Bullying and Private Wars

By Amy B

Faith sat in the back corner of the courtroom, watching Wolfram & Hart’s finest do that legal tapdance of defense that looked so much like striptease. Show what you want ‘em to see, twist like fuck to keep the rest hidden, and above all, keep up the illusion that you’re completely naked, even while your best bits stay concealed. It was—well, funny, was what it was. She’d been on that side of the table a couple of times herself, all while she’d been underage, most before she’d been called, and she’d learned the “how to be demure and innocent” game like a pro. Nobody could look more innocent in a courtroom than Faith. Which explained how she came to be sitting there in a floral sundress, hair twisted into a bun, watching the show before her like it was the best thing on cable.

This was all part of Spike’s big plan, letting her do the recon that had kept her in this courthouse daily, as much a regular as probably anyone who had ever walked through the door. They probably thought she was one of those serial killer groupies or something. She knew that the security guard manning the metal detector thought she had a crush on him; it wasn’t her fault if she batted her eyes a bit too much or giggled a bit too lightly when she went through every day, now was it? The flirting served its purpose, kept his eyes on her and off the contents of her demure little pocketbook as it went through the screener; Faith might’ve been a bit ballsier than most, but she went nowhere without a couple of items for protection’s sake. Not in her line of work, not even if she was on permanent sabbatical.

She watched as the young lawyer moved for a dismissal because the witness hadn’t shown, and then turned with everyone else when the door at the back of the courtroom opened to reveal Angel with his hand on the arm of someone who, judging by the utterly pissed-off look on lawyer boy’s face, must be the missing witness. *And Spike was right; there’s our way in,* Faith thought smugly, barely smothering the grin that was threatening to break out and fighting the urge to bolt for the door and the hotel room she and Spike called home. The news was just too damn good to hold, however, so she took the oversized sunglasses out of the purse and put them on, ducking unobtrusively out of her seat and edging as silently as possible out of the cavernous room.

She climbed the stairs to the second floor and halfheartedly skimmed the lobby below as she searched through the pockets in her handbag for a quarter. *Damned girly shit,* she grumbled to herself. She hoped Spike thought it was real funny to see her all dressed up like a suburban housewife; he certainly snickered enough when she got dressed in the mornings. Smarmy bastard; he was just loving this. He probably had some wacked kink for Donna Reed, she thought, smirk forming as she planned a whole line of harassment to perpetrate once she’d gotten back to the hotel. She hated the fluffiness of every part of her disguise, plus she could never find anything in this stuff. God, she wanted her jeans and her jacket—and to make Blondie wear tweed. Oh yeah, she thought, smirk becoming a full-fledged wicked grin. That would fix it all.

He almost escaped her notice; it was actually Wesley who first triggered the recognition bell in her brain. But there stood Angel, all smug and self-righteous, puffed up from a fine day’s work at doing the right thing—and then her hand hit the tampon case in which she’d hidden a mini-stake. Really, it was just too good. Like 'a message from the blue' good. She eased the stake from its holder and slipped out of her shoes, eyes darting rapidly to map out an escape route; once she was satisfied that she knew exactly where she needed to go, she gauged her shot carefully, brought her arm up, and let the stake fly, watching as it buried itself deep in Angel’s left shoulder.

He, Wesley, and *is that Cordelia?* turned to look at her, and her eyes met and held Angel’s as a cheeky grin formed; while he stood, face frozen with something like shock and horror, she simply winked. “Seemed rude to see an old friend and not say something,” she called over the banister, noting that she’d also drawn the attention of the young lawyer she’d been watching and who had just stepped out of the courtroom. So much the better. “So hey there, Angel. I'm thinking I’ll be seeing you around.” With a last wink at the lawyer whose eye she’d managed to catch with her theatrics, she scooped up her shoes and darted across the balcony, leaping over the banister, landing on her feet and hustling out into the sunlight and into a convenient taxi, giving the address of her temporary home as she laughed giddily.

Spike would either thank her or kick her ass; she’d just have to wait and see which it’d be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Gorgeous, brilliant, beautiful, cheeky, wonderful bint, you are!” Spike crowed, picking her up around the waist and spinning with her as he laughed.

*So thanking me it is, I guess,* she thought, joining in his infectious laughter as he spun them again.

“Gods, you are just brilliant. This couldn’t be any more perfect. You caught lawyer boy’s eye, you got a dig in at the poof… and ‘ve gotta say, you look smashing in that dress,” he added, laughing and ducking the smack she aimed at his head as he put her down.

“I knew it was a fetish. God, you’re such a freak,” she laughed, stepping out of her pumps as she reached backwards to undo the zip on the floral monstrosity they’d picked up at the thrift store their first night in town. It had been a wholly necessary shopping excursion, undertaken once they’d recovered from their flight from Sunnydale and Spike had come up with the crux of their plan.

He had known that Angel was pissing off the local lawyers—word traveled fast in demon circles, plus he’d been in L.A. not too long before—and he’d known that the law firm was their best chance to get what they wanted. Namely, merry bushels of cash and the chip out of his head. A few good hours of brainstorming, and the shy college student doing her seminar paper on the daily workings of the U.S. court system had been born; a half an hour in the Salvation Army store, and the college student had been wardrobed. So what if he’d picked out florals every time Faith turned her back; the look on her face when she saw each new item was nothing short of hysterical, and it was sedate enough to fit their scenario. Plus, she hated it—obviously and vocally—and she was a good bit of fun to harass.

“Want some help with that, wildcat?” Spike asked, tone lowering as he crossed and slid his hand down the exposed flesh of her back to the zipper she was trying in vain to reach.

“If you want. Don’t strain yourself. All your laying around all day has been exhausting, I’m sure,” she shot back playfully, trying to hide the effect he had on her, masking the desire in her voice but feeling betrayed by the gooseflesh that formed in the wake of his touch.

Staying still while he drew down her zipper was torture; it took all the strength he had not to rip that frippery into shreds and pull her to him, to throw her down and make her scream. As it was, his hands lingered against warm flesh for far longer than was necessary, and his arms slid forward beneath the material to wrap around her waist as he nipped playfully at her neck, smiling at her groan and her hand pushing his head back.

“Don’t go startin’ games you’re not gonna finish,” she grumbled, turning towards him and smiling coquettishly as she brushed her lips over his, dancing back out of his reach when he moved to again grab her around the waist and draw her back to him.

“Oh, they’re gonna get finished,” he promised, voice husky as he stalked towards her, backing her against the wall. Putting one arm on either side of her, he leaned forward, running his tongue lightly up her jugular, stopping to nip her earlobe before his lips took hers again. “Gonna finish this good ‘n proper when the chip’s out. When you ‘n me are as equal as we’re gonna get, hellcat—that was the deal. Not riskin’ becomin’ somebody’s pet.” The glint in his eyes took the sting out of the last word, and she smirked in response.

“Pretty damn confident, there, vampy. Kinda sure I can make you my pet chip or not.”

“Oh, that’s right… ridin’ me at a gallop an' all that, yeah?” he countered, lips inches from hers. God, the smell of her, the heat; how many hours had he spent in the shower with just himself for company since they’d started sharing this room and its one bed?

“Something like that,” she answered, lips parted as she fought the urge to press her mouth to his. It would be so easy; he was so close. And she’d spent a week with her own hand when he was just on the other side of the door, using up all the hot water and a good deal of the cold and not fooling anybody about what he was doing in there…

“Well then.” He dropped his arms and backed up, running his hand through his hair and smoothing it back. “Best get you all kitted up like normal. Not long ‘til sundown, and we do wanna see our lawyers today. The sooner the chip comes out…” His tongue lodged behind his teeth as he leered at her, and she squelched the sound of the shuddery breath she had to take to get herself back to normal.

“The sooner I make you my bitch?” she asked teasingly.

“Think I can promise that somebody’ll be screaming like one,” he answered, tossing her black leather pants at her and shoving her lightly towards the bathroom. “Now go.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*

“So let me get this straight,” Lilah Morgan repeated for what Spike counted as the fourth time in an hour; he may have been off by one less or more, but at this point the sounds of the words themselves prompted a low rumble in his chest. If the dapper-looking woman was phased, she didn’t show it, instead merely recrossing her legs and sitting back in the chair she was occupying, trading a glance with her colleague before turning back to face Spike and Faith. “You want…”

“Oh, bloody buggering hell,” Spike groaned, rolling his eyes as he sprang to his feet, pacing agitatedly behind Faith’s chair. “Let me just give you the rundown, since you’ve already heard this three times and I’m beginnin’ to think you’re more in love with your own voice than you are with your dark overlord an’ master or whatever it is you lot worship in your fancy chrome ‘n glass Tower of Babel. We want cash, a merry lot of it, frankly, and the chip out of my head. In return, you get rid of your Angel problem. Chip, cash, farewell to dear old granpapa. This soundin’ like somethin’ you can get behind, or is there somebody else we need to see?”

“Oh, this is definitely something we can get behind,” Lindsey answered, standing from his position propped on the table behind Lilah and coming around the side of the desk. “We’ll of course need to discuss numbers, given that we can’t have checks for ‘merry lots’ drawn up. Would one million suit your purposes?”

While Lilah choked and Faith whooped, Spike merely raised an eyebrow at the man in front of him. “Sounds like granpapa’s been a right pain in your ass. He’s got that tendency—takes after his sire. How’s a million two, then?”

If anything, Faith’s grin grew wider as Lilah grew redder, the latter flipping frantically through a binder she’d removed from the bookshelf by her desk. Grabbing Lindsey’s arm and tugging him aside, she shoved a page under his nose and they bickered in low tones for long minutes. Faith cocked a curious brow at Spike, who merely smiled and winked as he continued eavesdropping.

Smoothing her hand through her hair and taking a deep breath, Lilah turned to face the vampire and the slayer again, patently false smile plastered across her face. “Would fifty percent up front be acceptable, with the remainder due and owing upon our confirmation of Angel’s death?”

“Sixty.”

Three sets of surprised eyes turned to Faith, who up to that point had been content to let the others do the talking. She stared measuringly at the other woman before giving her an equally false smile and saying sweetly, “Sixty percent up front would be far more acceptable. Forty percent when you’re certain that Angel is dead. And all of it cash.”

“Larger bills will be fine.” Spike’s proud grin was lost on no one, but he couldn’t suppress it. Quite the little ballbreaker, this one was—damn near as good as he was, he thought smugly.

Lindsey made a hushed call on his cell before nodding to Lilah and turning back to the strange duo that had quite literally appeared on his doorstep mere hours before. “If you’ll follow Lilah, Spike, she’ll take you to our science division. Apparently they’re familiar with the hardware the government installed in your brain; we… well, we seem to own the patent. You should be impediment-free by tonight.”

“Imagine that,” Spike drawled wryly. “And the money?”

“Will be given to you when you leave tonight. $720,000, bundled and packed, with a counter included in case you’d like to verify the amount. The remaining money will, of course, be delivered to you upon completion of Angel’s termination.”

“And the arrangements for that?” Spike asked, watching the two lawyers carefully for any signs of impending double-cross.

“I’m certain that Faith and I can handle the arrangements for that while you begin your lab work.”

Spike turned to Faith, who nodded and smiled at him, and he nodded tersely at the female lawyer. He leaned down, murmured, “Watch yourself, hellcat,” and brushed a kiss against Faith’s cheek before standing and turning towards the door, leaving her smiling after him.

Awkward silence ruled the room for long moments after Spike and Lilah’s departure, silence ultimately broken by Lindsey. “Well, now, Miss Lehane, would you care to share your brilliant plan for ridding the world of Angel?”

“Not really. I work better alone—or with somebody I don’t believe is just waiting to knife my back. Fact is, I’d be much more interested in how you know my last name, seein’ as I didn’t tell you,” Faith remarked, voice and demeanor deceptively calm.

“Wolfram & Hart make it their business to know all the major players. And you, Faith, from the day you killed Mr. Finch, have been a major player.”

Faith had blanched at the mention of Sunnydale’s deputy mayor, and Lindsey smirked to himself, moving to the desk chair and seating himself comfortably. “You know, Spike’s surgery is quite costly to the firm, something that didn’t get weighted against the little windfall he negotiated. It’s still an expense, however. One that will need to be paid.”

“What are you saying?” Faith asked, inner alarms screaming more loudly by the moment.

“I’m saying that I know all about you, Miss Lehane, and I know that you have a—well, creative, for lack of a better word—payment history. It would be a shame for you and Spike to start your life together in debt, now wouldn’t it?”

“I’m going to ask you one more time, Mr. McDonald,” Faith sneered menacingly, perturbed when the lawyer didn’t flinch but determined not to show it. “What do you want as payment?”

Lindsey raised his arms, crossing them behind his head as he leaned back in the chair. “Surprise me, Faith. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Faith stood against the brick wall of the alley, soaked to the bone, wide eyes flicking madly from one end to the other, rapidly analyzing possible escape routes, places to hide, places to find cover—anything that could buy her some time. She hadn’t seen Angel following her when she left Wolfram & Hart, had been too distracted by what had happened after Spike left with Lilah to even pick up on his presence until she’d traveled a few blocks; her obliviousness had cost her the opportunity to choose her own venue for the battle, but the dead-end alley she’d ended up with had served her well. Angel was probably only seconds from going down for good when his cavalry had shown up—Wes and his nice shiny handgun, Cordelia and her crossbow.

Right now they still seemed content to talk, determined to save her soul. She didn’t want her soul saved; she just wanted the fuck out of that alley and away from those two sanctimonious bastards before she charged Wes’s gun arm to put herself out of her misery. The longer they yapped, though, the longer she had to weigh her rapidly-dwindling options.

A far-too-loud engine rumble sounded from the open end of the alley, and Faith knew without even looking that Spike had found her. Most importantly, he was okay, but more than that, at least in this moment, was the fact that somehow he’d managed to find her; now she just had to get to him.

Her mind raced for an instant, sifting and categorizing all of the information she'd taken in as she scanned her surroundings, and hit on an idea. She’d have to time it to the second, but she was certain that she could do it, that she had to. Putting on her most convincing shamefaced expression and looking up at Angel and Wesley through downcast lashes, she mock-sobbed, “I… I’m so lost, Angel. I don’t know what to do… I just got so lost.”

Angel and Wesley both stepped towards her, one to each side. Nearly giddy with joy, she shot one arm out to the right, clotheslining Wesley and sending him toppling back into Cordelia until both landed in an ungainly heap on the rain-slicked asphalt. Angel lunged, but she jumped, tucking her knees and just managing a flip over his back. She ripped the spare stake from her waistband as an afterthought as she darted towards the mouth of the alley, turning and hurtling it towards Angel and hearing his grunt of pain as it connected. Hazarding one last glance back, she watched him wrap his hand around the wood that had apparently lodged itself deep inside his thigh.

The DeSoto’s lights were quite likely the most beautiful things she had ever seen at that moment, and she careened around the side of the car, wrenching the door open and hurling herself inside. Spike looked at her, an interesting combination of pissed and amused, as he reached across her to yank the door handle closed.

“Did you get the money?” she gasped out, bruised and tired and facing a seepage of adrenaline now that the immediate danger was past.

“I did,” he answered, shifting the car into gear.

“Then drive, Blondie. Get us the fuck away from here.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Spike stopped five steps inside the door, dropping the case holding their cash and putting out a hand to brace himself against the wall. Faith turned to look at him, fear and questioning written in her features, but he waved her off with his other hand. “Go on then; pack up our kit and let’s get back on the road. No reason the lawyers should know before mornin’ that Sir Broodsalot is still among the living, an’ he’s like to be nursing his wounds an’ the ones you gave his humans. Even so, got five hours to daylight, an' that's time enough to put a bit of distance between them and us, yeah?” When she moved towards him rather than the clothes strewn about the room, he shook his head again. “’m all right… jus’ catchin’ up to me. Go on an’ get it together; let a bloke have a rest, right?”

Faith didn’t want to leave him there, to turn from him. Despite everything he was saying, he looked like he was barely hanging on; she knew, however, that he was right, that they should leave and get as much road between them and L.A. as they possibly could. Against her better judgment, she turned and started grabbing handfuls of clothing—hers, his, it didn’t matter. There wasn’t much, but it was all they had. Two minutes and the handsful were shoved into their duffels, another minute and the weapons they’d collected joined the clothes in another black bag. Another thirty seconds, and a thump from behind her froze her in her tracks, chilling her insides as she turned to see Spike sprawled in the floor, eyes closed and a thin line of blood oozing from his nose.

“No. Nononononononono.” She dropped to the floor in an instant, pulling his head into her lap and swiping at the blood with the sleeve of her jacket, slapping his cheeks first lightly, then hard enough to pinken them as she bit her lip to keep from screaming. “Shit. Fuck. Shit. Shit. Shit.” Faith rocked mindlessly, her curses becoming a chant as she traced her hands over Spike’s slack features. “You’re so pale. Why are you so pale? Need you to wake up… we gotta get out of here. Can’t stay here, Blondie—got two fronts worth of enemies on their way at us. You’ve got to wake up, Spike… please. Wake up, blink… do something. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.”

She hadn’t even realized that she was speaking out loud until silence descended upon the room as her supposed inner monologue came to an end. Everything was too quiet, and she’d had enough of silence and her fill of stillness while she’d been in the coma. That was one of the reasons that Spike made such a damn good travel companion—between his stories and his proclivity for rock radio, the car was never silent. The room had been the same, and somehow it had been easier to make plans with him flipping channels or pacing restlessly, chain-smoking until his pack was empty and then cribbing from hers, laughing and dodging when she tried to slap him away. He was never still; hell, he even managed to talk in his sleep. There was nothing like death around him, despite the fact that he was a vampire, and having herself been still as the grave for most of a year she clung to his noise and activity as a safety anchor. He shouldn’t look so still now, shouldn’t be so pallid, shouldn’t look so… at rest. She’d only known him for eight days and she already knew that this wasn’t how Spike was meant to be.

“Guess it looks like I’m going to have to do the talking, at least until you get off your dead lazy ass and start keeping up your end of the conversation,” Faith snarked, her words strong but her voice weak as she made sure that her hands stayed in contact with him at all times. She was doing her best to anchor him to her with touch, with sound, with whatever would open those too-blue eyes and tell her that he was back with her, that she wasn’t facing this mess alone. Not when he’d promised. Not when they’d had a deal. Not when she’d just found the first friend she’d ever really had.

“You need to come around; I’ve got to tell you all of what’s going on, and then we need to go. I can’t drive that shitbox ‘classic,’ Spike. You know that. Damn heap of junk is why we keep running out of cigarettes. Stupid bitch never wants to start for me… she’s your baby. Big ol’ ugly waste of space gas-sucking baby. And I know you hate it when I rag on the car. You know you want to say something.” Her hands moved from his cheeks to his chest and arms, chafing them with erratic strokes; he didn’t have blood flow, she knew that, but maybe something about the pressure would get a reaction from him. She needed a reaction.

“I screwed it up, Blondie. Fucked it all up real good. Guess you’re not too surprised—not like I’m known for anything but being fucking psychotic and going off half-cocked. But I stuck to the plan this time; really, I did. I went after Angel while you were having this done—two birds, right? That’s what I was thinking. I could get it done, and then I’d get you out of the chip shop, and we could head on out. Get the hell out of L.A. and cruise for less sun. But he must’ve been at Wolfram & Hart for something, or he thought I’d be there, because he followed me. I had him, baby, I really did… I had him pinned, stake out and all… it was over…”

She stopped to swallow back bitter tears, swiping angrily at her cheeks with the back of her hands. “It was over until Wesley and Cordelia showed up. When’d they go and get balls, huh? They’re why I was up against the wall. I swear I did you proud until they showed up, but Wesley had a gun. Might’ve been a tranq, but I couldn’t take that chance… knew I had to get back to you. And then you went and found me. And you know all the rest. God, I’ve never been so happy to see anybody as I was to see your bleached ass sitting there that ugly car. So you were right, we’ve got a few hours ‘til they’re out in force for us, and you have to wake up, because I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to do this alone.”

There was still no movement—not even a flutter of lashes—and cold dread moved into Faith’s stomach. She shifted around, keeping Spike's head in her lap, until her back was to the dresser, then dropped her head back against the hard surface as she brushed her fingers through his hair, tears falling freely. She was alone and no one would see it, so why shouldn’t she let herself cry? She couldn’t lose him. Just… couldn’t. Wouldn’t. *Wonder if this is how B felt…* she thought idly, and then the events leading up to her coma flashed through her brain; she sobbed with relief as she realized that she knew exactly what she had to do.

She didn’t allow herself to think about it, just stretched her leg out and hooked the handle of the weapons bag with her toe and dragged it back towards her. She found the knife easily enough; wicked, lethal, and gleaming, it was one of the first purchases they’d made on their shopping excursion. She chose it because it was cleaner than her pocketknife and the Swiss Army that Spike kept in his boot, but the irony that it looked stunningly similar to the knife the Mayor had given her—the one with which Buffy had nearly gutted her—wasn’t lost on her. She had no idea how to do this, had never even thought about such a thing before, but she knew that he needed a sizable amount of blood, and he needed it fast. Her wrist would bleed, but she couldn’t be sure it was enough, and she didn’t want to keep reopening the same wound until he’d been fed properly. She didn’t even know if he’d bite at some point or if the cut she made would have to do it.

Faith shrugged out of her jacket and scooted out from beneath Spike, jostling his head as little as possible, and took a deep breath as she looked at the glinting blade her in her hand. Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward, brought the knife to her throat, and slashed a quick line across her jugular. Forcing his mouth open with her hand under his chin, she leaned forward and positioned the cut so that it drained onto his tongue. Her hand slid down from his face as she prepared to massage his throat to force him to swallow, but after a tense moment or two she felt weak suction against the cut and groaned in relief, slumping against him. If she had believed in God, she was certain that, in that instant, she would’ve praised him until her throat was raw.

She felt Spike stirring beneath her, small flexes of his muscles as her blood brought him back around, but the presence of his hand on the back of her head shocked her with its suddenness. A fraction of a second later, she heard the telltale signs of bones shifting; she wasn’t afraid—she was beyond relieved, actually, that he was taking over—but she had no idea what to expect, and that was enough to cause her to tense. Spike’s fingers flexed and released weakly against the back of her neck—once, twice—and she realized that he was actually trying to soothe her; laughing at herself, at him, at the entire situation, she forced herself to go limp in his arms and waited for the pain…

The pain that didn’t come—or at least, not the way she expected it. The moment his fangs pierced her throat, there was the slightest twinge of discomfort, but the bite was executed so carefully that she could easily take a deep breath and see beyond the hurt. Once his fangs were fully embedded and he began to pull on her blood, however, pain was the furthest thing from her mind. It was incredible, there was just no other word for it, and she found herself stretching out atop him, curling into him as she tightened her hands in his hair and held him to her throat. She gave a small moan in objection as he withdrew his fangs and drew his tongue across the wound in slow, teasing laps, finishing with one last stroke across her original cut before he pulled back to look at her, his golden gaze fading to blue before her incredulous brown eyes.

“Didn’t have to do that, wildcat,” he murmured, gratitude and shock plain to see in the look she was receiving.

“Coulda told me that before I slit my throat. Guess you would’ve if you weren’t busy playing corpse,” she answered, brilliant, dimpled smile taking the sting out of her words.

“Bloke might almost get the impression you were worried,” he answered, brushing a long, rain-soaked strand of coffee-shaded hair behind her ear before tracing his hand over her jaw, following the curve of her cheek, her dimple, her lower lip, finally sliding his fingers back through her hair. “You know I’m going to kiss you.”

“Damn, I wish you would,” she replied, sliding forward and letting herself be pulled down to meet his lips. There were no tentative first strokes, no hesitation; the condition that had constituted the barrier between them was gone now. No chip, no walls—just them. Hunger and need and a long week of sharing a room and a bed and a desire for each other that grew by the day took over, and soon she had managed to straddle his hips, grinding herself down as their tongues tangled desperately. Muffled groans and gasps punctuated their frantic moves against the other, and when he rolled her beneath him, she cried out in absolute joy.

His hands slid up to her wrists, pulling her hands up over her head and catching them in one of his. He’d only planned to tease, but her wince stopped him in his tracks, and he immediately released his grip.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing; they’re just sore. Got bruised.”

“The fight with Angel?” he asked, concern clear on his face as he pulled one of her hands up for inspection.

“No,” she answered, trying to tug it free from his grip without raising his suspicions. “Must’ve knocked it into something. Heat of the moment and all.”

“Mm-hmm. Looks like.” Spike rose to his feet slowly, reaching a hand down to help her up, as he suspected she’d likely be a bit lightheaded. Once she was standing, his hand shot out to the lamp on the dresser while the other held hers firm, and he looked at the bruise in the lamplight. His glare burned into her as he held out his other hand wordlessly and she helplessly raised her other arm.

“Just what kind of moment got so heated, Faith? ‘ve left scores of bruises in my time, all different shapes, all different types—I know handprint bruises when I see ‘em. So who held you down?”

“It wasn’t…”

“Who. Held. You. Down?” His voice was low, lethal, and made it clear that he would brook no argument. Eyebrows raised, eyes cold and furious, he held her motionless with the force of his stare. “Answer me, Faith.”

“Lindsey.”

“Son of a BITCH!” Spike growled, spinning and driving his fist towards the wall.

The sight of Spike’s hand plunging through the plaster shook her from her torpor, and she dove for his arm and grabbed his elbow. She just wanted to calm him down, to put his mind at ease so that they could get on the road, put it all behind them. “It wasn’t… He didn’t hurt me. We made a deal.”

“You made a deal.” If she hadn’t been so frantic, she would’ve taken note of the blank, detached tone of his voice; as it was, she plunged ahead.

“After you left with Lilah… before I went after Angel. We made a deal.”

“Well, that’s worlds of different, then, innit? Why don’t you tell me all about this deal.” The ice that had been in his voice had turned to pure fury by the time he spat out the last word; as he spun around and she found herself facing furious golden eyes shining from his handsome human face, she knew that she’d said the wrong thing. The problem now was that she had no idea what to say next.

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