Part One, Reunion



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.

Part Two, The Unexplained Plan



“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.

Part Three, Dancing with Demons



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.

Part Four, Brassed-Off Buffy



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.”

Part Five, Aftermath



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.”



Andrew had explained something about all the features of the computers but she 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.

Part Six, Making Contact



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!”