Challenge code: 1BG19
Title: Harnessing Sunlight

Author: Sandy S.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, but Joss said we could play!

Rating: PG-13…maybe R eventually.
Summary: A few years post-NFA. The good guys did not prevail in the fight in L.A. Spike/Buffy.

Dedication: Special thanks to my dear friend, Tiana, for reading over the fic so far and to Deathisyourart for the gorgeous inspiration!

She runs.

Her boots pound the cobblestone pavement in sharp bursts of sound. Cold, crisp air rushes in and out of her lungs with each breath she takes, and she is grateful for the sharp ache in her lungs and the white cloud of carbon dioxide that comes with each exhalation.

She’s also grateful for the throbbing pain in her side.

The pain tells her that she is still alive. She knows enough about death to be familiar with the numbness that comes with her life force slipping away.

After all, she’s died. . . or nearly died. . . more times than she cares to admit.

She refuses to look down at herself, not wanting to the moonlight to illuminate the trail of precious scarlet fluid that’s trailing after her. . . marking the way for her pursuers.

At the corner, there is a major fork in the alleyway, and she hesitates, sparing a glance back over her shoulder. The wind whips blond hair over her eyes, and she tosses the gun she carries into her other hand, pushing aside the errant strands.

No one’s behind her, so she takes a short break to assess her situation.

Tapping her left ear, she speaks aloud, “Come on. Come on. Please be there.”

She fought long and hard to retrieve the object in the pouch at her waist.

And one of her attackers had knocked loose the device planted in her ear. . . her only way of contacting her mission partner. Somewhere along the way, the mission had gotten off schedule, and they’d been separated.

Her ear itches, but nothing happens. The communicator is kaput.

Damn it.

She flips open her wrist computer and checks the time.

01:47:00

It’s almost two in the morning.

She has forty-three minutes to find him and somehow make it to the shuttle before her team shuts the doors and re-sets the magic barriers for another month, leaving them trapped above ground. If they make it to the shuttle by two-thirty, they can radio ahead and buy some more time. She knows Willow can hold open the barrier long enough. . . the political red tape is the problem. The authorities in charge don’t always like to bend the rules.

A footstep echoes across the quiet alley.

She holds her breath and pivots silently on her heel, rubbing a finger over the gun’s barrel to turn it on. She doesn’t like the feel of a gun in her hand. Even with the passage of time and her new circumstances, she still prefers the wooden stakes she and her friends used to spend hours carving what seems like eons ago.

Nowadays wood is too precious to waste on giant stakes.

Instead, the ammunition in the gun maximizes her chances of killing demons and vamps.

Quick and dirty kill.

That’s what Andrew likes to call the results.

He designed the bullets with traces of wood that tore through the heart’s muscle and splintered apart on impact. It’s definitely an efficient way to slay.

If wood doesn’t kill her enemies, the silver knife in her belt will.

Both hands on the gun, she flips her wrist computer closed with a soft click that makes her freeze and listen.

She hears nothing but the sound of the air whistling along the buildings. She wonders what they look like during the day, and she knows she will never have the chance to see. . . not if she keeps insisting that she will only go on missions with her current partner.

She’s been missing the sunlight. . . they all have, but very soon, if she succeeds, that will be remedied.

Moving silent as a cat, she presses up against the stone wall so that her body is positioned behind a slight protrusion. Peering into the shadows, she pays attention to her senses, eyes watching every flicker of light and change of shadow, ears listening for another footstep, and hairs on skin standing on end to detect anyone nearby.

Nothing.

She frowns. She could have sworn. . .

Without warning, a cool hand covers her mouth and pulls her backward.

A cry tries to escape her lips but is instantly muffled by fingers pressing close to her lips.

She doesn’t think.

She just chomps down hard on the fingers, eliciting a string of curses from her attacker. Using the distraction, she pushes on the arm that’s encircled her waist and whirls to face her attacker, aiming the gun right for his heart.

“Bloody hell, woman!” a familiar voice hisses. “First, you bite me, and then, you point that thing at me. You trying to kill me?”

“Spike!” She launches herself into his arms, letting the gun go limp in her hand. His hair is shorn short and rubs against her cheek as she inhales the scent of old leather and peppermints.

Relief pours over her, but she feels him tense at her gesture of affection.

To cover her disappointment, she bounces back, shaking the gun at him. “*You* shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”

The moonlight gives her a glimpse of his blue eyes. He holds his palms up defensively. “Watch what you’re doing with that thing. I don’t fancy being dusted tonight.”

She holsters the weapon in her belt. “Sorry.”

“Where you been, pet? You cut out,” he taps his ear, “and then, you didn’t meet me back where we agreed.”

“One of the vamps at the target facility knocked my communicator loose. It hasn’t worked since.”

“And what about the meeting part?” He studies her carefully, grabbing her by the hips and bringing her forward to examine her mid-section.

Aware that he’s voluntarily touching her, she manages, “Technology and Buffy are un-mix-y things. I couldn’t figure out Giles’s mapping system on this stupid wrist computer.”

“Didn’t you pay attention in the briefing?” His fingers loosen her shirt from her pants, sending shivers of desire up her spine. Then, he probes her wound so that she winces. “What happened here?”

“I paid attention!” she insists, batting his hands down. “I just like to use my instincts. I’m not that far off, am I?” He tries to inspect her injury again. “Will you stop that?” She wishes that he would touch her in other ways, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. . . not when he hardly talks with her outside of the missions. “I’m fine. One of the vamps just got a knife in me. It’s just a surface-y scratch. Promise.”

He sighs. He knows better than to mess with a Slayer who’s being stubborn. They have a little over thirty minutes until they have to be at their designated location; he’ll deal with her when they’re safe. For now, he has to attend to more pertinent issues, “It’s just a scratch that’s bleeding all over the sodding place and leaving behind a trail of bloody breadcrumbs for any vamps within a four block radius.”

She blinks. “It’s that strong?”

“How do you think I found you?”

Feeling annoyed, she plants her hands on her hips and asks, “So, tell me, then, where are all these vamps that are following me? I thought I lost them several hundred yards ago.”

“Well,” he shrugs and grins, “you are a bit off course, pet. Had to actively search for you. . . pick out your trail from amidst the other copper-scented trails in the area.”

“So, you admit it; you had a hard time finding me. It’s not that serious.”

“Actually,” his eyes flick to the darkness over her shoulder, “when I said you went the wrong way, I didn’t say that you got yourself out of trouble.”

She follows his gaze, muscles tensing as she grips the handle of her gun. Growls issue forth from the shadows, and golden eyes glow against the inky backdrop of the buildings.

Time for another fight.

* * *

“What city are we in again?” Buffy shouts, landing a solid kick into the abdomen of the closest vampire.

The vamp’s belly is solid, and the impact sends shoots of pain up to her wound. Thankfully, the vamp doesn’t notice her gasp under the volume of his own grunt, and as he falls to the ground, she aims the gun at his heart and fires off a round.

Dust billows, and the vamp’s death is marked by the familiar sucking roar.

She resists the temptation to blow over the tip of the gun like in the cartoons. She loves these missions. The fighting makes something in her soul come alive. . . more so than she’s felt since going underground. . . more so than since Spike came back into her life.

She’s dusted twelve; he’s done in at least that many.

Spike dodges a poorly swung punch and lashes out with his leg at the vamp attacking him, neatly tripping him. He shoots a well-aimed bullet into the vampire and grips the next one’s shoulder. “Prague, pet. We’re in Prague.”

“Right, I remember now. Came here once with Giles. Had fried everything at what’s it,” she slams her elbow into the vampire behind her, firing the gun back without looking and sending a bullet into the one in front of her, “Novuko, I think.”

“U Nuvako,” he corrects, aiming his gun right at her.

“Spike, wha-?”

“Duck.”

She’s heard him say that before. This time she doesn’t question him. Dropping into a roll, she arrives neatly at his feet as he dusts the final vampire.

She takes the hand he offers her up. Normally, she’s fine without the assistance, but he knows that she’s hurt. “Where’d that last guy come from?”

“He was hanging out in the dark, waiting.”

“What for?”

“Dunno, but we have to get out of here.”

Wiping the back of her hand over her sweaty forehead, Buffy checks her wrist computer. “Fifteen minutes. We have fifteen minutes to get to the shuttle. We’ll never make it.”

“You’re right. But I have a plan.”

Spike walks away from her, taking the right fork in the road.

She stares at him for a few heartbeats, taking in the swagger he’s had since she met him in Sunnydale and the well-known leather coat moving around his legs. Then, she hurries after him, moving double time to keep up with his long strides.

“What’s going on, Spike.” Her words come out harsher than she intended.

He doesn’t say anything, but he seems different. . . even more distant than normal. “I’m going to get us out of this mess.”

“Isn’t this the wrong way?”

“Yes.”

She races ahead and blocks his path. “Then, what are you doing?” Reading his eyes in the moonlight, she continues, “You’ve been here before, haven’t you? You’ve been here for longer than my trip here with Giles.”

“Buffy. . .” His arm goes up to push around her.

She draws her tiny form to her full height and sets her jaw. “No. Explain. We’re going the wrong way. . . I have a right to know why. I don’t want to get stuck here.” Pain shoots through her side, and she bends forward protectively, tears welling in her eyes.

His expression softens, and he touches her arm. “We don’t have a choice, pet. They’re going to close the barriers. And I have a way that we can navigate here.”

“They won’t close them. They need what we got.” She pats the pouch at her waist. “I got it, you know. You didn’t ask.”

“Was a bit distracted.” He reaches into his coat and unzips his own pocket. “Hold still.” He brings out bandage strips and antiseptic spray, deftly ripping open the package and stuffing the wrapper in his pocket. Shaking the can, he reaches for the edge of her shirt again. “Let me help, love.”

He hasn’t called her “love” since she found him again. . . deep within the third largest underground city, training demon hunters. That was three years ago. The nickname means something now and stirs something in her heart. She complies without complaint.

He squats in front of her, fingers brushing over hers as he handles the blood-soaked fabric, lifting it up and away from the wound. Buffy sucks in a breath before she realizes what she’s doing.

“It’s more than a scratch,” he murmurs.

Buffy peers down at the gash. She’s seen enough wounds on her body that she’s no longer shocked by how much blood she can lose and still function. “Must have opened up more during the fight.”

“Hold on. Gonna spray and bandage.” Spike is true to his word, and Buffy’s wound is covered in less than thirty seconds.

She speaks before he has a chance to rabbit again. “So, this doesn’t get you out of telling me what’s going on.”

There’s resignation on his features as he breezes past her without so much as a tiny acknowledgment of the tenderness he’d just shown her. “I know, but we have to hurry.”

Side and heart stinging, she resumes following him. She decides to be less open-ended, “When did you come here?”

His jaw clenches. “Oh, round about 1997.”

“You were here right before. . .”

“Yeah. Right before Dru and I came to Sunnydale.” He pauses to check something on one of the buildings and mumbles something unintelligible to himself.

Things start to slide into place in Buffy’s mind. “You and Dru came here. . . that’s why you had to do that spell with Angel in the church. . .she was hurt here.”

“Go to the head of the class.” He rounds the next corner without slowing down.

“C’mon, Spike. We’re on this mission together. You gotta let me in on. . .” Buffy stops short. She hadn’t been paying attention to where Spike was leading her.

Her mouth hangs open.

He’d brought her to demon central.

* * *

Buffy notices the light first and squints against its brilliance.

Fire fills metal barrels and garnishes torches in bright, yellow-orange, warm colors. Candles dot outdoor tables, dripping wax over wood.

Sound comes next. . . voices rising over the light to fill her ears with muffled chatter, occasionally increasing in volume with laughter or a roar. Bottle and glasses clatter against tables and against each other.

The whole block is dotted with cafes and bars and figures mingling with one another. The closest bar has a makeshift dance floor situated in the middle of the street, and dark bodies bob and flow in time with rhythmic Spanish guitars, being played by live musicians.

The only problem is that they aren’t humans drinking and dancing and carousing . . . they are demons. . . so many other types of demons that Buffy loses track of how many after a cursory scan of the crowd.

But most of them are vampires. . . dressed in sensual clothing painted deep scarlets, greens, purples, and black like scarves blowing in the wind.

A hand encircles her elbow, and she snaps out of her trance. Spike pulls her into the shadows and whispers in her ear. She listens intently, never removing her eyes from the jostling, loud throng of demons.

Before he can even finish explaining, she balks. “What? No way, Spike. I’m not doing that.”

He huffs in frustration, fingers digging into her upper arm. “Look, pet, do you want to die out here? Or do you want to complete this mission in one piece?”

“You’re *not* biting me,” she whispers. She shakes her arm, forcing him to loosen his grip. “We can get out of this without me pretending to be bound to you.”

“No, you can’t. There are too many of them, and I can’t hold them all off. Trust me. I know. It *has* to be this way.”

Buffy suddenly understands. “You planned coming here.”

“Buffy.” The use of her name captures her attention. “When I couldn’t find you. . . I was desperate. Got your scent and came across this place. I think that the person in charge here can help us. . . even if she isn’t aware of it. I need you to go along with this.” He caresses her shoulder and sweeps aside her blonde hair, uncovering the scar on her neck.

Her blood pounds in her throat at the thought of his teeth piercing her flesh. . . his lips on her neck. . . her blood streaming into his mouth with each heart beat. She shivers in desire and is surprised by the sadness that accompanies it. This isn’t how her countless daydreams of rekindling a relationship with Spike are supposed to play out.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, breathing cool air over her ear. . . echoing words from the distant past.

He is so genuine that tears fill her eyes. How many missions have they fought side by side? How many times has he proven that he is a good man? He sought and won a soul for her.

She can’t deny him now, and she doesn’t have time to dally. He’s giving her a chance to show how much different their relationship could be.

Impulsively, she nods her assent.

Her gesture is all the permission he needs.

She closes her eyes, listening to the familiar sound of the shift into his demon face. His hands move from her biceps along her arms. . . over the backs of her hands. His fingers slice hers apart, and his lips cover her scar in a gentle kiss. He grasps her hands as his teeth sink deep into her neck, and her knees almost collapse beneath her as he sucks, drawing forth her life force. She floats along in the heady rush of him drinking from her and unconsciously steps further into his embrace. . . her back fast against his abdomen and chest. . . her thighs against his thighs. His leather coat surrounds her, and she feels as if she might drown in his scent. The moment is over almost before it began, and she almost cries out at the loss of the connection. The unbidden tears slip onto her cheeks as his tongue runs over the tiny wounds in her neck, and his hands release hers.

She re-opens her eyes, vision blurry from tears and loss of blood.

The song shifts to a lively tune. The guitar-playing demons pluck out the delicate melody, and the crowd parts, voices eerily silenced. From within the pub, a dark figure slinks, hips and pale arms swaying seductively in tempo with the music. A male tries to lay a hand on her. . . to interrupt her dance, and she emits a tiny half-growl, half-bark and pushes him into the crowd. The sound of a vampire being dusted is barely audible beneath the soft staccato of the song. She never loses the beat and twirls in a hypnotic circle, pausing at the end.

A snow-white hand plucks a candle off the closest table and holds the flame up to illuminate a face.

Dark blue eyes glowing in the light of the flame, Drusilla smiles wickedly at Buffy.

“My little boy brings me a beautiful golden treat.”

Buffy’s mind reels at the sight of her old enemy. She can’t quite comprehend what is happening, and for several seconds, she wildly wonders if she’s dreaming and half-expects to wake up in her cold bed underground.

“I have, love,” Spike’s voice rumbles quietly. His hand goes to her belt and removes her slay gun and unsheathes her knife, tossing them out of her reach.

“The moon whispered that you would come and go and return again. You tasted her. Was she what you expected? Did she taste like sunlight?”

Dizzy at Dru’s words and Spike’s actions, Buffy turns her head to confirm what she’s just heard. Spike’s jaw is twitching, but his eyes are soft, his gaze directed at Dru as if she is the only female in the world.

In that instant, Buffy’s heart goes numb, and her mouth goes dry. All the months she spent working with Spike, she had been thinking that he was distant because of her. . . something she had done. Now she knows. . . he’d only been working with her as a way to get back to his beloved black beauty. . . his Drusilla.

The vampiress sidles up to him and proceeds to stalk around him, undressing his body with her eyes. “My Spike has been a very bad boy. . . like Daddy. He will have to prove himself further to remain in my presence.” She stops in front of him and holds the candle against his cheek to prove that he is solid. “At least, he isn’t ashes yet. It will give Mummy a chance to play.” She juts her chin up and regards him with wide-open eyes. “Do you remember how I like to play, my Spike? Or do you need reminding?”

He caresses her hand over the candle. “I remember quite well, my pet. You and I always did have fun.”

She’s almost petulant at his almost disinterested tone. “And we will have fun again, won’t we? Will you take me underground for feasting?” Her free hand goes to her stomach, and she sways back and forth to a beat only she can hear. “My tummy is all rumbly.”

Hooking a finger in his pants, Spike cocks an eyebrow at her and purses his lips. “You will be fed.”

Drusilla is delighted by the change and pats him on the forehead as if he is one of her dolls.

She turns once again to Buffy, taking a step toward her. “May I have a taste?”

Weak from loss of blood and still trying to make sense of the scene playing out before her, Buffy draws on her inner Slayer and manages a glare. “Lay a hand on me, and you’ll be dust before you can say, ‘I dropped my dolly in the dirt.’”

Drusilla lashes out with clawed fingernails, knocking Buffy to the ground.

“Dru!” Spike objects lunging forward to stand in front of Buffy.

“I just wanted to play,” the vampiress whines. She licks her fingers and swoons. “Ooooohh. I was right. She does taste like sunshine.”

Buffy brings her hand to her face and discovers that she has a blood-soaked hand. More blood loss. She knows she should stay awake. . .

“Not now, love.” Spike slips an arm around her waist, drawing her away from the fallen Slayer.

Dru’s arms find a home on his shoulders. “Even now, you won’t let me touch her.”

“You have to deal with me first. The Slayer is less important.”

Spike’s words are the last ones that Buffy hears. She doesn’t really know what just happened. She’s just cognizant of the hurting in her heart and isn’t sure she cares if she ever wakes up.

* * *

Buffy may have lost consciousness feeling hopeless, but she wakes up pissed.

At first, she’s unsure why she’s angry, but then, the memories come pouring into her conscious mind as if water’s been dumped over her head.

Sitting up abruptly with a small intake of breath and opening her eyes, she watches the world spin as a wave of vertigo overtakes her sense of balance accompanied by a sharp stabbing pain through her mid-section.

She recognizes dimly that she’s in a bed, and her open hand thrusts out to catch and prop up her rebelling body. Her other hand goes to her neck, and she clumsily probes the puckered, enflamed flesh, re-closing her eyes as she re-experiences the sharp pain and rush of desire from Spike’s teeth and mouth over her neck. . . his body molded to hers as if he’d never left her side since the last night in Sunnydale when they’d huddled together on the narrow cot in her basement.

She doesn’t know how long she was insensible, but she knows that she dreamed. . . not a Slayer dream but a genuine nightmare. She doesn’t recall the details of the dream. . . just the impression. . . the fear.

A long time ago, she became tired of being afraid. . . grew weary of not being in control. “Nothing scares Buffy Summers,” the remaining Slayers say behind her back, admiring her toughness in the face of the ultimate apocalypse. . . the apocalypse they hadn’t pushed back. . . that had driven the human race and a handful of demons like Clem underground.

Yeah, right, tough.

With a cry of frustration, she pushes past the fog in her head, swings her legs over the edge of the small bed, almost running into the wall of the tiny room. A minute stool poses as an end table and holds a single candle. . . her only source of light.

Not thinking, she snatches the innocent tower of wax and hurls it hard and fast against the unadorned concrete wall.

The soft wax cylinder caves in upon itself, and the light snuffs out.

She’s in the dark.

“Brilliant move, Buffy,” she mutters to herself. Now she can’t even see to move around her prison.

Plunking herself back down on the lumpy bed, she discovers that the tears are flowing freely.

“Damn you!” she shouts into the shadows.

She hates him.

She hates that he ruined their mission and that she let herself be tricked.

She hates that he betrayed her with his soul intact and that he betrayed her for Dru.

But most of all, she despises him for making her feel. . . for making her lose control. . .

But is she really out of control?

Swallowing hard, she inhales deeply to center herself.

She has to take each move she makes seriously, or she won’t stand a chance of escaping in one piece. She’d figure out how to get past the mass of demons *after* she broke out of the room.

Think, brain, think. She’s reminded of Xander, and that brings forth a smile.

What’s the main thing? Patting her mid-section, she discovers that Spike left her with the device they’d worked so hard to retrieve. Her wrist feels too light. . . it’s no longer encased in her wrist computer. Not that she could do anything with it anyway. And obviously, she doesn’t have any weapons.

What about a door? There has to be a door in this place. They had to bring her in through a door.

Sliding forward onto her feet again and using the wooden bedpost for an initial anchor, she finds the cool wall and moves quickly around the room, drawing an internal map of her surroundings. The room is definitively tiny, and she encounters two significant things.

One is a small, ridged frame no bigger than a television screen positioned on the center of the wall opposite the foot of the bed. She tries to pry up the most raised edge but fails even with admittedly weakened Slayer strength.

To the right of the headboard, she finds the door. . . a large metal door that’s flush with the floor, walls, and most likely the ceiling. No door handle and no hinges. She raps on the metal with a fist and hears a dull thud. It’s thick. She won’t be kicking the door down.

Buffy decides that she’s in what Dr. Walsh called a Skinner box. . . only not for pigeons but Slayers. . . a Slayer box.

Every Skinner box has a key. She just has to figure out which one to press.

A fire throbs in her belly.

She has to figure out the right button to push, but first, she has to lie down. Stupid stomach wound.

The lumpy bed almost feels like heaven, and she should know, having been there herself. She’ll just close her heavy lids for a minute and store away the pain.

Then, she’ll be good to go.

Her hands slip across the icy comforter and encounter a pillow. Her face presses into the welcoming embrace of cotton, but before she can get comfortable. . .

Her eardrums vibrate with a loud pulsing sound.

“What the. . . ?” She tosses aside the pillow, uncovering the source of the noise. With shaking hands, she identifies the object as her wrist computer!

“It’s never made that noise before,” she mumbles to herself, flicking on the screen and sending a soft arc of blue light across the darkness.

The first thing she notices is the time.

21:16:47

She’s been out at least eighteen or nineteen hours. She’s screwed. Even if she escapes, the barriers won’t re-open for another month for sure now. Survival will be difficult. . . not impossible but certainly not fun. Demons cover the Earth’s surface.

The computer emits the strange sound again.

She wasn’t lying when she told Spike that she and technology were un-mix-y things.

Crap.

She has no idea what to do or what it means. The tiny screen remains blank except for the time and remains quiet except for the same string of beeps every few seconds.

So, Buffy starts pushing buttons.

Nothing, nothing, and nothing.

Not even the one menu she recognizes pops up. It’s as if the computer is stuck. . . frozen.

She tries a few other things before she emits a little noise of her own. . . a noise of annoyance and defeat.

“Oh, well, at least I can use it for a flashlight.” She looks around at the bare walls and lone bed. “Not that there’s anything to see.”

Then, her eyes latch onto something tiny in the corner of the ceiling.

“What’s this?”

Rounding the bed, Buffy grabs the small stool and drags it to the corner. Stepping gingerly onto the rickety piece of furniture, she shines the blue light at the object.

“Camera. Wonder what they think I’m gonna do in here.”

Metal sliding over stone snags her attention, and she reacts on instinct, leaping off the stool and managing a cartwheel aimed at the door.

The heavy metal slams shut in her face.

Buffy’s so angry that she literally sees stars. . . well, the stars might have something to do with her injuries and loss of blood but still. . .

A low groan comes from behind her.

She turns and holds up the tiny computer to illuminate the figure on the bed. Anger spirals back with more strength than she imagined.

“Spike.”

Moving on a battery of pure adrenaline, she tosses the computer light onto the bed, reaches up, snaps off one of the wooden bedposts, and is atop Spike within seconds, knees on either side of his waist and wood. . . real, honest-to-goodness wood pressed over his heart.

He doesn’t make a sound. . . not even a grunt at the sudden presence of her weight on him.

So, she fills the silence with her own carefully-controlled voice, “You better have a damned good explanation for what’s going on, or your heart’s gonna meet the pointy end of this bedpost.” She’s so angry that she’s trembling, and she’s a little surprised that she means every word she just said.

The quiet resumes, raising a niggling doubt in the back of her mind.

“Spike?” she asks, her tone a curious mixture of hardness and concern.

“In a bit too much pain for much explaining right now, pet,” he whispers, voice so weak that Buffy’s heart aches without her permission.

She slides to the right, landing on the comforter beside him, legs tucked against his mid-section. Her fumbling fingers fold over the computer light, and blue streams over his form. Bruises paint his pale skin in dark circles, and his lip is swollen and bleeding. One section of his shirt is blood-soaked and dented in as if someone used a heavy object to smash in his ribcage.

Her mind flashes to the last time she saw him this thrashed. The First Evil had tortured him for hours as she worked to rescue him by killing the Turok-Han. She had been pretty beat up herself. Recovery had been slow. . . for both of them, but they had muddled through together. . . like always.

This time, she can’t quite get past his earlier actions. The wound on her neck throbs with its own memories, and she scoots over so that she’s no longer in contact with him.

“Try to explain.” She cares about how hurt he is, but she can still be angry. She has a right to be.

He coughs as he tries to speak, “Did you get my message?”

That’s not what she expects him to say. “What message?”

His finger taps at the computer in her hand. “On here.”

She frowns. “I couldn’t figure anything out on it. It just lights up and beeps at me.”

“The beeping.”

“What about it?” She glances down at the screen and fumbles with the buttons. Nothing.

He sighs as if she should understand him, and he swallows. “Morse code.”

doesn’t remember a Morse code feature. “Oh.”

“The plan.”

“What plan?” She’s confused now, so she states what she knows for sure, allowing an edge of hurt to curl over the words, “You bit me. You handed me over to Drusilla. You *betrayed* me.”

Even in the dim light, sorrow glints in his eyes at her accusation. “I handed *myself* over to Dru.”

“*She* did this to you?”

A half-chuckle, half-cough escapes his throat. “Who else, pet?”

His eyes drift closed as if the exertion of laughing sapped his remaining energy. Buffy can’t bring herself to hit him when he is so hurt, so she lightly pinches a patch of flesh that isn’t bruise-covered.

“Hey,” she says, increasing her volume.

His body gives a little jerk, and he inhales sharply, blinking.

“No sleeping yet. Finish your explanation.” She releases her grip on the wood staff. He doesn’t have the energy to harm her. Plus, she is starting to believe that he has something more in mind for her. . . for them.

“Right. Give me a minute.” He re-closes his eyes as a wave of pain washes over his features. She reacts without thinking, taking his hand in hers and allowing him to squeeze as a distraction.

Buffy loses track of the seconds that pass before he continues, “Made a trade. When I was looking for you, fell into a trap. There are catacombs below the city. Bunch of vamps came to check their trap. Dru was one of them. Said she expected my return to Prague, so she set traps. She wanted a trade.”

“What kind of trade?” Skepticism is healthy.

“This.” His hand goes limp against her palm, and she adds pressure to rouse him again. His response is weaker than before, but he keeps talking, “Had to prove that my word was good. Daft bird doesn’t trust me anymore. Not that I blame her. It’s why she wanted to torture me. . . after I tied her up that last time. . . in Sunnydale.”

Buffy ignores his reference to the past. She has to know, “And the biting me thing?”

“A way to seal the deal. If she saw me bite you. . . if she got to taste you, then, she’d know I’d meet the terms of the agreement.”

“Deal sealed with Slayer’s blood,” she says flatly. Part of her feels violated that he would make such a deal without explaining things to her. . . without offering her a choice. Part of her also feels disappointed that the only reason he got so close her physically was because he’d made a deal. “That was low, Spike.” Understatement of the year.

He runs a thumb over her knuckles. “I’m so sorry, pet. Really. It was the only way. We were almost out of time, and she wouldn’t let me out of the trap unless I met her terms.”

“Sooo, in exchange for beating you up, getting to taste me, and being thrown in here, we get what? To be on Candid Camera in the corner over there?” She inclines her head in the direction of the camera she found earlier.

Lacking the energy to laugh again, he gives her a half-smile. “Not a camera, pet.”

She squints into the darkness, making out the vague outline of the non-camera. “What is it then?”

“Our way out of here. We get our freedom. That box isn’t a camera. It’s a transmitter. It’s connected to the underground system. We can contact help. Operating system’s in the wall over there.” He brings his head up, nodding in the direction of the television-shaped frame. “Then, she’ll let us go.”

“It can’t be that simple. . . . And how can I believe you?”

Spike’s head falls back into place. “It isn’t simple. We get to make contact, rest up, and get out of here, but she’s not stopping her followers from chasing after us.” He hides his eyes from her. “As far as trusting me, pet. I can’t answer that one for you.”

He sounds so tired, so defeated that she realizes she does believe him. And with that trust, dread fills Buffy’s stomach, making her feel nauseated. “We’ll never make it. Under ideal conditions, we might. . . I might now. But you. . . after what she did to you. . .”

His next words are adamant, “That’s why you’ll leave me behind if it comes to that. What you got there,” he pats the pouch at her waist, “is worth saving.”

Despite what he’s done, her fierce stubbornness surges. “I won’t leave you behind. Not again.”

“We’ll see, pet, we’ll see.” The last words are so soft that Buffy barely hears them.

“Spike?” She caresses his cheek with her free hand.

“Can’t talk anymore. Sleep.” He turns toward her on his side so that his damaged ribs are above the rest of his body. Moving his arm beneath his head, he shivers.

Buffy doesn’t say a word but positions her backside against his underbelly and brings his arm over her hip to keep him warm. She’s tired, too. Within seconds, she’s asleep.

* * *

Consciousness overtakes her brain, but Buffy doesn’t dare move or make a sound.

Spike is awake, and his body is still snug against hers, but his head is up. She can feel his arm pinning her hair to the bed but not pulling too hard. . . just enough so that she knows he’s there.

Spike’s not alive. His chest doesn’t rise and fall, and he doesn’t have a heartbeat or take in the air like someone who needs oxygen. He does breathe though. . . when he speaks or when he’s exerting himself. . . probably something leftover from his human days over a century ago.

Sometimes she’s still amazed that he remembers that droplet of years that he was human.

And sometimes she’s amazed that he seems so human when he’s so clearly not.

Buffy almost gives her awareness away by gasping when his fingers brush back the hair covering her neck. A single digit glides over the recently re-opened wound on her neck, sending the intermingled sensation of pain and pleasure rippling over her body.

She’s never experienced so much power behind a single touch.

And she’s pretty sure Spike hasn’t either.

When the contact ceases, she resists the urge to insist that he return, afraid that if he knows she is awake, he will pull away from her all together. He’s done it enough in the last couple of years.

He moves from her anyway.

Cool air rushes between them. The mattress rises with the loss of his weight next to her.

Although she tries, she can’t see him in the unyielding darkness. But she hears him, circling the bed, bumping into the corner of the bed frame with a muffled curse, and planting his feet onto the rickety stool.

A little hurt that he left her side without acknowledging what happened between them, without realizing she was awake, she speaks, “How do you know Dru won’t just kill us both? I mean, we’re sorta stuck here. She could do anything she wants to us.”

His hand covering the smooth surface of the transmitter above his head, Spike closes his eyes. His body aches. Although his healing powers are swifter than a human’s, they still lag behind a Slayer’s. His soul tickles a bit. He doesn’t want to worry her; he’s done that enough this mission. “She won’t kill us. I know Dru. She’s a bit dotty but by no means is she stupid. She won’t jeopardize losing what she needs.”

She remembers something, but she wants to see him when she asks. She sits up. Flicking on the wrist computer that she finds next to her head, she narrows her eyes. “Bright.”

“You forget how bright the light can be when you get used to the dark,” Spike comments, the truth of his words edged with the crust of sarcasm.

“Hush,” she says, grateful for the return to the surface-y ease between them. “Damn. It’s eight o’clock!”

“In the morning?”

“In the evening. Twenty hundred hours. That’s eight P.M., right?” Buffy still isn’t good at the military time even though most of the human race has been using the system since they went underground.

“Right.”

“Means we slept a long time.” She stretches her legs tentatively. No twinge in her belly. There’s a little stiffness but no pain. Huh. She blinks at Spike’s hazy blue silhouette. Back to her thoughts on Drusilla. “You said something to her.”

His voice is slightly muffled because he’s facing the wall, “Said a lot of things to Dru, pet.”

“You said she would be fed. What does that mean? Are we taking her with us? Did you trade our lives for some others’? ‘Cause well, if you did, I’m not sure. . .”

He glances over his shoulder with raised eyebrows and a half-smirk, half-frown to let her know that what’s she’s suggesting is total bunk. Going back to his work, he jerks a set of wires out of the wall. “I would never let innocent people purposefully die, Buffy.” He fumbles with the wires, separating and twisting. “Things are more complicated than us versus them. Doesn’t Rupert explain all this to you?”

Giles is patient with her and elucidates all the nuances of the underground factions, but there’s just so much she can hear before her brain goes on overload, and she asks him for the bottom line. Apparently, Spike is more in the know than she is, and that makes her snappish, “He does, but I’m just a Slayer, not a politician.” So, spill it already.

Spike works as he talks. “You know that there are three main factions in the underground, right?”

“Right.” She hesitates. “Well, I just know about two.”

“Those who want to stay put and make do with what we have left. They want to avoid contact with demons at all costs. . .”

“Even the good ones. Humans good; demons bad is their philosophy.” Buffy had heard stories of certain members of that faction hunting down and murdering innocent demons who were trying to do the right thing in the underground. Some extremists even viewed Slayers as part of the demon race, and they’d lost a handful of Slayers to bullets or poison.

“Yep.” Spike nods and bends his head to splice a wire with his teeth. “Then, there are those who. . .” He winces as a lance of pain shoots through his ribcage.

“You okay?” She moves closer to him but doesn’t touch him. His focus on making contact with the underground has made it clear that she is to ignore the hours they spent curled up together. She’s letting him get away with it for now.

He leans heavily against the wall. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Deciding to talk him through the pain, she persists for him, “There are those who are doing what we’re doing. . . trying to fight back. . . trying to win back pieces of the surface even if they have to bring it underground for the time being.” They’re us. . . the Slayers, the Slayers’ friends, and the Watchers.

Spike sits on the stool, forearms on his thighs. “We’re doing a right fine job of it, too.”

“Oh yeah! We kick ass, especially if we get out of this one alive and with our pretty little prize!” She grins at him. “And the third group?”

“Are new. . . well, within the last year, give or take a few months. They want to negotiate with the vamps.”

Buffy snorts. “They’ve been reading too many novels. That’s like playing Russian Roulette or committing suicide!” She frowns. “Wait, isn’t that the same thing?”

Spike resists the urge to pull her onto his lap. He doesn’t think the stool could take the weight, and he isn’t sure Buffy would take so kindly to mixed signals. . . not that he isn’t doing a fine job with the mixed signal bit. “But it’s a popular idea. People are getting tired of waiting around for something to happen. . . tired of lurking about in the dark. They are afraid of what will happen to their children if they remain hidden away in their rabbit burrows.”

“What does all this have to do with Dru?”

“Well, since the humans are underground, vamps are starving.”

“Know that part.” The vampires started invading the underground a few months after they took over the surface; hence, the magically-inclined humans erected the barriers. They were still working out the kinks, but overall, the barriers were well-managed and fewer deaths were occurring as a result. No one mentioned that the vampires were still starving.

“So, Dru is hungry, and the third faction wants to negotiate.”

Buffy’s more than incredulous. “Uh huh. I can see that one working.” She deepens her voice, “‘Hello! We’d like to negotiate world peace.’” Then, she switches to a bad, slightly too insane version of Drusilla’s voice, “‘All the better to eat you, my dears. The stars told me you were coming for dinner.’” She glides her legs over the edge of the bed so that her knees are almost touching Spike’s. “Shouldn’t we be trying to talk them out of it?”

Spike shrugs. “They’re going to try to make it happen anyway. Why not facilitate it for them? ‘Sides, I made it part of the bargain with Dru.”

“I still have my doubts about her.”

“As I expect you should, pet,” he admits.

Maybe there’s still a way out of that part of the bargain. Buffy studies her partner. “You feeling any better?”

Spike averts his gaze, standing on the stool again. “Good as can be expected. Just about got this done.”

Working quickly in case the pain rears its ugly head, he hooks the transmitter back up. On the bottom of the device, he finds the crest of a button and presses it. The wall begins moving. . . or rather, the TV-shaped section of the wall emits a mechanical shriek and settles into a hum as it peels back from its casing.

Entranced by the illumination, Buffy’s eyes widen, and her face glows. She scrambles to the end of the bed. “Wow! This is our way home?”

Numbers fly across and fill the monitor of the transmitter’s operating system. Everything is working faster than Spike expected. He just hopes they make it out alive.

“It is. The operating system works automatically; lets the underground know where we are.”

“What was all that fumbling with the transmitter then?” she asks, eyes roving over the hundreds of buttons covering the panels surrounding the monitor.

“It just had to be activated.”

“Oh.”

An unseen slot in the door to their prison opens, and a slim, metal box tumbles to the ground.

The slot closes.

Buffy leaps to her feet and snatches up the box. “What the. . .?”

“Pet, that’s our cue. Open the box.”

Without hesitation, she flips open the lid. Their guns, four boxes of wood-laced bullets, two silver knives, and a flat protein bar lay before her. She looks at Spike with wide green eyes.

Spike meets her gaze in mutual understanding. “We have exactly five minutes to get out of the building and out of the city. . . starting. . .”

The door to their cell bangs open with enough force to rattle the thick stone walls.

“Now!”

* * *

Buffy tosses Spike a gun and a knife, sheathing the knife into the belt at her waist and pocketing two boxes of bullets. Spike snags the remaining boxes, and he slaps the protein bar into her hand.

“Take this.”

Strapping on her wrist computer, Buffy stares at the bar. “I’m not hungry.”

“We don’t have time to debate this, Buffy.” She gives him a look. “Just in case.”

He’s right. “Okay.”

Without another word, they escape their prison.

The world is shrouded in quiet shadows.

Buffy guides the blue light from her computer in front of them to illuminate their surroundings.

A long, empty hallway stretches before them.

Gripping the handle of her weapon, she and Spike exchange a silent nod and set off at a cautious lope. She is their sight to the front, and he has their back, checking to make certain they aren’t being followed.

At each intersection that’s free of demons, she makes the decision to keep moving along a straight path, and within seconds, they reach a door. She tries the handle.

The door opens.

Buffy glances at Spike, who cocks an eyebrow at her. He keeps a lookout as she cautiously pokes her head across the threshold.

The sound of rain thrusts past the thrum of the blood pounding in her ears. The tiny light doesn’t penetrate far into the crisp downpour. How the hell are they supposed to make it out of the city in five minutes?

“We’re screwed,” she says more loudly than she intended. “I can’t see a thing! There’s no way we can make it out of a city this size in five minutes. Couldn’t you have negotiated for a longer amount of time with Dru? And where are we anyway?”

“We’re in the castle, pet,” he replies, nudging her into the water. “Dru won’t send anyone after us for five minutes. Just go. I can lead the way.”

“Castle? They brought us to the castle?” she murmurs, blinking away the liquid splashing onto her eyelids. Her scalp prickles as water begins to coat her skin and drench her clothes.

She remembers the castle from her trip to Prague with Giles. The view had been spectacular. . . the sprawling city a radiant splash of color at the feet of the giant palace. Granted, some of the buildings were dark with age and the lingering vice grip of communism, but there had been some liveliness about it. Giles had called it a bit of living history. They hadn’t had time for a tour, and there wasn’t much she recalled from their drive by visit, but the castle and the village-esque neighborhood on the hill. . . she would never forget that. There had been so many people bustling about. . . tourists, workers, natives. . . and more restaurants and tucked-away gardens than she could count.

Now she isn’t sure she wants to bear witness to the dead husk of the once vibrant old town around the castle. In some ways, she’s almost grateful for the precipitation.

Spike caresses her shoulder as he slips past her into the darkness. He probably remembers so much more from his time here with Dru.

Should she trust him to lead her through this? She doesn’t take long to question. She doesn’t have much of a choice.

The water splashes in sheets over her legs as she runs behind him. The area around the castle appears abandoned as Dru promised.

Lightning flashes in dazzling electric streaks against the grey clouds, bathing the nearby buildings in white light. Buffy glimpses silhouettes of hulking figures in the shadows over the hill. Like giant statues, they stand armed and unmoving. . . demons and vampires watching the two foreigners and waiting for precious seconds to tick past. Thunder booms like warning drums signaling an upcoming battle.

She resists the urge to aim her gun and fire.

Must save ammunition.

Everything goes black again for several heartbeats, and all she can hear over the rain are the sound of her boots echoing in time with Spike’s and the steady in and out of her breathing.

They round a corner of the castle, and Spike stops short as a single shaft of lightning drives sharply into the ground at his feet. Unable to halt her forward momentum, she catches herself on Spike’s chest and shrieks at the sharp crack of thunder. He grunts and bends inward in a stifled cry of pain.

She holds the computer’s miniscule light up to his face, wiping away the rain from her eyes with the back of her gun-filled hand. “You okay?”

Touching the damaged side of his ribcage, she watches him close his sapphire eyes. He clenches his jaw as he packs away the hurt.

Then, he manages to nod his assent.

Lightning flashes again. . . this time directly behind them.

“What the hell?” she growls, scampering forward and holding onto Spike’s arm. He moves with her but slower than he had been.

Another bolt streaks from the clouds two feet to their left. Then, another and another.

Buffy breaks into a trot and then a full on run, dodging the electricity and aiding her wounded partner.

Spike tries to speak. . . to tell her something, but no sound passes through his lips.

And before Buffy realizes where she’s going, a hulking, black structure looms before them. The storm’s light flashes off the soaring towers, and she gapes at the monstrosity.

She barely hears Spike’s words close to her ear, “St. Vitus Cathedral, pet.”

Thunder booms, and before she thinks about it, she races forward, tugs on the door, and enters the place of worship.

As the large door slides softly shut behind her, the air brushes over her wet skin in warm, dry drafts, and she leaves Spike’s side, advancing into the main sanctuary. Her footsteps echo in the vast space.

Candles cast a red-orange glow throughout the bowels of the spacious place of refuge, tiny flames flickering in a rainbow of colors over the largest stained glass windows that Buffy’s ever seen. . . not that she’s been in many cathedrals and churches. The ceiling bows up in an arch that seems to reach almost to heaven, and the pews are lined up like dominos all the way to the altar. Jasmine and vanilla-scented incense fills her nose, and in her mind’s eye, she’s taken back to hours spent in the Magic Box with Giles, Willow, and Xander. For the first time on this mission, she feels safe, and the ever-present tension in her muscles dissipates.

“They wanted us here. We have to keep moving, love.” Spike’s low voice reaches her ears, and she feels his cool fingers on her forearm, but she ignores his words, switching off her computer light.

She spies a tiny figure hunched on the floor near the altar. “There’s someone in here.”

Spike follows her gaze, but his eyes detect no one. “Buffy. . . five minutes. . . less than. . .”

“It’s a child, Spike. And did you see all those demons out there? There are too many to run past in five minutes. We can regroup here, and maybe help someone out,” she says, not removing her eyes from the small quivering form. Her feet seem to be automatically moving her toward the front of the cathedral.

Spike’s ribs feel as if they’re on fire, but he hurries after Buffy anyway, using the pews as support. Persistent bint doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into.

When she reaches the child, she tucks her gun in her belt, squats, and places a hand on the child’s blanket-covered shoulder blade. She’s heard stories of humans trapped above ground and used by demons for food, torture. . . whatever other horrors her mind is good at imagining.

But this is the first time she’s encountered a child.

“Hey,” she whispers, her lips trying to form a smile of reassurance.

The child. . . a boy peers up at her with a hollow look in his huge brown eyes, his fair cheeks streaked with dirt and crusted blood, his light brown hair tousled. He stares at her as if he isn’t sure if she’s real. She strokes his back to slow his shaking.

“It’s okay. I,” she pauses, “we’re not going to hurt you. Can you tell us what happened to you?”

Senses on hyper-alert, Spike hovers behind Buffy. Something’s not right, and he isn’t sure what it is.

The boy smiles then.

And then, the smile turns into a grin.

And the grin turns to laughter. . . a high-pitched, alien sound that grates against Buffy’s eardrums.

She removes her hand from the form and falls back a little, barely catching herself. Spike grips her arm with both of his and hauls her to her feet as they both watch with growing horror.

The boy’s teeth elongate first. Then, the rest of him shifts and contorts. . . arms and legs grow long and muscular. Fingers and bare toes are capped with dark red talons. His skin stretches taut over an angular, hard torso. Hair twists into a crown of tiny black thorn-like horns, and the worn blanket is incorporated and stretched into shredded black wings that flutter like morbid butterflies.

The candle flames glimmer and dance in time with the creature’s motions, and the essence of jasmine and vanilla shifts to raw cinnamon, stinging Buffy’s nostrils.

“What are you?” Buffy demands with more confidence that she has, planting her feet on solid ground and drawing the silver knife from her belt.

“Guesssss,” it hisses, a forked tongue slipping between thin indigo lips, scarlet eyes glittering in amusement.

She toys with the tip of the knife, studying the blade thoughtfully. “Let’s see. You’re corporeal, so you’re not the First.” One corner of her mouth quirks, and she covers her fear with long unused humor. “And you’re not red and don’t have two giant horns, so you’re not Satan. . . although I’ve never actually met Satan.” She looks up at the ceiling. “And I would guess that Satan wouldn’t exactly find being in a cathedral a pleasant experience.”

The creature cackles and swings an arm, batting Buffy away like swatting a fly. She crashes into a nearby pew, breaking the bench and cracking her head and shoulder on the seat. “I wasssn’t talking to you.”

Grimacing at the pain in his chest, Spike whips up his gun and fires the weapon left-handed. Round after round enters the creature, and it only smiles wider.

“Bits of wood and metal don’t kill me.” It towers over Spike and runs a talon under his chin, tilting his head up. “You ssstill don’t know who. . . what I am.”

“No. I don’t know.” Spike leans back on the pew behind him and brings his legs up, slamming them into the creature’s abdomen, sending it stumbling back. “And I don’t like you touching me.” He moves to stand in front of the still groggy Slayer, holstering his gun. “Why don’t you try telling me who the hell you are? I never was much one for guessing games.”

The creature paces in front of Spike, wings flapping. “I could kill you in a sssecond, vampire.”

“And yet, you’re gonna talk first.” Spike unsheathes his knife, never removing his eyes from the creature.

“You lossst the final battle. . . you lossst the surface, but ssstill you persssissst.”

Spike shrugs. “What can I say? I’m like a cockroach. . . only without the flying. I take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’.”

“We have been looking for you sssince that time. We need the anssswer to a quessstion.” The creature stops, spreads its wings to their full span, and asks, “How did William the Bloody, a half-breed demon, sssurvive the final battle? No one ssshould have. The othersss of your team did not.”

Buffy stirs at Spike’s feet, turning her head to hear and pulling her legs up under her. Spike pretends to ignore her movement, drawing connections in his mind.

“Ohhhh. So, you’re a member of. . .” Spike points his right index finger at the creature as if the action will elicit what he’s trying to say, “the Senior Partners!”

The creature chuckles, and Spike is grateful that the sound doesn’t erupt into full laughter. “Hardly. I am merely their represssentative. . . a ssshifter. . . here to oversssee a little portion of world for them. How wasss I to know that you, the one we have sssought would turn up in my sssector?”

With slow movements designed to go unnoticed by the shifter, Buffy pushes pat the excruciating pain in her head to take action in the shadowy background, stretching first one leg and then another. Her left shoulder aches, but she uses her right arm to pull her torso forward, aiming for a position behind the creature and within Spike’s line of vision.

Spike narrows his eyes. “And Dru?”

The scent changes again. . . back to vanilla and jasmine, and in an instant, Drusilla stands before him, her arms floating where the creature’s wings had been. Her eyes are dark with lust. “She is not here. Only me. And after the time we spent together, I think I know the answer to our question. It’s quite obvious really.”

As Buffy uses the shifter’s transformation as a chance to get into position, Spike’s impatience mounts, “And that is?”

The Drusilla-thing stands on her tiptoes and feather-walks into Spike’s personal space. She gives him an impish smile. . . a smile that used to send him over the moon. She raises her finger, pokes him in the chest directly over his heart, and utters a single word, “Love.”

* * *

As the Dru-creature utters the single syllable, Spike makes split-second eye contact with Buffy.

With every ounce of his strength, Spike slices the knife through the hazy incense-heavy air, plunging the heavy silver blade deep into the creature’s flesh and through its bone. The arm falls away from him, but Spike doesn’t stop, whipping the knife across the shifter’s throat, parting a canyon in the flesh of its neck.

The creature’s blood wells dark and thick, and astonishment passes over its features as Buffy’s leg connects into its body from behind, driving the shifter to the ground.

Spike smirks. “Told you that I didn’t want to be touched.”

Buffy lurches to her feet as the creature writhes on the floor. With her right hand, she pulls out her gun, aiming it at the shifter. She backs toward Spike. “It’s not dying, is it?”

“No. But, it’ll be enough to slow it down for a bit.” Spike wipes the dirty blade on his pant leg. “You okay?” He wants to touch her. . . to know that she’s still whole after the blow she took, but he doesn’t dare allow himself the connection. He’s already far overstepped his carefully laid boundaries.

Taking a deep breath and ignoring his question, she takes a chance to study Spike with weary eyes. “What did it mean?”

Sheathing the knife, Spike moves backward. “By what, pet?”

Buffy draws courage from the peril of their situation. She doesn’t have time to mince words. She knows about the Senior Partners, and she knows why Angel chose to do what he did. But she doesn’t know what happened in his final battle with Spike. “She. . . it said that you survived the battle in L.A. when you shouldn’t have. . . because of ‘love.’ What does that mean?” There. She’s directly addressed what she’s wanted to deal with since he’s been back in her life.

Unable to look into the earnestness in her eyes, Spike averts his gaze. “Dunno. You know the nasties. They come up with all kinds of gibberish and double-talk that doesn’t make sense.”

Buffy recalls Mayor Wilkins’ speech about her and Angel’s relationship. “Gibberish and double-talk that holds a grain of truth.”

Spike peers at her with so much vulnerability and trepidation written in his eyes. . . so much naked pain that she wants to move into his arms, hold him close, and assure him that he can talk with her. . . that she won’t reject him no matter what terrible truth he might reveal.

She knows his past as a ruthless killer. . . a thief of human innocence and life. But Buffy also knows him as a man capable of overcoming his basest, seemingly unchangeable instincts and urges to become a person capable of selflessness and sacrifice while still remaining true to himself. In that moment, she realizes how much she loves him. . . has never stopped loving him.

Before she can utter another word, lightning streaks in bright, jagged lines across the cathedral’s stained glass windows. As the accompanying thunder rumbles, the candles simultaneously snuff out, leaving the pair engulfed in the darkness.

Spike’s voice echoes in the silence, “Think that’s our cue, love.”

“Right.” Eyes unseeing, she blinks in his direction.

Despite his intentions, he makes purposeful contact then, brushing the wet hair off her shoulder and grazing a finger over the suddenly aching wound on her neck. She suppresses a shiver of desire, and focusing her Slayer instincts, she sprints down one of the aisles toward the cathedral entrance, making certain that Spike’s footfalls are close behind her.

At what Buffy judges as the halfway mark, her ears detect something over the reverberation of her and Spike’s boots on stone. The sound is faint. . . like the distant tinkling of the wind chimes that hung on her back porch in Sunnydale. Her mind hesitates in attempt to untangle the mystery, and her body automatically slows.

“Buffy, don’t stop!”

Spike’s shout imparts life to her limbs just as her brain registers the identity of the rising noise. The stained glass is shattering!

She redoubles her efforts as shards of glass begin nipping at the skin on her arms and face like giant mosquitoes. Her body falls into the cathedral door, opening it with the force of her inertia. She tumbles into the now rainless night, gulping in the cool, fresh air and palming her gun.

She doesn’t feel ready for the fight ahead, and she knows Spike isn’t. Lightning still dances across the sky, and she spares a moment to give him a once over.

Using her free hand, she quickly plucks bits of glass from his arms and face, and he does the same for her. Tiny droplets of blood well over her arms, but she ignores them. She’s endured far worse. . . and so has he. She vows to find out exactly what he’s hiding from her, but first, she has to survive. . . they both do.

The clouds slide apart with greater speed than expected. The lightning and thunder fade into the distance. The swollen moon shares her borrowed light with the city that spreads below the pair of outsiders. The numberless silhouettes from earlier darken the narrow streets leading down the hill. They are still unmoving for the moment, but Buffy senses a new restlessness in the air.

It’s time for the main event.

She affords Spike a glance. His jaw is tight, and the muscles in the curve of his cheek are pulsing. They’ve both been at the frontline of this kind of fight in the past, but something about the hard glint in Spike’s eyes tells her that he never expected to face this kind of fight again. . . that he never expected to be alive.

And now they’ve both died in sacrifice and returned to life again. She’s never met anyone who’s experienced the same thing.

Without thinking, she steps in front of him and brings her mouth to his cool lips in a firm kiss, running her fingers over the curve of his cheek. His lips relax into hers, and she imparts her warmth to him, pulling back before the gesture deepens.

He’s surprised by the kiss and stares at her in wonder.

“We’re going to do this,” she informs him to remind herself that she’s still alive and to let him know that they *will* survive the upcoming fight despite the odds stacked against them.

He gives her a simple nod, not arguing her point. He’s determined that at least, she will make it out of this intact. Pointing to the city below, he guides her, “Aim for the Charles Bridge. We stand a better chance in the open. . . out of the narrow streets. And if we can make it there, we can cross the river.”

“Better chance of escape that way.” She remembers the wide bridge. It was always full of people walking everywhere even at night, street lamps keeping it bright. Now the pathway is lit not by man but by nature.

A rumble sounds from deep within the earth behind them, and the ground begins to move beneath their feet, throwing Buffy and Spike off balance.

Buffy whips her head around to locate the source of the disturbance.

Cracks run up from the base of the cathedral, over the doors, and up toward the towers, emitting a dull grinding sound. The building begins to vibrate and more cracks develop with the increasing movement.

“It’s gonna collapse!” she calls over the rising din as one of the towers begins to crumble.

“Time to go, love!” Spike returns, sidestepping away from a shower of plunging rock and drawing out his gun.

Turning away from the disaster, they run together, Buffy following a limping Spike down the hill and into the twisted streets toward the bridge.

In the first cluster of shadows, they encounter their first line of enemies. . . a string of snarling vampires with glowing yellow eyes and razor sharp teeth that emerge from the side of an Old Town building as if they are part of the edifice itself.

Forcing himself ahead of Buffy, Spike slips into game face and warns them with a growl of his own. The vamps disregard him as if he has returned to an incorporeal state, aiming for the small woman just behind him.

Buffy’s gun barks with sharp, steady blasts as Spike attacks them from behind, kicking, punching, and knocking them to the ground like lambs directed to the slaughter. . . assembly-line slayage.

Dust flies through the air, a slight breeze creating tiny twisters of white vampire remains. Spike gasps a bit from the exertion and the pressure inflicted on his damaged ribcage.

“That was weird,” Buffy comments, reloading her gun before they continue their forward momentum.

“What was, pet?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“Too easy?” Spike pulls ahead again.

“Maybe.” She frowns. That’s not quite it either.

They round a corner, and this time, a trio of demons leaps upon them. Buffy draws her knife in favor of the gun, and Spike follows suit. The first demon, a Fyarl, bats Spike to one side, allowing its less bulky comrades access to the Slayer.

Buffy wastes no time in pouncing on the two demons she doesn’t recognize. She’s always been resistant to learning the formal names of the more common demon varieties. Instead, she has her own names for them.

“Hello, Mr. Lumpy,” she says to the green one with the mottled red facial scars and giant bumps protruding out of its back. With expert precision, she plunges her knife into its chest, uses the weapon as an anchor for her body, and knocks the second demon to the ground with her weight as she hops onto Lumpy’s shoulders. Unsheathing her knife from Lumpy’s flesh, she slits his throat, jumping to the ground as he falls like a giant tree.

She spins to face Lumpy’s partner.

Meanwhile, Spike’s body rebounds with greater reluctance than he’d like, but he manages to thrust his knife into the retreating Fyarl’s back, aiming for the heart.

He misses. “Bloody hell.”

The Fyarl merely grunts as it reaches back and pulls out the weapon. Glaring at Spike in annoyance, it hurls the blade straight and true toward Spike.

Spike plucks the knife out of the air and finds himself staring at the demon’s back. “What the…?” The Fyarl’s disregarding him as if he is as threatening as a pesky fly.

Ducking a punch from the demon she’s deemed the Toothless Wonder because he has no teeth and is lashing out at her like a very poor boxer, Buffy calls out to Spike, “Would be helpful if you quit standing around and gave me a hand here!”

Spike frowns. Buffy’s accusation causes his temper to rise, giving him the fuel to momentarily forget about his wounds. “I *am* helping.”

He grabs the Toothless Wonder’s fist as it arcs back from another haphazard swing at Buffy. Twisting the demon’s arm behind his back, Spike drags the knife across his throat.

Buffy is too busy with the Fyarl to notice as it blocks her kicks and punches. Spike drops the Toothless Wonder and positions himself behind the remaining demon.

“Where you apparently want me anyway,” Spike mutters, ramming his good side into the Fyarl’s back so that it stumbles into Buffy’s knife. Sniffing to cover up his response to the resurging pain, Spike steps back from the bodies to stand next to the Slayer.

“At least we don’t have to worry about cleaning up the mess,” Buffy observes, taking a moment to catch her breath. She tucks away her knife and checks her gun.

Cringing when Buffy isn’t watching him, Spike manages, “I think I figured out that. . .”

“The demons are all attacking me and ignoring you! What’s up with that?” Buffy interrupts. She stares pointedly at Spike with both eyebrows raised. Before he has a chance to respond, she keeps going, “And I just don’t get this pattern of attack. It’s like they’re waiting on each block for us. . . as if they know where we’re going. And why aren’t they attacking en masse?”

“How should I know? And we’ve only been *two* blocks. Hardly call that a pattern.”

“Two dots make a line, and a line is a pattern.”

Spike is more than perturbed. “I don’t know! That *thing* didn’t exactly explain the master plan when it was torturing me!”

She softens, approaching him in half-apology. They don’t have time for arguing. “And you’re hurt. How’re you holding up?”

He sweeps away her outstretched hand. “Let’s just keep going. The longer we stay in one place, the more vulnerable we are.”

Buffy flicks on her computer to check the time.

20:43:16.

“How long does that transmission take anyway?”

Spike smiles grimly. “Not sure if the transmitter was even really functional, pet.”

Buffy’s stomach sinks. “Another illusion?”

“Maybe.”

“And if it worked? How long?”

“For them to receive the message and send out a team? Never tried it, pet. I dunno.”

“And who knows how much government red tape they have to go through,” Buffy adds. “We’re on our own.”

“Looks that way.” He wavers and then says, “I’m sorry, love.”

Buffy opens her mouth to respond, but a collection of snarls rises from several feet away. Her hand tightens over the handle of her gun. “Let’s go.”

They keep moving, advancing little by little toward the Charles Bridge, delayed by fights at every turn. Each time, the vampires and demons aim for Buffy, and as she sustains more injuries, Spike feels more helpless. The skirmishes become more and more intense until their motivation is solely the kill. No words pass between them.

After what seems like an eternity, Spike and Buffy reach the bridge tower. Covered in demon gore and dust, Buffy leans heavily on Spike’s unharmed side, and his arm circles her waist in an effort to take the weight off her right ankle.

Clouds spread back over the moon, re-cloaking the world in darkness, and a breeze is born, carrying the scent of polluted water from the river’s surface and into the streets.

Not needing as much light as Buffy, Spike scans ahead and detects nothing on the bridge. . . the gateway to freedom.

Buffy trips over a stone amongst the cobblestones. Spike catches her before she falls, and they both groan as tissue is torn asunder in their wounds.

She finds her voice, “Spike. I need a break. Just for a minute.”

“Just a few more feet, pet. We’re almost to the bridge tower. There’ll be shelter from the breeze, and you can rest.” His words sound hollow in the unexpected quiet. “Maybe you can even eat some of that power bar.”

She laughs. “I don’t think I’ll be eating anything that *thing* gave me.”

Spike’s concern thaws a bit with her amusement. “Probably a good idea, love.”

They make their way under the shelter of the bridge tower’s archway just as the rain begins to pour. Spike settles her form onto the ground with as much gentleness as he can muster and sags down next to her. She draws her knees to her chest and rests her head on his shoulder.

She knows she has to ask him. They haven’t exactly escaped their situation yet, and the information he’s holding onto may be the key to their survival. . . to humanity’s survival.

“Spike. . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I stink. Sodding demons and their sodding guts.”

“That’s not what I was going to say, but now that you said that. Ewww.” She pushes away from him a bit and turns on her computer. Blue light envelops them. “Maybe you should go stand in the rain and wash some of that off.”

He regards her thoughtfully, not minding that her thigh is pressed against his. “I would, but for some reason, I’m too tired.”

She smiles. “Guess that means I’m not getting a shower anytime soon either.”

Buffy re-positions her head and closes her eyes. . . just for a minute.

“Love?”

“Hmmm?”

“What were you going to say earlier?”

Oh yeah. Must chase away the drowsy feeling. Survival. Very important. “We need to talk about what happened to you in L.A. I need to know what that creature in the cathedral meant about your survival. I think. . . I *know* we’re being played with, and I want to know why.”

* * *

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t, Spike?” Buffy’s scared and doesn’t know how to fix the mess they’re in. There are too many obstacles in the path, and Spike is adding to them.

He doesn’t respond, and the pattering of the rain fills the gaping quiet.

If he answers her, he won’t be able to stop. The whole truth will come out, and then, he won’t be able to contain the feelings he’s successfully walled off for so long.

Still, he knows that he has to tell her the truth. He has no choice now.

Her hand finds his in the darkness, fingers parting his. Her skin is icy. . . as cold as he is. He blames himself and wishes he could warm her the way she does him most of the time.

“I’m here,” she says softly, trying to catch his eye. “Just tell me the easy parts first.”

He opens his mouth but finds that he can’t speak. Clearing his throat, he discovers a beginning, “You want to know what happened in L.A., pet?”

“In the last battle. . . the one with all the demons that the Senior Partners sent after you guys for killing the Circle of the Black Thorn. How did you survive when Ang. . . no one else did?” she encourages, faltering on Angel’s name.

“For someone who doesn’t pay attention to the names of things. . .”

She squeezes his hand and moves closer to him, drawing her knees up so that their hands rest against her belly. “When it comes to the people I care about, I pay attention.” Spike starts to cut her short, but she keeps going, “When it comes to *you*, I pay attention.” She reads the surprise on his face even in the low light. “Thought you were gone back in Sunnydale. . . thought I lost you.” Her eyes blur with unshed tears. Great. Just what they need. More water.

He carries her past the emotion, “I survived the fight for two reasons.”

She sniffs, swiping her free hand across her eyes and checking the darkness for signs of lurking demons. She relaxes when she neither hears or sees anything out of the ordinary.

Spike continues, his voice low, “Angel’s the reason I survived. He knew it was a suicide mission, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have an escape plan.”

Buffy is genuinely taken aback. “Wow. A lot changed between you and Angel in the time you spent in L.A. Last I knew, you two were acting like jealous little school boys.”

“*I* was not!” Spike objects.

“Um, what do you call that picture of Angel you taped on the punching bag?”

“That wasn’t Angel. . . that was Beavis. . .” Spike cocks his head to one side, “or was it Butthead that had dark hair?”

“Neither of them had fangs. The picture you drew had fangs.”

“Oh, right.”

“Back on topic, mister. Angel obviously came up with an escape plan?”

“Angel didn’t exactly come up with it himself. Ex-Watcher boy and Illyria came up with it.”

“Wesley?”

“Right. The two of them used the notes I wrote on Illyria’s abilities.” He glances at Buffy to explain,” Illyria was the god king that took over Fred’s body.”

“I know.” Buffy knows all these people by name and excruciating details of their physical appearance. Andrew and the remaining Slayers from L.A. told her stories.

“And I was put in charge of sorta testing her limits.”

“*Sort of* testing her limits?”

“She was pretty powerful. . . like Glory. . . only Illyria could alter the flow of time with a wave of her leather-covered hand. Could walk through the walls between dimensions without a second thought. Threw us for a loop several times until Wes zapped her powers.”

“What does this have to do with escaping?” Buffy urges. She wants to let Spike talk. . . to hear his entire story after such a long silence, but she also needs to understand how his story applies to the danger they’re in now.

He nods to let her know that he appreciates the exigency of their situation. “Charlie and Illyria fell first. They fought well, but he was wounded before we even started the fight in the alley, and Illyria. . . had Fred’s spindly body.” Spike inclines his head toward the heavens.

Buffy experiences a twinge of jealousy but realizes it’s unreasonable. She chooses to focus on the emotion in Spike’s voice. He has so much pride in and caring for these people she’s never met, and she finds that she’s glad for him. . . proud of him for continuing to do what’s right even in the face of imminent doom.

Spike bows his head. “And then, Angel.”

“Angel,” Buffy breathes. She’s known nothing of Angel’s death. . . never had the courage to ask, and even his name still affects her after all this time. It’s almost as if hearing about his death makes it permanent.

Spike runs his thumb over her knuckle in understanding. “Angel called out to me. Barely heard him over the rain and fighting. Made my way back to him. Pulled a hairy wanker off of him before I could see him. Pet, are you sure you want me to. . .?”

She can’t form words over the lump in her throat. Spike isn’t describing the heat and energy of the battle, but in her mind, she can imagine what he went through. . . what Angel endured. She nods for him to continue.

“He was bleeding from more wounds than I could possibly count. Suppose I was, too. After that, we fought back to back. . . against an endless stream of demons. Angel’s arm was taken. . . bit off by. . .”

Spike senses Buffy folding in on herself with hunched shoulders, so he softens his tone, “I’ll leave out some things, right, love?” When she reassures him by moving her fingers, he keeps going but sticks to the facts, “After that, he made me take something from him. A talisman. Told me to get out. Told me to find you. . . protect you. I tried to argue with him. . . told him that I’d signed up for this fight all the way to the end, but he insisted. Activated the bloody device. And then, everything was gone.”

Buffy sniffs, trying to clear up her tears. “Where did you go?”

“I don’t know. Some other dimension’s all I could figure. There wasn’t much to it ‘sides a pathway along a cliff and never-ending night. Time seemed a bit wonky. Didn’t know if I was really in hell or not. . . if I’d actually died before the talisman took effect or if it had worked. Just knew I had to keep going to get find a way back to y. . .” Spike can’t tell her that she was the one who had kept him alive. . . kept him moving through the bleak, hollow world between worlds.

“How’d you get out?” Buffy asks, avoiding what she’s just heard and checking their surroundings for demons again. She doesn’t have time to process what he’s saying; she just has time to summon the energy to survive.

“A door. I opened it and found myself underground, months had passed, and above ground was lost to the Senior Partners and the demons. Still not sure exactly how the whole sodding thing worked out the way it did. Left it to Rupert to figure out.”

As he expected she would, Buffy draws back a little, and her departure leaves him cold.

“How come you didn’t try to find me?” She doesn’t mention Angel’s directive.

And he doesn’t mention that he couldn’t face her. . . could hardly live with himself for what he failed to do. “You know how it was at first, pet. Things were too chaotic. I just tried to help the people around me.”

“And then, you didn’t tell me the truth when I found you!” Buffy rises a bit unsteadily with her hand sliding on the slick stone, her volume increasing with her height. “How do you think I felt when the world went to hell? So many people died, including too many people I cared about. . . I just wanted to find everyone I knew and loved. . . to see if they were safe. . . alive, whole! I didn’t isolate myself and spend time helping others around me! Well, I did help, but that’s not my point!”

She tries to find the words for what she’s trying to convey, not caring that she’s probably attracting every demon in Prague. “The point is: I searched for the people I cared about. That was utmost on my mind, and I don’t care if it was selfish o-or. . .”

Tears are streaming down her face now, and Spike pulls himself upright to stand before her. . . so close but so far away.

She tries to turn off the evidence of her feelings, but her body refuses to comply which only makes her more angry. . . at herself. . . at their situation. . . that it took a failing mission to force them to tell each other the truth. And still. . .

She shakes her head, and water flies around her. “Why didn’t you look for me after Angel explicitly told you to?”

His automatic response is sarcasm. “You know me, love. I don’t exactly follow orders.”

“That’s. . . a non-answer!” Buffy spins on her heel then, heading into the darkness enshrouding the Charles Bridge. . . into the rain, heedless of what lay out before her. Lord help any demon that should come across her path.

Anger flares through Spike, and with anger comes the truth, raw and undeviating, “You want to know why I didn’t look for you?”

Buffy stops at the honesty in his tone but can’t face him.

“How could I possibly go from saving the world. . . from helping to make the world a better place in your eyes to bringing the world to its knees? By taking that talisman from Angel, I. . . I didn’t die. . . I didn’t sacrifice everything to save the world. I took the world away.” His next words are as broken as his heart, “Buffy. . . I took the sun from you.”

Her fingers fumble for the pouch at her waist. The object is still there, unbroken. Heart pounding in her chest, she faces him. Now she knows why he’s been agreeing to go on all the recent missions with her. “All these things you’re saying to me. I believe that you believe them to be the truth. I do. But I wonder. . . I wonder where the Spike I knew went. And I wonder when he turned into Angel.”

Lightning darts over Buffy’s head, punctuating her last sentence and illuminating the world behind her.

As the accompanying thunder crackles and rolls, Spike shouts, “Pet! Come here!”

“What?” As lightning flashes again, Buffy follows Spike’s line of vision to the arching doorway to the bridge tower. Ropes hang down from the archway with severed human heads, swaying in the wind from the storm, their eyes bulging from their sockets as if someone had squeezed on their necks.

Buffy scuttles to Spike’s side. “What the hell?”

“Didn’t notice the smell what with all the demon gore covering us.”

A network of electricity fills the sky, and the essence of cinnamon sizzles in the air surrounding the wounded pair. The now whole shifter lands lightly on the cobblestones and looms in the entrance to the bridge, wings bouncing and folding in on themselves and clawed fingers pressing into stone. Bits of rock tumble to the ground like displaced orphans.

“Now you know,” Spike says, his tone flat. “Let us pass or at least let her go.”

The shifter cackles and backs onto the bridge, snapping off a handful of human heads to take with it. “Now why ssshould I allow that, vampire?”

“What’s it talking about?” Buffy asks, looking from the shifter to Spike and back again.

The shifter continues to move backward, effectively drawing Buffy and Spike into the drizzling rain. “The Sssenior Partnersss would be mossst pleasssed that I learned the truth of why you sssurvived the final battle and alssso brought them a trophy. . . *the* Ssslayer and a vampire with a soul. . . whole or in piecesss. . . it makesss no difference.”

At Spike’s side, Buffy asks him, “You knew it was listening?”

“Wasn’t sure, but I thought it might be why it let us get this far. . . why we had time to rest.” He glances at the small silhouette beside him. “It’s not why I told you the truth, pet.”

Buffy affords him a fleeting look, not sure how she feels.

“Sssilence!” the shifter booms. “I will have you both. . . but firssst, I want to play.” Gathering the amputated heads into one fist, it begins to trace foreign symbols in the air with hooked fingers, traces of light streaking behind each movement. It speaks the words of another language, voice scraping, hissing and clicking over unrecognizable syllables. With each completed portion of the spell, one of the heads explodes sending brains and chunks flesh falling over the bridge.

As the enchantment is cast, the wind strengthens, causing Buffy to stumble into Spike yet again. Neither of them makes a sound despite the jarring of their injuries, and Spike’s hand steadies Buffy, guiding her to his other side to help shield her from the driving air currents.

The water in the river is animated by the gale, and within seconds, the water is churning so violently that it laps over the sides of the bridge to splash about Buffy and Spike’s feet. The bridge arches up in the middle, and Buffy can hardly believe that the water is so high.

Lightning provides light for their surroundings, and Buffy squints past the rain, river water, and wind to see the dark shadows of demons and vampires pouring like liquid over the opposite end of the bridge, swelling around the body of the shifter and flowing toward her and Spike.

“Bloody déjà vu,” she hears Spike shout above the din of nature and the grunts of the coming army.

“Got my back?” she yells in return, lightning flashing dangerously close to her head.

“Always, pet!” he calls back against the roar of the wind as the attackers swarm around them like insects.

And they fight.

Minutes pass, and the minutes grow into hours, but somehow their broken bodies find the adrenaline and power to keep going.

They shoot and slice, kick and punch, duck and dance, each covering each other’s weak spots until they are panting and gasping, blood flowing and limbs hanging limp. Dust flies, quickly saturated by water that coats their bodies in thick, slimy detritus. Bodies pile up, swallowed up by blood and thrashing river water.

Despite the inevitable, neither of them falters.

A set of talons slices into Buffy’s shoulder from behind as she wipes the muck from her eyes and fends a trio of vampires off Spike who is attempting to remove his knife from a dying demon’s solid belly.

She cries out in pain, dropping her gun and bending over double.

With a snarl, Spike releases his knife from the corpse, throws the lifeless body into the path of a lightning bolt meant for him, and decapitates the demon that sunk its claws into Buffy.

In that moment, several brilliant streams of light cut through the darkness like the soft headlights from a car. Every creature pauses to discover the source of the light as the shifter roars in dismay.

Buffy gasps when she recognizes the white streak of an airplane powered by rockets weaving its way toward the bridge. She hears the voice coming from Spike’s ear communicator despite the crackling interference from the shifter’s lightning bolts.

“It’s Andrew!” she says, unable to hide the excitement in her voice.

“Yeah, and Shifty isn’t too happy about that.” Spike taps his ear. “Wasn’t sure the transmitter was working!”

Buffy can’t comprehend Andrew’s response, so she watches the events unfold.

Lightning arcs over the throngs of demons and vamps as the shifter attempts to take down the plane. The attackers fall behind the shifter, dispersing faster than a crowd parting after gunfire.

The plane twists its rockets to land like a helicopter in gush of wind and water. Buffy and Spike slosh back toward the bridge tower, carefully evading bodies and gore. The door to the small plane opens in a hiss of vacuum seal and a set of stairs lowers to the unstable ground. Without the moving target, the shifter sends the lightning bolts directly at the plane. The electricity sputters ineffectively against the force field over the jet. The shifter howls in annoyance.

“That means,” Buffy murmurs to herself.

A familiar redhead bounds forth from the entrance. “Buffy! Spike!”

“Willow!” Buffy hobbles as quickly as she can toward her friend as lightning bolts crash around them.

“Are you guys okay?” Willow asks, giving them a once over and brushing a hand over Buffy’s shoulder to verify that she’s breathing. . . that the wound she senses isn’t too deep. “Well, you’re alive at least.”

“Nice to see you, too, Red,” Spike says with a grin. “And you brought Wolf Boy, I see.”

Buffy spies a fully wolfed-out Oz emerging from the plane followed by a handful of other hairy werewolves.

Willow shrugs. “Needed some wolf-y backup. And Andrew’s flying the plane.” A lightning bolt strikes close to her right elbow. “And that’s just getting to be annoying!” She grits her teeth and pivots toward the shifter. “What’s his deal?”

“Weather control,” Buffy offers.

“And no metal or wood can kill him,” Spike adds.

“We’ll see who controls the weather,” Willow grumbles. She touches her ear. “Andrew. Lower the field.”

The air shimmers in bright pinks and purples around them as the force field winks off.

Then, Willow raises her hand toward the sky. Something akin to distant thunder rumbles. A streak of white shoots through her hair, and Latin escapes her lips. Buffy’s skin tingles as her friend crackles with energy that she’s drawing from the storm. Snarling, growling, and biting, the werewolves rush to meet the re-advancing demons.

“What are you?” roars the shifter.

“Your worst nightmare,” Willow says, her disembodied voice deepening and echoing all around them. With a flick of her wrist, the power she’s pulled forth from the storm spirals forth in a shaft of red and gold energy and swallows up the shifter.

A wave of dizziness suddenly engulfs Buffy, and strong arms catch before she can fall. “You’ll be okay, love. Just lost a bit of blood from that wound in your back,” the soft voice whispers in her ear.

“You’re hurt, too,” she manages, the world slipping away around her.

“Don’t worry ‘bout that. It’s almost over. We’re going home.”

Buffy hears his words, but she doesn’t know if her heart believes him.

* * *

Buffy stirs.

The light is bright over her closed eyelids, but the nearby voice is brighter in her head. Her skull feels as if it is weighted down with water.

“Buffy!” Dawn is entirely too enthusiastic. “You’re awake!”

Buffy blinks away the florescent light above the narrow bed in the emergency infirmary and attempts to smile at her sister. “I am.” She winces as she moves her arms and legs with more gusto. “And I’m sore.”

“As expected.” Long hair piled atop her head in a mess of braids, Dawn smiles back, patting Buffy’s forearm. “You’ve been through a lot.”

Buffy sits up abruptly, ignoring the wave of stars that infiltrates her vision and searches the expansive but empty infirmary room. “Where is it?”

“What?” Dawn catches Buffy’s arm to steady her.

“The stone. . . the rock. . . t-the object Spike and I. . . we worked so hard to get! The last piece of the puzzle!” She can’t keep the panic out of her tone.

“Buffy, relax,” Dawn soothes. “Willow took it. When the underground leaders heard that you. . . well, they wanted Willow and Andrew to start on things right away.”

“Oh!” All those months of work, and they didn’t even wait until she was awake to start? Stupid bureaucrats.

“I know what you mean.” Dawn doesn’t even bother to try and stop her sister. Instead, she hurries around to the other side of the bed to assist Buffy in standing once she’s tugged on her jeans and put on a blouse. “Did Willow tell you that they didn’t even want to send out a search party for you guys? They wanted to wait the month out.”

“W-what?” Buffy’s mind tries to wrap itself around the implications of what Dawn is saying. “You mean. . . we wouldn’t have ma. . .”

Dawn rattles on without answering Buffy’s stammers. “You guys started out in Germany, right? In some little town? And you ended up in Prague? We lost touch somewhere in between and had *no* idea where you were.”

Buffy touches her ear, running her finger over the broken communicator. “What about the transmission we sent?”

Dawn’s arm circles Buffy’s waist as she attempts to stand on her twisted ankle. “Nope. Nada. Never received. Willow, Oz, and Andrew went out on their own. . . broke all kinds of laws, but when the powers-in-charge found out that you guys had succeeded, all was forgiven. Kinda ironic, huh? I wanted to go, but they wouldn’t let me. Made me stay behind to fend off the. . . ”

Somehow, Buffy isn’t surprised by this news. “What we get for trusting anyone but ourselves, huh?” Before Dawn can answer, she slips in, “Where’s Spike?”

Dawn avoids her eyes for a second too long and starts for the door.

“Where is he?”

“Gone, Buffy.”

Buffy’s back and shoulders ache as they move but so does her stomach. . . for an entirely different reason. “Gone? Where did he go?” She tries to hide the depth of her disappointment. . . her hurt but fails miserably.

Releasing Buffy to stand on her own for a moment, Dawn opens the door. “He didn’t want to talk with. . . er, get grilled by Maynard and Jordan. And I don’t blame him, really. Who wants to report every little detail to those creeps? They used to be lawyers after all. Which, by the way, they left already. You slept for a few days. Got an IV and everything; you don’t have to say a word to them. . . Giles took care of it. . . for you, but not for Spike.”

Dizziness threatens to overcome Buffy, and she clings to the doorframe like a life line. She knows why they’re avoiding Maynard and Jordan. . . two government agents whose job it was to gather all the details of the missions above ground. . . pseudo-Watcher’s-Council types. Still, she’s never felt quite so helpless. . . not even when Giles stripped her of her powers.

Dawn looks up at her sister from beneath wisps of dark hair. “He. . . Spike told me what happened. . . out there.” She inclines her head toward the world outside.

Uncertain, Buffy stares at the peeling doorframe beneath her palm.

“And Buffy, he didn’t leave because he doesn’t care about you.”

Blinking back tears, Buffy pushes past her little sister into the outside. A small bubble of protected space leads to the vehicle that’s waiting for them with an open door. She limps toward the car. She can’t talk about Spike anymore. . . not just yet.

“A limo?” she manages, a laugh spilling over her lips despite her sadness.

Ducking around her sister and sweeping an arm as if to showcase the car, Dawn builds on Buffy’s attempt at good humor, “The black stretch limo is merely a glamour to hide the armor and weapons capability of this modified tank that allows safe passage through the upper world. Safety and style. All the top government officials insist on it.”

“No kidding?”

Dawn shrugs. “Just know that it’s our ride to the site. Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Even her hair feels heavy on her shoulders.

Dawn and Buffy slide into the back seat of what appears to be a very ordinary limo, and the vehicle jets off. The windows are completely opaque, so Buffy can’t even stare out at the world around them. She sighs and stares at her hands.

Several minutes pass.

Then, “Is he coming back?”

Dawn looks distinctly uncomfortable. “He didn’t say.”

“Oh.” Buffy picks at a fingernail.

Dawn fidgets. “Giles did the best he could. He only had pull to keep one of you free of questioning. Spike insisted it be you. Said he could disappear more easily. He wanted to stay.”

Buffy’s heart sinks. More and more and more like Angel. Why does she feel like she’s eighteen again? “Oh.”

The limo-slash-tank slows to a halt.

“Ready?” Dawn looks expectantly at her sister.

Buffy hesitates. Is she? This is the moment she’s been waiting for since the move underground. She knows Willow is excited. Who is she to let her best friend down by not showing up, even though all she wants to do is go back to her personal room and bury her head under the covers? She forces herself to smile. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

The passenger door hisses open as if there’s some sort of vacuum seal on it, and Dawn tumbles out first before offering Buffy a hand. Buffy eases her way out, and the pair hurries to the next door that’s half-buried in the ground.

Dawn presses her thumb to the entry pad next to the door and blows into a small opening above it. The keypad beeps in a very Initiative-type manner, and the door clicks unlocked.

Willow appears once again, like a smiling guardian, and embraces Buffy with both arms. “Buffy! I’m so glad you woke up in time.”

Buffy gives her friend a half-grin as Willow backs away to allow them to enter. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Willow joins a small huddle of people that includes Giles, Andrew, Oz, and four or five men and women in suits. . . government officials from each faction. She thinks back to Spike’s explanation of the factions and wonders which want to collaborate with the demons. She wishes them luck with that endeavor.

A large window is situated along one wall, and a mass of control panels are interspersed throughout the rest of the cramped room. A curtained doorway marks an entrance into the world beyond the window.

The window remains dark, but soon. . .

While Dawn retreats behind the group, Giles moves next to Buffy, his tall form a comforting presence as he leans toward her, whispering, “Feeling okay, Buffy?”

She gives him a thin-lipped smile and nods. “I am.” She pauses, not sure what to say to acknowledge what he did to keep her safe from the probing government. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry for the way. . .”

“Ready?” Andrew chirps, adjusting his red-tinted goggles. His hands move to hover over one of the control panels in front of the window.

Dawn meanders around to each person, handing him or her a set of goggles. When she gets to Buffy, she grins and whispers sotto voce, “We don’t really need these, but Andrew insists that we’ll look cooler.”

Buffy can’t help but snicker and tugs the plastic band to the back of her skull, fiddling with the goggles until they’re secure on her nose.

“Ready,” Dawn calls to Andrew, donning her protective eyewear.

Andrew checks the monitors. “Satellite is in position. And it’s a go.” He salutes two fingers at Willow. “Ready for spell casting.”

Willow leaves them to enter the darkness, revealing the stone Spike and Buffy had worked so hard to retrieve and winking at Buffy before she disappears.

Buffy can feel her heart pounding in her chest with the clicking of the buttons Andrew’s pushing. As he works, Willow’s voice is transmitted throughout the tiny control room, the language she’s chanting neither English nor Latin but something more ancient. . . more primitive. As the seconds fly past, the magic begins to thrum through the room and hum louder and higher in Buffy’s ears until it overpowers Willow’s speech. At the height of the din, a tiny pinprick of light is born in the center of the wide, ebony window.

The tiny light flickers and almost winks out.

Buffy’s breath catches in her throat.

But then, the light grows and spreads with increasing speed, casting rays of varying intensity in every direction.

As the illumination becomes blinding, Willow’s voice fades, and as she squints against the brilliance, Buffy can hear a couple of the government officials gasping at what they’re witnessing.

Without warning, the magic that had been carrying them along abruptly cuts off, leaving Buffy’s arms dangling under the weight of gravity.

The silence is deafening.

Andrew is the first to remove his goggles, and he gapes at the bright golden light still shining in through the window. Slowly, each individual in the room takes a step forward to peer into the new world. Goggles clatter to the ground or control panels.

Buffy hangs back uncertain whether she wants to see what they’ve accomplished. This is an ending for her. . . an ending for her and Spike.

People cross in front of her in a blur. She doesn’t even realize that tears are the source of the haze until Giles squeezes her upper arm, and the liquid splashes onto her cheeks.

“Coming, Buffy?” he asks, unable to hide his anticipation of what lies beyond the curtain.

Wiping away the tears, she nods. Her legs move without her permission, and the curtain is rough beneath her fingertips.

Then, the brightness and warmth of the sunlight caresses her skin, and her feet sink into the soft green of vegetation.

The space beyond the curtain is paradise.

Willow runs across the grassy field toward Buffy.

“Buffy! Do you see what we did?”

Remaining at the threshold, Buffy smiles for her friend. “I do. It’s wonderful, Will.”

Willow hugs her tightly and then draws back, eyes shining. “It’s all because of you and Spike that this came about. It’s all because of you that we gathered the plants in this room. . . that we have *real sunlight* to sustain the life here. We’re gonna have fresh vegetables and cleaner air and medicine. . . and so many other things!”

“You mean, I’ll be able to have a fresh garden salad?” Buffy jokes.

“Yeah! And look. There are trees and flowers and bushes a-and even a mini-river! Why don’t you go exploring?”

“We did all this.” Buffy is finally awed by the magnitude of their undertaking. They had done it. . . she and Spike and Giles and Willow and Andrew and all the others. They’d created an underground heaven . . . a way to survive underground. . . a way to have *sunlight* without having to be above ground.

“And now we have the energy and time to keep fighting,” Willow adds.

Buffy’s eyes spark with fresh hope. “And that is of the good.”

“Go for a walk,” Willow urges a second time, pressing the now useless stone into Buffy’s open palm. “After today, the area will be off limits until the other scientists and witches and I decide how to develop and cultivate and copy this magic so that more underground areas can reap all the benefits of the sunlight.”

“Okay.”

Buffy hobbles down the path into the trees that lead to the mini-river, inhaling the fresh, clean air and marveling at how less cramped and closed in she feels. Although she has been above ground at night, somehow she hasn’t realized how open the world is with the sun shining above. . . even if the sky is artificial.

At the river’s edge underneath the trees, she squats to watch the shallow water flow noisily over the polished rocks poking up from beneath the surface. Her fingers trail through the cool water, and then, she hears a footfall behind her.

She straightens rather quickly but is too afraid to turn around for fear that her senses betray her.

Buffy speaks first, “Where did you go?”

“Had to sort some stuff out for a couple of days, pet.” Spike doesn’t mention the Maynard and Jones guys. “Where did you think I went?”

“You could have told me.”

“You were in the infirmary. I sent you a computer message. Didn’t you get it?”

“What. . . in Morse code?” She pivots to face him and holds up her empty wrist. Water droplets drip down her arm, and she tucks away the anger that poked its head out in her query. “Sorry, my computer. They must have taken it off in the infirmary.”

She studies him. He stands before her, wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt; his hair has grown out since their mission. She supposes it’s been growing out all along, and she hasn’t noticed in the dark. His arms are at his sides; he’s not defensive, and his eyes are a wide, unfathomable blue.

Oddly, he doesn’t smell like burnt flesh.

“Why aren’t you bursting into flames? I mean, outside of the shade.” Buffy’s voice sounds flat.

“A bit of magic, pet,” Spike explains. “I can go out in the sun here. . . underground.”

“How?”

“After we got back, Red explained it to me. . . the way the whole thing works. Andy channels Red’s spell through the technology. . . through the old satellite in the Earth’s orbit, and the spell harnesses the sunlight and transports it here to this space.”

“I don’t get it. How is that any different than standing out on a hot summer day in mid-August?”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Basically, I think it’s like the sunlight is reflected. Vamps can go out on moonlit nights, and moonlight is reflected sunlight, so. . .”

“This light is ‘reflected’?”

“Yeah, that’s the gist.” Spike tucks his thumb in the loop of his jeans.

Unable to meet his steady gaze, Buffy shoves her hands into her back pockets and sways a little. “Where are you going now?”

“Where?” he repeats, disappointment clear.

“Do you even know? Or do you not want to tell me? Scared I’m going to follow you? Well, I’ll tell you right now, I’m not a stalker, and I have no intention of following you around making moon eyes. . .” The anger that is tight across her ribcage and the unstoppable tears that pour forth from her eyes cut off her words. Damn it.

Spike’s arms surround her, and when her face meets his familiar chest, a sob escapes from deep within. His hands move over her back in soothing strokes as she cries.

When she is finished, he asks, “Buffy?”

“What?”

“Look at me.” Spike moves back from her a little and tilts her chin up so that she can’t evade him.

Buffy’s afraid of what he’s going to say next, but she’s determined to hear whatever it is.

Then, he gently brings his mouth to hers with a tentativeness that allows her to stop him if she pleases. When she doesn’t break away, he pulls her closer, mindful of her injuries, and deepens the kiss. She allows him the control, knowing that he needs to show her. . . something. She doesn’t quite know what his actions mean, but for the moment, she doesn’t worry. She simply kisses him in return, her mouth dancing with his. . . her heart following his lead. Her hand caresses his cheek as his tongue explores her mouth, and neither can deny the connection between them any longer when she enters his. Emotion floods over both of them, and they ride the waves together.

The pain in her shoulder blade forces her to end the kiss. When she grimaces, he takes her hand and allows her to clutch his fingers until the pain subsides.

He presses his forehead to hers. “Buffy, love.”

Her wide green eyes peer into his light blue ones. There is only truth between them now.

“I’m not Angel,” he insists with complete sincerity and a trace of underlying stubbornness. “And I’m *definitely* not that ponce, Riley. . . . Or the bloody Immortal.”

She can’t help herself. She laughs, the sound a bright and joyous balm to his soul.

Stroking the backs of his arms, she whispers, “I’m glad you aren’t any of them. I’m glad you’re you.” She has to hear him say the words. “But what does that mean?”

“Means I’m not going anywhere. That’s what it means.”

“Oooo. . . a bit presumptuous, are we?”

“Am I?”

“Uh, yes!” She kisses his nose and steps back, swinging one hand free.

As they half-stride, half-limp toward the sunlit field and their circle of friends, she adds, “I love you, you know.”

In the past, he would have looked at her in wonder. Now, he simply accepts her words with his own, “I love you, too.”

The end.