if you want to be exact about it,” Kennedy added.

“So, tell us, what’s the deal with you and B? And make it quick,” Faith added. “I was in the middle of a monster hookup when Xander called.”

“We really didn’t need to know that,” Kennedy informed her.

“Hey, bitch, no one asked your opinion,” Faith said, her face turning confrontational. It was no secret that Kennedy and Faith weren’t exactly the best of friends.

“Nobody has to,” the younger girl shot back.

“That so? Ya wanna work on changing that?” Faith fisted her hand.

“Hey, guys, maybe we could, um, do this later?” Willow suggested, her voice growing smaller as the two others turned and glared at her.

“Or, like, never,” Cordy interjected. “I so do not want to see a cat-fight between the two Brass Balls Queens.”

“I agree with Cordelia,” Anya said bluntly. “Now, can we please get down to the real problem before I die of old age?”

“There isn’t any problem,” Spike growled. Bloody hell. He should have known making friends in this Godforsaken bit of nowhere was going to come back and bite him in the ass someday. “’M in pain, and ‘d like to suffer alone, if you don’t mind.”

“We do mind. I mean, for Christ’s sake, I’m related to you,” Anya snapped. “And you may be a big dumb idiot, but we’re gonna help you. We’ve got stake in what Buffy does too, you know.”

“And as thrilled as I am that you care, I want to be alone,” Spike snapped back. Damn it, he loved Anya like a sister—which was good, since she was one—but if she didn’t bugger off, he’d snap her spindly little neck!

“Well, bad boy, we ain’t your fairy godmothers, so sorry, you’re outta luck,” Faith said. “And I’m not gonna say this again: what the fuck is goin’ on?”

Spike caved. He gripped the counter tightly and growled under his breath before saying, “Fine. But I swear, you lot are the nosiest, most inconsiderate idiots a fellow’s ever had to put up with, and if I had m’ way I’d—“

He was cut off by the back door slamming loudly. “I’m here!” A young female voice shouted. Dawn came running in, her hair wildly tangled, the Doublemeat Palace uniform looking ridiculously out-of-place in the chic, Anya-decorated house.

She didn’t seem to care. “Sorry I’m late,” she panted. “I was about to go to the door when this guy walked up to me and was all, where’s my smoothie, and I was like, sorry, I’m off duty, but then he went—wait,” she broke off, her eyes surveying the room. “What’s going on?”

“Buffy knows about the fact that we take in helpless orphans and prostitutes and give them jobs while simultaneously fighting the force of evil that is the LAPD,” Anya said bluntly.

“And she also kinda knows that her best friend is a, um, spy, for us,” Willow added.

Dawn raised her eyebrows. “Wow. That explains why Spike looks like he’s been hit by a truck. He has a thing for Buffy,” she told the group at large. “And let me guess,” she added, now speaking directly to Spike, “She went totally postal on you?”

“Somethin’ like that, yeah,” Spike said, smiling at her. The Bit was such a good kid, always ready to take things in stride.

He proceeded to tell everyone what had happened with Buffy at the building. When he was finished, the room was so quiet that you could have heard a pin drop.

“Oh, no,” Willow whispered. “Poor Buffy. I mean, you told me it was bad and all, but...wow.”

“Wicked fucked up,” was Faith’s assessment. “What I can’t get is that you lied to her for so long, Willow.”

“Especially since generally, you’re a really incompetent liar,” Dawn added.

Willow looked about as upset as Spike felt. “I said I was sorry!” she cried. “Only, she didn’t seem to want to listen, and I was stuttering and making with the spazzing out and everything. I didn’t want to lie...” she trailed off helplessly.

“’S okay, Red. Neither did I.” Spike sighed heavily. Maybe he was the most worthless ponce ever born, but he felt sorrier for himself than he did for Red. At least she had friendship to fall back on with Buffy. Take his and Buffy’s professional relationship away, and as much as he hated to admit it, he had nothing. He’d be willing to bet his feelings for her were pretty damn one-sided as far as the attraction went.

“Wait. You said she was totally nuts?” Dawn asked, a strangely apprehensive look on her face.

“Completely carrot-top, yeah,” Spike said. When he saw Dawn’s look go from nervous to almost completely panicked, he said urgently, “Okay, Bit, what aren’t you tellin’ me?”

“Buffy told me she had an appointment with someone today,” Dawn said, her lips barely moving, her face the still that means the owner is holding in panic. “An appointment with someone in LA. She’s going to report back to that Rayne guy, Spike.”

Xander took a deep breath. “Oh, boy. She’ll ask him if what she read in those files is true—“

“And cop-boy’ll ice her, because she’s one of the poor chicks who knows too much now,” Faith finished. “Damn, are we in deep shit now or what?”

“Like, hugely deep,” Cordelia contributed. “Buffy’s totally gonna blab!”

“I think Dawn was a little more worried about the part where Rayne kills her and leaves little Buffy-bits all over LA,” Kennedy snapped at Cordelia.

Cordelia glared at her. “Okay, hello, I’m worried about that, too, but if she blabs, we’re all going to get killed, which is just a teensy bit more important!”

Everyone was silent as the two brattiest members of the group stared at one another.

“Okay, sorry to interrupt the glare-fest, but plans really need to be made.” Anya’s sarcastic voice interrupted the girls’ glare-fest. When no one answered, she snapped her fingers in front of Cordy and Kennedy’s eyes. “Hello! Earth to air-heads! God, guys, pay attention before those evil cops you’re so scared of come to kill us all!”

Ordinarily Spike would have intervened right about then, but he was too dazed by a combination of alcohol and constant worry centering around his wayward secretary. So he just stood there, leaning against the wall, as his sister set into motion a debate about what, exactly, the gang should do.

“I vote for doin’ the intervention thing,” Xander said. “Go to her house and get her out. She doesn’t really want to go back to the dark side, right?”

Dawn stared at him with all the haughty arrogance of an amused fifteen-year-old. “You really are one big geek, aren’t you?”

Willow smiled sympathetically at his chagrin. “The dark side thing was a little over the top,” she told him.

“I was just trying to put stuff in, you know, layman’s terms,” Xander defended himself.

“Why don’cha leave that to the experts,” Faith suggested. “I say we ice the guy.”

“Ice? Like, freeze him? We’re going to turn Rayne into a giant ice cube and—what? Hit him with an ice pick?” Anya was thoroughly confused.

“Ice means kill, genius.” Cordelia rolled her eyes. “And how are we going to kill Ethan Rayne? He’s, like, LA’s answer to that Al Capone guy.”

“Ever heard of a gun?” Faith asked. “Bam, bam, Rayne’s dead?”

“’S not that simple,” Spike informed her. His voice was low and still slightly slurred, even by British standards, yet everyone stopped and listened.

“Well, then, what should we do? “Cause, the discussion is great and all, but we’re kinda getting low on time,” Willow reminded everyone.

“Well, first we do what the whelp suggested, with less Star Wars references,” Spike said. As he spoke, he stood up straight and began to prowl from one end of the room to the other, taking charge as naturally as breathing. “Then, ‘f she’s at home, we stop her from runnin’ to Rayne. Tie her up ‘f we have to. If she’s not...” He trailed off ominously.

Faith’s eyes glinted. “Yeah?”

“We’ll have a right spot of violence b’fore tomorrow’s up,” Spike finished, his former cocky smirk back firmly in place.

“OK, so not my thing,” Cordy said. At everyone else’s reproachful looks, she rolled her eyes and sighed. “But I’ll help out anyway,” she said in a long-suffering voice.

“Because you’re so very self-sacrificing,” Kennedy muttered.

Everyone else ignored her. “Right then,” Spike said. “Let’s saddle up, all.”

Dawn winced. “Okay, I’d love to help with the Buffy rescuing slash handcuffing, but I really have to get back to work or I’ll get kinda sorta fired.”

“Go ‘head.” Spike waved his hand. “Got enough people here to do a decent rescue.”

Willow smiled at the teen as Dawn headed for the door. “Have fun, Dawnie.”

“Try not to get too much grease in your hair,” Anya advised. “It makes you smell like the weird homeless guys who live by the McDonald’s dumpster. Very unappealing.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dawn said in a very dry voice, grinning at Xander’s mortified attempts to quiet his girlfriend. “See you guys.” And then she was gone, melting into the darkness outside with the ease of long practice.

Faith watched her leave. “She’s a good kid,” she said quietly.

“Not a kid anymore,” Spike reminded her.

“I keep forgettin’ she’s all woman-sized now,” Faith admitted. “Time flies when you’re fighting bad guys, doesn’t it?”

Spike just raised a sardonic brow. “Right,” he said skeptically.

“Hate to interrupt the not-so-charming trip down memory lane, but hello, we have a rescue to stage!” Anya waved her arms for emphasis.

“Then let’s go.” Faith grabbed a gun from its black leather holster, spinning it around in her hand. “I really hope I get to use this thing.”

Xander shook his head as he opened the side door and left the house. “Faith, you’re the most—merciful Zeus, who in the world are you?”

Everyone else rushed to the door. Spike narrowed his eyes when he saw the girl crouched on the ground. Bloody hell, I don’t have time for this! he thought, regretting for about the ten billionth time his whole helping-the-innocents gig.

Nevertheless, he helped her up gently. “Got a name, luv?”

“And a reason why you’re crouched on Spike’s doorstep like some kind of giant, slutty lost puppy?” Cordelia added, as always completely clueless to the delicacy of the situation.

Xander shook his head at Cordy as Spike led the girl inside. “You know, this is probably why you never get chosen to help out the homeless people. Doorknobs have more tact that you do.”

“As opposed to you, who never gets chosen because you’re completely incompetent?” Cordelia said sarcastically.

“Can it, both of you,” Spike ordered. He led the girl to his couch and sat her down. Her eyes were wide and rimmed by smoky eyeliner. She looked traumatized, and he could see a bruise spreading over her cheek. Put two and two together and...”Some worthless ponce been beatin’ on you, huh?”

“He...he hit me...” she whispered, her fingers brushing against the bruise. “I heard from a friend that maybe you could...help...”

Spike cursed at the inconvenient timing. This was what he did—got whores and druggies off the streets and into a warm building where they could make some money. But he didn’t have time to find this girl a job right now. “Look, ‘ve got errands to run. You wanna stay here for awhile?”

“Hey! Dumb move!” Anya said. “What if she’s a thief? She’ll make off with all our stuff!”

Spike glared at his sister. “You said you knew who I was?” He asked the girl. She nodded jerkily. “Then you know that ‘ve got more connections than anyone else in this town,” he said, his voice suddenly a bit harder, more menacing. “An’ ‘f you steal from me, they’ll be findin’ your body for quite awhile. You follow?”

The girl nodded, clearly terrified. “I—I’ll be good,” she whispered.

“That’s nice to hear. Got a name?” he asked again.

“Veruca,” she whispered.

“Well, Veruca, you’ve been beat on, but rest an’ ice should fix that. You help yourself to whatever food you can find, an’ me and my mates’ll be back soon’s we can to help get you settled in a new home. Okay?”

Veruca nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Don’t,” Anya advised. “He’ll get testy.”

She cracked a slight smile at that.

“Can we go now? I’ve got some serious pent-up frustration and i just wanna ungh!” Faith announced, graphically illustrating what the sound meant.

Everyone else in the room made faces. “Yes, please, let’s leave before I get seriously traumatized,” Kennedy said, staring at Faith uneasily.

“I second that,” Xander said, and they began to file out.

Willow hesitated at the door. “You’re sure you’re gonna be okay?” she asked the girl. “I can, can make you hot chocolate, or something, if you’re not...”

“I’ll be fine,” the girl said in a throaty whisper. Willow still was still unsure—there was something not-quite-right about Veruca that really set the redhead on edge—but eventually, she nodded, smiled, and left.

As soon as she was gone, Veruca’s half-feral gaze turned into a sly smile. Standing up, she shed the blanket to reveal a tight black tube dress. When she put the cell phone up to her face, her purple “bruise” smeared. She hit a couple of buttons and waited for the phone to finished dialing.

A few second later she said, “It’s me. I’m in.”

~*~

They walked as quickly as possible to the house on Revello Drive. Spike led the way, followed closely by the others.

After a few minutes Willow came astride. “Veruca seemed kinda upset,” she ventured.

“You would be too, ‘f you were a whore who’d just been beaten by some john ‘f yours,” Spike replied. Red was a nice little bird, but sometimes she was a little long on empathy and short on common sense.

“Okay, if you say so.” Red’s voice was doubtful, but she didn’t argue. “So, um, what are you going to do it she’s not there?”

“What’re you sayin’? You think she ran off to LA already?”

“I’m saying that just angry Buffy is a bit unstable, common-sense wise. Angry, traumatized, betrayed Buffy...it has potential explosiveness,” Willow said. Her voice rose when she got to the betrayal part; Spike could tell she was feeling it just as much as he was.

“”F she’s not there, we’ll find her,” Spike said with more confidence than he felt.

Willow sighed, and he knew he hadn’t fooled her. “I guess...”

They rounded a corner and came to the house: 1630, Revello Drive. Spike grinned jauntily at Willow as they climbed the steps. “We’re ‘bout to find out who’s right.”

The others saw them go in, Spike with a competitive grin and Willow wearing a worried half-frown. A few minutes passed in breathless silence before they saw Willow come back out. “Guys, you’d better come in,” she said.

Everyone filed up on the steps as one, and as one they caught their breath when they looked inside the house and saw Spike crying in the corner.

And they knew what she was going to say before she said it: “She’s gone.”

~*~
 

10:

Buffy sat stock-still in the room, clutching her purse in her lap, unseen by the man in front of her.

Captain Rayne leaned forward and smiled. “Are you okay, Officer?” he asked seemingly solicitously.

“I’m—I’m fine,” she lied. The truth was that she could barely tell Rayne even the most insignificant details without bursting into tears.

She was vindicating herself, getting back at her betrayers. She was doing the right thing. They should have known I’d tell if they made with the lying!

So why did it feel like she was the traitor in the situation?

“Then tell me more details.” Rayne’s voice hardened. “Harmony was more useful than this.”

“I—I can’t,” she stuttered, gripping the bag even more tightly. I have a gun. If he tries anything, I can start the shootage. I have a gun. I have a—ohcrapI’mherereportingtoabadguy!

“Oh?” Now his voice was dangerously soft. Shit with a side of fuck, Buffy thought more than slightly desperately. “And why would that be?”

“Because, um, they keep me in the lobby,” she lied quickly, affecting a petulant whine. “And they never let me hear anything, and you told me to keep a low profile...”

“Okay, she is like so totally lying.” Harmony strode into the room. “Like, I just got off the phone with Veruca, and that Spike guy, he like records all his conversations, and they were talking about how she completely knew about everything just a few minutes ago.”

“Is that so?” Rayne’s eyes riveted on Buffy’s face. She tried to school her features, honestly she did—but even as she worked to keep her face blank, she felt awareness and guilt wash over her.

“I was just coming her to ask if, if I could join, because that whole helping the helpless thing they’re doing? Wicked lame,” she chattered, avoiding eye contact. She knew that as of now, she was in some serious trouble.

Rayne shook his head, sighed, and leaned back. “So that’s why you were acting so strangely. I should have known.” He sighed again, theatrically. “I had so hoped you’d come around to our way of thinking...”

Okay. She wasn’t going to talk her way out of it, that much was obvious. And even though Harmony looked like a complete ditz, she was probably packing some kind of ammo. So there was really only one thing to do.

“Sorry,” she said in a falsely cheerful voice. “I don’t play well with evil Mafia types.” She reached in her purse and yanked out her gun.

Adrenalin coursed through her when she looked up and saw that Rayne’s gun was trained steady at her face. Harmony, too, had a gun out—though Buffy noted with no small amusement that it was painted pink.

Okay, she was one perverse cop—ex-cop she corrected herself. Really, though. She was sitting there with two guns at her head and all she could do was grin cheekily and say, “Wow. That all you got?”

“You’re a fool, Officer,” Rayne informed her.

Buffy grinned even wider. “But I’m a cute fool.”

He leveled the gun at her forehead. “This is the day you die.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “I don’t think so” and pop him one with her own gun, and to hell with what Harmony and the other minions in the building might do, but just then, the door behind the Captain’s desk burst down. Rayne’s finger froze where it had been pulling the trigger when cool metal pressed against his temple.

“I wouldn’t do that ‘f I were you, mate. Could hurt someone.”

He smiled nastily at Spike. “That was the point.”

Buffy froze, staring wide-eyed at the scene before her. Faith had Harmony in a headlock; the gun dangled uselessly from her fingers. There were shouts and clanks coming from the splintered doorway, so she guessed the rest of the gang was fighting. Spike was standing behind Rayne, every bit of him completely relaxed-looking except the hand that held the gun—which signified that he wasn’t relaxed at all. “Buffy?”

Spike. There he stood, as incredibly sexy as ever. She should be thanking him profusely and help him get out of there, but all she could do was sit and stare.

He had been her betrayer, the person she was sure she’d never forgive...and he was saving her life. He didn’t have to, but he was.

She would have liked to explore the situation further, because the weirdness of it was really interesting, but he was staring at her like he expected some kind of response, or something. “What?”

“Well, you gonna get the hell out of here, or what?” Spike’s voice was desperate, and she realized just exactly what his team was doing: breaking into a building full of hundreds of trained fighters smack dab in the middle of a crowded city.

All to rescue me.

That thought made her decide. She wasn’t entirely sure that she could trust these people, but the gun clutched in Rayne’s hand was proof enough that she could trust the LAPD even less.

“This doesn’t mean you’re forgiven, ya know,” she informed Spike as she stood up and grabbed the gun from Rayne. It was a nice one; she wouldn’t want to waste it on such a big jerk.

“’D figured,” Spike said grimly. “Now, pay attention. This is what we’re gonna do.

“I told everyone I’d call ‘em off as soon as you were free. We’re gonna run out to the lobby, you’re gonna scream as loud as you can, an’ we’re gonna run like hell. Got it?”

His voice was cold enough that Buffy could tell that she wasn’t exactly forgiven yet, either. Which makes sense, since the last time I saw him I was acting completely insane.

She nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Great. Let’s get it done, then.”

He threw Rayne away from him, dealing the man a powerful enough blow to the head that he slumped down on the desk, unconscious. Faith did the same thing with Harmony, who somehow managed to get an ear-piercing squeak in before Faith silenced her.

The three of them strode as one toward the door. Buffy opened it—and almost collapsed from shock.

Xander, Anya, Kennedy, Cordelia, Willow—every single person who had become her friend over the past few weeks was there, and fighting for their lives. Bullet holes riddled the chairs of the detention area. The glass in several windows was shattered, and the secretary was nowhere to be seen. Bodies, all of them in uniform, littered the ground. Buffy didn’t know if they were dead or alive.

Faith summed it up well: “Damn, this place is a mess.”

“I—“ Buffy began, not even sure just exactly what she was going to say, but it didn’t matter, since Spike cut her off.

“Jus’ go out there an’ scream, would you?”

“And, B—make it loud,” Faith advised.

Buffy sighed. They did realize that she wasn’t big in the screaming department, right?

She took a few steps forward, inhaled as much of the dust, acrid air as she could, and let loose.

“AUUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!”

It was a scream that could have rivaled anything produced in Harmony’s lungs. It pierced through the gunfire and yells of the combatants.

As soon as they heard it, the employees of Jenkins’ Incorporated whacked their opponents on the head with whatever blunt instrument was handy and headed for the door. Buffy stood stock-still, watching them.

That is, until Spike poked her in the back with his gun. “Run, Blondie,” he yelled, sprinting ahead of her.

Okay. Sort-of-friends do the whole rescuing thing, you run. Easy enough rule.

Buffy ran out of the smoky, chaotic building like everyone’s lives, not just hers, depended on it. When she caught up to Spike she gasped, “Parked—my car—a block away.”

“’ll send someone out to get it later,” Spike said, seemingly not at all out of breath. “We gotta get the hell outta here b’fore squad cars get on our asses. C’mon,” and he veered into an alley, “you’re ridin’ with me.”

Buffy gulped as she hopped into the passenger side of the DeSoto and slammed the door. Spike. Hot sexy rescuer Spike with me in a very small space.

Crap.

*

He gunned the engine and drove away, hitting ninety before they even got out of the city. To anyone else he supposed his driving style would have been at least distracting, but to Spike, it was pure exhilaration.

Mixed with a bit of chagrin, he admitted as he glanced over to the girl sitting next to him. Really, you’d think that bursting into a building chock full of evil-ass cops would be enough to impress one silly bint, but no. The girl he’d wanted to earn the forgiveness of was staring out the window of his car, her face completely empty.

She hadn’t gone insane when he’d burst into the room, and she’d complied when he told her to scream and then run—but since he’d stopped that rat-ass-licking bastard Rayne from shooting her, he wasn’t sure if that was just gratitude or if she actually trusted him again. She’d told him he wasn’t forgiven...

Bloody hell, now she had him analyzing every little thing she’d said. This couldn’t be good.

It took them all of five minutes to get on the freeway. They were tailing Anya and Xander’s car, which also carried Cordelia; Willow, Kennedy, and Faith were riding in the Ford Focus right behind them.

Spike gave a relieved sigh. “We’re clear, luv. Rayne won’t chase us down now.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Jesus Christ, even her voice was expressionless! “’S the rules. ‘F we get out of LA, we’re home free. Well, till we get back to Sunnydale.”

“Sounds dangerous.” Still quiet, opaque.

“That’s the name of the game.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Um, dangerous? Name of the game?” Bugger it, he’d thought she was smart, but even Harmony coulda caught that one!

“No, not that.” Now she sounded impatient. Oh, well, he’d take what he could get. “I don’t understand...this.” She waved her hand expansively. “You come in, guns a-blazing—literally—and save my life, even though I called you all kinds of names and said I never wanted to see you again. Why?”

That gave him pause, since it was a question he’d been asking himself ever since that morning. He thought he’d come up with an answer, but it sure as hell wasn’t one he could tell her.

So what was he going to say? Because you’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever met and I’ve got a thing for you? Because I genuinely care about you? Because I want to shag you more than I want to breathe? Somehow he thought that any of those would just piss her off.

So he settled on, “Dunno how it happened, but you’re one of the gang now. We don’t leave our own in the hands of the lap-dancers.”

She smiled slightly at the mention of the infamous nickname. “Why lap-dancers?”

Now that was a question he could answer. “Well, when this whole bloody thing started, it was just me an’ the whelp. We figured ‘f we named ‘em lap-dancers, we could talk ‘bout it in public an’ no one would care. We were still teens, an’ teenage guys are all about sex.”

“That makes sense.” Silence for a moment, then: “Wait. What about Anya?”

“Anya got in on it after Willow did. Anya an’ Willow were friends. ‘D recruited Willow after Rayne tried to rope her into his prostitution business. Willow accidentally let slip to Anya, so Anya demanded to be able to join.”

“Bet you didn’t like that.”

Spike remembered the day crystal-clear. They’d had a row of epic proportions over Anya helping him with the whole fight-the-LA-police thing. “Well, no. But you know Anya—‘f she wants something, she’ll get it, one way or ‘nother.”

“So...Rayne runs a crime ring, right?” At Spike’s nod, Buffy sighed. “God, I can still barely believe it. I mean, it’s like out of a movie or something. A bad movie.”

He’d thought so many times himself. “Yeah, well, where d’you think they get this stuff? ‘F you look back in history books, real ones, not the poncy shit they teach you in school, you’ll find ‘s all like that. Rayne’s deal is no more remarkable than, say, the bootleggin’ the in twenties.” Oh, bloody hell. Now she had him talkin’ like a professor.

And judging by the grin on her face, she knew it. “Well, well, well. Somebody used to be a geek,” she said in a teasing voice. He growled, which made her laugh out loud. “So, teach, where does Jenkins’ Inc. fit into all this?”

“On the surface we’re jus’ what the sign says. People pay us to get them jobs. But we also pull homeless brats off the streets an’ help ‘em out. Former whores, drug dealers, gang members, you name it, we’ve helped ‘em. After they stop whatever they’re doin’ acourse. We get ‘em jobs an’ they pay us a dividend of what they earn for a year. We use that money to keep the evil nasties away from them.

“That’s why,” he continued, “Rayne wants to take us out. He reckons on expanding his little trade business out of LA, an’ Sunnydale’d be the perfect jumpin’ off point. Only problem is, we’re not gonna let him.”

“Hence the fightage,” Buffy finished for him.

He smiled at her phrasing. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Oh.” For a few minutes, silence reigned in the car as they sped down the freeway. After awhile, she said, “I guess that explains the whole keep the secretary in the dark thing.”

“Well, we knew you were a plant,” Spike said uncomfortable. “That is, y’know, a spy. We just didn’t figure you to be one of the good guys.”

“Is that what I am?” He glanced sideways at her in time to see her smile bitterly. “I feel like I don’t even know anymore.”

“’F you hate Rayne an’ all he stands for, you’re a good guy,” Spike said firmly. It damn near broke his heart, seein’ her sitting there so incredibly unsure of anything in her life.

She smiled slightly at his assessment. “So...what happens now?”

“Well, you’re out a job,” Spike said. He’d rehearsed this bit so many times he felt like a bit of a ponce, sayin’ it to her now. “So I figure, ‘f it’s alright with you, you can maybe still work as m’ secretary?”

She gave him a you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me look. “Um, is that a joke?”

“Wasn’t s’posed to be...” he trailed off, unsure of what to say. Did she think he was kidding? Jesus, hadn’t she learned that when it came to her, he was never kidding around?

“Look, it’s nice of you to ask, but I know damn good and well that you don’t really need a secretary.”

He smiled, not because of her words, but because of the way she said them. So tough, even when she was at her most vulnerable—that was his Buffy.

“Actually, we do. An’ we’d all be honored if you’d join the gang.”

“Join the gang? As in, help you in your crusade again evil-ness, or whatever?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.” He held his breath.

And nearly turned blue, since she spent a good ten minutes thinking it over.

“Am I gonna have to eat bugs to prove my loyalty or something?”

He laughed, and she joined in. “No, nothin’ like that, pet. Jus’, ‘f you ever try to betray us, we’ll kill you.”

He saw her wince and wished he hadn’t sounded quite so menacing. But then, it was his job. He was the leader of their little crack team, and if she was even thinking for a second about betraying them, well, he’d lock her up and have his wicked way with her.

Okay, not that. But he would have her killed.

“I think I can handle that,” she said, her eyes slightly hard.

“Plannin’ on bein’ a turncoat, pet?” His voice was teasing; he hoped she realized that he’d stopped being serious.

She did. “Not unless you force me,” she said, teasing him back.

“And how would I do that?” His voice was low, seductive, and as soon as it came out of his mouth, he could have kicked himself. You just got her out of a death trap, you wanker. Not twenty-four hours ago, she was sayin’ she hated you!

And now he’d really screwed up. Her face went blank and she said flatly, “To be honest, I have no idea. But then, I don’t really care.”

He sighed. The whole seductive purr thing had been goin’ a bit too far, obviously. As if he hadn’t known as soon as it came out of his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

They drove on in silence. He would have liked to say something, anything, to make sure they were still okay...’Course, she said that you weren’t back in the police headquarters. So just shut your gob.

He zoomed past a sign: Sunnydale, next exit.

Thank God.

Not that he was getting a religion, or anything.

Still, he was thanking every deity he could think of when he pulled into the driveway of Buffy’s house. The other two cars carrying He cut the ignition and stared back at it. “’S a pretty big place. You gonna be able to afford the rent?”

She winced. “Crap, I hadn’t thought of that. D’you think it’ll be a lot?”

He shrugged. “Seven, maybe eight hundred a month, prob’ly.”

“Oh, God!” She paled. “I can’t afford that! Hell, I can’t even afford half that!”

He was about to respond when he saw the bush next to the walkway rustle. Just a tad, but in his experience, bushes didn’t rustle like that unless someone was in them.

“Hold on a sec, pet.” He held up a hand, not really expecting her to obey his request—but to his immense surprise, she did. She fell silent as a church mouse.

He watched the bush intently. Was that movement amongst the leaves? It was too damn hard to tell, sitting here in the car.

“Okay,” he said in a low voice, glancing at Buffy. She was fixated on the bush. Smart girl.

“Okay what? Spike, is someone in that bush?”

He winced. Bloody hell, Rayne couldn’t just leave us alone for awhile, could he? M’ girl’s been practically traumatized! “I don’t know. Jus’—get out ‘f the car with me. If there’s someone in there, ‘ll beat ‘em to a pulp, yeah?”

“Great plan,” Buffy muttered, fishing around in her purse.

“’S the only one we’ve got,” he retorted, watching her closely. That purse was huge. What was she looking for?

He got his answer a second later when she pulled out a pistol. “This,” she said, cocking it, “will help. A little, at least,” she amended.

“Uh-uh.” He held up his hands. “No bloody way are you gonna brandish that thing with me around.” He’d known she was dangerous, but what if she decided to shoot him instead of Sir Hides-A-Lot over there?

“You don’t trust me!”

Oh, this was just terrific. Now she was gonna look all hurt. Yep, there were the eyes, the big green eyes full of tears, and there was the lip, and—

“Bloody hell! Fine,” he growled. “But you point that thing at me and—“

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’ll ‘rip my bleein’ eyes out’.”

He winced. Her approximation of an English accent was worse than the whelp’s. “Let’s jus’ do this, a’right?”

“Fine by me.”

He grabbed his own pistol and stepped out of the car.

Nothing happened. Buffy followed suit and slammed the car door. She darted her eyes over to the bush; Spike did the same. They both saw the glint of metal amongst the leaves.

Left to his own devices, Spike would have just raised the gun and started shooting at the little glint. Buffy, though, apparently had other ideas.

She swooned forward, lowering the gun and looking at Spike with wide, worshipful eyes. Eyes that begged him to go along with this little plan of hers.

“Oh, Spike,” she simpered, swaying forward a bit more. “Thanks so much for driving me home.” She raised her hand and rested it on her arm.

He swallowed—hard. How in the world could she make him hard, make him want her, with that simple touch? “Um—it was my pleasure,” he said, loud enough for the man in the bush to hear.

“Do you maybe wanna...come inside?” she purred, looking up at him through her lashes.

God, yes. For a second his lust-addled brain forgot that this was a charade. Then said brain noticed the anger beginning to spark in her eyes and kicked back into gear. He smiled suavely and wrapped an arm around her waist. His smile widened when he saw her seductive smile falter. Two can play this game, kitten. “’D love to.” He began to guide them to the door.

They were halfway up the steps when a rustle behind them informed them that their mystery man had decided to step out. Spike felt Buffy’s body tense, and he squeezed her waist in warning before as one they yanked out their guns and whirled around.

To both their surprise, it wasn’t a man standing there with a gun pointed at them. No, it was a girl—and Spike recognized her.

“Veruca,” he spat.

Buffy shot a glance at him. “Veruca? Harmony said she was the one who—“

“Pretended to be homeless so you could snoop around my house?” Spike addressed the woman in front of him. He shook his head contemptuously. “How low will that bastard sink?”

“Pretty low, apparently,” Veruca said in that sultry tone of hers. She then looked over her shoulder and called, “You can come on out, boys.”

Spike’s whole body went cold when three more men popped out of the nearby shrubbery. Footsteps behind him informed him that more had come out of the house. And at that moment, he was terrified.

Not for himself, of course. He’d been in more situations like this than he could count. But Buffy—they were pointing all those guns at her, too, and the idea that they’d hurt even a hair on her head scared him half to death.

Which was why he said in what he hoped passed for a reasonable tone, “Now, let’s not get hasty. Maybe we can work somethin’ out.”

Everyone there, Buffy included, looked at him like he was terminally insane. He was starting to think he was, actually.

Veruca was the first to speak. “I don’t think so,” she said, and pulled the trigger.

Spike jumped on Buffy not a moment too soon. He felt the bullet graze his back, and pain like fire tore through him. He shoved it aside—he’d tend to it later. Grabbing her tight, he rolled them behind a bush.

“What the hell are you doing?” Buffy shrieked as he rolled off of her.

“Just stay here,” he ordered, and prepared to jump out from behind their meager cover.

He really shouldn’t have been surprised to hear her come behind him.

Apparently Veruca wanted to see them die; she could easily have had them taken out in the bush, but when he emerged, she was standing there calmly, sneering at him.

“Take a bullet for your lover. How cute.”

Crack! A gun went off, and Veruca jerked to the right. A bullet grazed her hair.

“He’s not my lover, you skanky bitch,” Spike heard Buffy snarl. A second later a blur of blonde hair shot by him, and Buffy was tackling Veruca, shoving her onto the pavement.

He would have liked to worry about her, but six of Veruca’s henchmen were getting ready to pull her off and probably inflict some serious damage while they were at it. He fired a few bullets at them before unsheathing his wrist knife and diving into the fight.

He was hopelessly outnumbered and he knew it, but all he could do was hope that someone—Anya, Kennedy, even Xander—had enough sense to come by and check on them, preferably before they both died. He grinned fiercely and knocked one man out. ’Course, that might take awhile.

A punch to his right eye had him down on the sidewalk. He felt the hard cement cut into his head and winced, but this wasn’t the time for self-pity. Veruca had Buffy in a stranglehold, and he’d be damned if he was gonna let that continue.

But then two men pinned his arms behind his back. He saw Veruca deal Buffy a blow of astonishing force—

He heard himself scream, a strangled sound that might have resembled his girl’s name—

And then cold metal impacted with his skull, and he was out cold.

~*~
 

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