So Many Steps To Death

By KallieRose

Chapter One: Unexpected Guest

Spike took one last drag off his cigarette before flicking it carelessly into the ocean, his sharp ears catching the hiss as it hit the water. Blowing smoke into the air, he watched it mingle with the fog, and then his gaze turned eagerly in the direction of land. His left hand gripped the railing of the old cargo ship tightly, as if hoping to contain his excitement.

In less than an hour, this ship would dock at San Pedro in the Los Angeles Harbor. From there it would be another couple of hours to Sunnydale. Just thinking about the town that had been the site of so many staggering defeats made the bitterness swell up within him.

But this time it would be different, he promised himself. This time *he* would be different.

Long-gone was the vampire who had trailed around after the Slayer, desperate for any crumb of affection she might deign to give him. And wasn’t that a laugh. The girl was incapable of love; he saw that now. Not that it mattered anymore. That white-hot place in his heart that had held his feelings for her was now cold as ice. And soon *she* would be cold as ice as well. Buried deep in the ground, surrounded by others who had suffered a similar fate.

But first things first. He’d check his old crypt tonight and see if it was still empty. If not, he was sure that some other fine citizen would be happy to welcome him in. ‘Poor wayward traveler with a flat tire’ was a game that he and Drusilla had played often enough, and they had never lost a game yet.

His mind drifted, as it had shown a tendency to do over the last couple of weeks. Travel by sea had always been boring; it was even more so now, without his beloved Drusilla.

If Dru could see him now, she’d be proud. Oh, she would pretty it up with phrases like, ‘The king has stolen back his crown back from the land of the pixies,’ and such—she’d never been one for a straightforward sentence—but he knew she’d be keening with pride nonetheless.

Things were finally going to be right between him and the Slayer. They would be predator and prey once more, as they were meant to be.

The last couple of months loomed large in his memory, as he mentally retraced the steps that led him to this time and place. The weather in Africa had been stifling. It hadn’t affected him, particularly, but it made people irritable and jump. Fortunately for him, Spike hadn’t been there to meet and greet the locals. He’d gone looking for a demon he'd heard about, one who would give you your fondest desire…if you could survive his trials.

Needless to say, he had survived; it hadn’t been easy, and he wasn’t quite sure if he could manage it again, but that wasn’t the point. The point was, he got his one wish, and now he was no longer the neutered, pathetic creature he’d once been.

He was a vampire again.

And soon Buffy would find out. Right about the same time as he ripped out her throat.

He was drawn from his musings by the sound of activity nearby. Land, he thought, looking forward to feeling solid ground under his feet again. Travel by ship might be less hazardous than flying, but it surely wore on his patience.

---

It only took him five minutes to find a likely sap with a car. Drinking the man down had taken approximately 30 seconds, and now he was the proud “owner” of a 2003 Ford Escort. Maybe he wasn’t really traveling in style, but the gas mileage was good, and the sound system was adequate. Besides, once it got him to Sunnydale, he could abandon it and take his time finding a more appropriate replacement.

In no time at all, the car was exceeding the speed limit, music assaulting the landscape through his open windows, as he raced his way down the freeway, which was fairly quiet at this time of night. If he could keep this speed up, he should make it to Sunnydale in plenty of time to find shelter for the day.

As the miles flew past, Spike’s imagination found ways to pass the time; his favorite, of course, was envisioning the havoc he would wreak once he reached his destination.

There was a specific order he had decided upon when he imagined killing them. After all, he wasn’t just a savage who sought nothing but a bloodbath. This would be art; he would pull it off in a way that would leave even Angelus green with envy.

First he would take care of the moron. That wanker really pissed him off. Call it justifiable homicide. No court of law would convict him, et cetera, et cetera.

It would be a bloody kill, with entrails from wall to wall, and screaming and whimpering…he could feel himself getting aroused just thinking about it. Then he considered the fact that thinking about Chubbs was making him hard, and felt his cock wilt completely.

Anya would be next, although Spike wasn’t sure if he could really pull that one off. He’d heard through the demon grapevine that she was a working woman—a vengeance demon once again. If that was the case, then he probably wouldn’t be able to touch her. Pity.

If Giles was around, he would be next. Again, Spike wasn’t sure if this was going to be possible. The Watcher might be in London, in which case Spike would have to wait a bit before exacting his revenge.

Spike entertained a momentary thought of Dawn, but pushed it away quickly, because he didn’t want to think about her. Letting her live would be no kindness, but he didn’t know if he had the stones to kill her in cold blood. He hated that she affected him like that, but had come to accept it as fact, immutable and unchangeable.

He forced his mind to move on to the witches. His eyes blazed in the darkness as he thought about those two. Pretty birds, both of them, but he would kill them without a second thought. Sure, they’d been decent to him, but they had the power to stop him, and that could not be allowed. Besides, he couldn’t wait to see the look on Buffy’s face as she realized he had snuffed out their lives.

Although Red might make a decent vampire, he allowed. There had been stories, never told to him, but alluded to often enough, about the time her vampire doppelganger had visited Sunnydale. From what he’d heard, she’d been a pistol. Sexy and strong and…‘kinda gay’ was how Willow had put it. Of course, that had been before she started dating the witch. Maybe the vampire didn’t fall far from the tree. He smiled; she probably would have appreciated the mixed metaphor.

There hadn’t been much point in telling her that all vampires were ‘kinda gay.’ They weren’t picky about whose hole they stuck their parts in, as long as they got to put them somewhere. He imagined the way her eyes would have gotten large and curious if he had bothered to let her in on that little secret. He’d always loved watching her eyes. So expressive and open; they were—as the saying went—the windows to her soul.

He shoved the eventual fate of the redhead aside for the bit, so that he could concentrate on his triumphant moment: the look on Buffy’s face when she realized that he had killed all her friends, and that she was just moments away from her own death.

Oh, she would fight him, he had no doubt. Even through her grief, he knew that she would battle him with her very last breath. But she would also be reeling from the deaths of her friends, and something like that was bound to affect a girl, even if she was the Slayer.

A vicious smile twisted his lips, and his hand reached for the stereo, cranking the sound up even louder. Spike sang along to an old P.I.L. song as the miles flew by, firm in his belief that by this time tomorrow, he would be bathing in blood.

Before he knew it, was back on familiar ground. The crypt had been empty, so Spike spent the day there, even though it was rife with bad memories. He had trouble even looking at the place now; it was a symbol of a life he was embarrassed to admit he had lived. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would sleep in a comfortable bed, the taste of fine liquor on his lips, his belly full of stolen blood, and the screams of his victims ringing in his ears.

He couldn’t wait.

---

The minute the sun fell below the horizon, Spike was out and heading for the Magic Box. It felt strange being here again, walking the familiar streets. But unlike the last time he had followed this path, tonight he held his head high, feeling pride and comfort in the fact that he could best whatever the hellmouth had to throw at him. No longer would he lurk in the shadows, trying to make his way invisibly from place to place.

This time *he* was the one in control. And anyone who didn’t catch on to that fact was just a dead man walking.

As he passed a self-absorbed yuppie with a cell phone attached to his ear, he was tempted to stop for a quick bite, but let the opportunity pass by. There would be plenty to eat tonight; it wouldn’t do to spoil his appetite. Especially with such an inferior appetizer.

Stopping for a cigarette, Spike was surprised to notice that some changes had taken place in his absence. The Magic Box, although still in the same location, looked slightly different. The exterior color was new; the storefront and the sign both smelled strongly of fresh paint. Bars covered the large display windows, which made a certain amount of sense, as far as he was concerned. Leaving only a thin pane of glass between the denizens of the hellmouth and the only magic shop in town had always seemed almost criminally stupid.

Then again, this was Sunnydale. Criminally stupid was a way of life to these people. And Spike couldn’t be happier about that fact.

The changes intrigued him. What could have happened? A robbery? A small fire? All the other buildings on the block looked relatively unscathed, so whatever had happened was localized, centered directly on the Magic Box itself.

Another change he noticed, as he opened the door and walked inside, was that the annoying bell above the door was gone. Good riddance, he thought. Just on basic principles, Spike was against anything that announced his presence. And anything that insisted on doing so in such a relentlessly cheerful manner was even worse.

There were other interior changes, but he catalogued them without thought, his eyes focusing immediately on his target: Anya, counting money and then putting it carefully back into the till.

Xander was there as well, he realized, sitting in a chair towards the back of the store, his feet up on the chair across from his. The comic book held in front of his face seemed to be the focus of all his attention.

Neither of them had bothered to look up at his entrance. Killing them would be a mercy, really, Spike told himself. Anyone stupid enough to ignore evil when it came strutting right through their door would be a demon hors d’oeuvre in no time, friend of the Slayer or not.

Just to get their attention, Spike knocked his foot against one of the display cabinets, setting the collection of shrunken heads and talismans in motion. Anya’s eyes widened as they took him in, her lips forming a tentative smile, and then flattening out into a straight line as her glance darted to...

Xander, who had finally noticed him, Spike was happy to see, was trying to pry himself out of his chair. The moron didn’t look like he’d changed much over the last couple of months; then again, the most intriguing thing about him had always been that he managed to make it through catastrophe after apocalypse, without ever suffering more than a cut or bruise along the way.

Fate had a sick sense of humor.

Spike made a show of looking around for the others, although he could tell by the sound of the two rapidly beating hearts that nobody else was there. “Where’s the rest of your little group?” he asked, his body readying for a fight as Xander moved closer.

“Buffy’s not here,” Xander barked out, shooting a warning glare at Anya when it looked like she might have something to add.

Spike rolled his eyes at him, biting back the sharp retort that danced on his lips, just begging to be uttered. Under normal circumstances he would have let ‘er rip, just to see what Xander would do.

But he was getting a vibe that told him things weren’t quite as they had been when he left town, and he was curious enough about that to curb his natural tendency to snack first and ask questions later. After all, dead men told no tales. Although undead men had been known to tell a few…

His demon rebelled at the thought of turning such a pathetic specimen, though, which left Spike with only one choice: the fine art of conversation.

So he put on his most ingratiating smile and looked Xander in the eye, clenching his hands into fists behind his back in an effort to distract himself from the vision he had of ripping the idiot’s head off.

“Yeah, I can see that. Where is everyone?”

Anya closed the till with a bang, and came to stand behind Xander, laying her hands on his shoulders in an effort to—what—calm him? Spike couldn’t be sure. The boy was unstable. Always had been. All the Prozac in the world wouldn’t be able to change that fact.

She faced him, staring at him with frank curiosity, as if she sensed that there was something different. Confusion clouded her features for the briefest of moments, and then was wiped away. “Why did you come back?” she asked.

“Don’t you want to know where I was?” he asked mockingly, leaning against the wall, doing his best to look casual and relaxed, while giving her the same probing glance she had subjected him to just a moment before.

“Not really,” Xander shot back angrily. “We were just happy you were gone. And as long as you stayed gone, we couldn’t care less. Besides,” he added, “we’ve had other things to deal with here.”

Then he stopped short, the look on his face saying clearly that he had told Spike more than he had intended. Anya’s face held a similar expression.

Spike was curious, now. Between the new decor, and the expressions on their faces, he sensed that there was a story here, just waiting to be told. He simply needed to figure out which buttons to push in order to make them spill it.

“Well that’s too bad, because I’m back, and I’m not going anywhere.” Anger usually worked well to loosen Xander’s tongue, so he used his words to stoke the fire.

Xander made a disgusted face, but pressed on. “Buffy doesn’t want you here, especially after what you did to her, you sick bastard. None of us want you here. Are you really so pathetic that you’d just stick around, trailing after a woman you tried to rape? The woman who has told you over and over again that you’re nothing to her? Go away now, and save her the trouble of staking you, all right?”

Spike felt anger wash over him in waves, battering down his self-control, and for a moment his fangs itched to tear into human flesh. The thing that rankled most was that there was some truth to what the boy was saying. He *had* trailed after the Slayer like a demented puppy dog. One word from her and he would have jumped to do her bidding.

It really had been pathetic.

Spike tried desperately to focus on his plan—the plan that he didn’t want to wreck now, at the very first provocation. So instead of ripping out the neck of one Xander Harris, he clenched his jaw tight and refused to give in to the surge of anger that threatened to overwhelm him.

“I’ve got something to say,” he stated, doing his best to sound calm and controlled, “but I’m only going to say it once. So I want everyone here to listen. Gather up the troops, right?”

A look passed between the two, a secret, and something in their mutually pained expressions caught Spike by surprise. It was Buffy, he thought, his mind making an intuitive leap. She was dead, and they didn’t know how to tell him. Plans for revenge fell to dust as he cursed his luck. Hell, it would hardly be worth killing the rest of them if the Slayer wasn’t around to see it.

“Would you just say it?” he bellowed, wanting to hear the words, wanting to know for sure that it was too late. That he was too late.

They started in surprise. Anya glanced at Xander again, and then met his eyes finally. “Things changed after you left,” she admitted, her words soft and hesitant. “Willow—Tara—oh god, where do I even begin?”

“Something happened to Red?” Spike asked, his plans for revenge rearranging themselves in his mind. Disappointment mingled with relief; he would miss the young girl, but if it meant that the Slayer was still alive…

“Not Willow; Tara.”

Spike frowned, not making the connection. “Too bad. But…living on the hellmouth, that sort of thing is sure to happen every once in a while, right?”

“That was just the beginning,” Anya said, taking a deep breath. “Willow—well, she lost control. Completely. She went after Tara’s killers. You know, the three bumbling geeks? Except, even a bumbling geek can do a lot of damage with a gun.”

“He was gunning for Buffy and got Tara,” Xander mumbled. “Still bumbling.”

“Who’s telling this story?” Anya snapped, but immediately regretted it when she saw the way that Xander pulled in upon himself. “Sorry,” she muttered.

As much as Spike was enjoying watching them hurt each other, what he really wanted was information. “So when you say that Willow lost it…”

With a glance at Anya, as if asking permission, Xander took up the tale. His voice was flat and tired as he said the words. “She flayed Warren—he was the ringleader—alive. There was screaming and writhing and more screaming. And then…he was just gone.”

Spike eyes widened. He couldn’t help but feel a little impressed that Willow could do such damage. Then again, love made you do things that you wouldn’t ordinarily do. Known fact, that.

His thoughts tumbled as he imagined the scene, Willow looking like vengeance itself, as the others watched in horror. They were the ‘good guys,’ after all. Retribution was for people like Anya. People who had passion and who weren’t afraid to make the hard decisions.

“What happened then?” he asked, relatively certain that he’d get a tragic tale of Buffy putting the witch out of her misery. That would explain both their absences here today.

“Willow went after the other two, and anyone who got in her way,” Anya told him. “Killed Rack—not that that was any big loss—and stole his magic. Nearly killed Buffy, and then Giles. Then she had this crazy theory that the world would be better if it—if it ended. So she tried to end it.”

“Buffy stopped her?”

“No,” Xander admittedly softly. “I did.”

Spike blinked, and then shook his head once in an effort to clear his ears. He could have sworn he heard the boy say that *he* had stopped her, and that was obviously impossible.

“Say again?”

“Xander made her stop. Pulled at her heartstrings, reminded her of the reasons for living. All that human crap.” Anya’s expression made it clear how she felt about that ‘human crap,’ but Xander merely gave her an affectionate glance. It looked to Spike like they had managed to clear the air between them and were back on track with their dysfunctional little romance. Not that he cared.

But Willow…damn, when had she gotten so powerful? He could still remember her as a teenager; all shy, insecure—terrible fashion sense. But with a heart big enough that it was bound to get her into trouble. It was hard to believe that someone so young could harness such power. Sure, she had been getting into some dark stuff before he left, but there was a big difference between dabbling in the dark arts, and trying to end the world.

“So what happened to her?” Spike asked. He couldn’t imagine that the Watcher’s Council would just stand by and let someone that dark, that powerful, and that emotionally unstable roam free. His body count might be high, but her potential was—unlimited.

“Giles took her back to England to learn to cope,” Anya told him. Something about the way she frowned when she spoke hinted at more, at things she wanted to say, but was afraid to mention in front of Xander.

They would kill her if they couldn’t fix her, Spike figured. Watcher’s Council had a habit of doing that. Their innate fear of anything they couldn’t control would be her death sentence. He hoped, for her sake, that she was able to play the role of good little Wicca, and play it well.

“And Buffy?” he asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“She’s around.” Story-time was over, and Xander’s voice grew cold and hard again. “I don’t care why you came back, but if you think you’ve got a chance with her, now that she’s vulnerable, think again. She’s not interested. And if you ever try to touch her again, I’ll kill you.”

Spike rolled his eyes at the boy’s melodrama, but before Xander could say another word, he turned and left the building.

His thoughts were in chaos. He had prepared for this moment for so long; during the trials, looking forward to his bloody reign of terror had been all that kept him going at times. But now everything was fucked up and he didn’t know how to fix it. He wanted to growl in frustration or curse the witch and her dead lover for the way that they had destroyed a perfectly good plan.

A young redhead with bouncy curls and bright green eyes caught his attention as she exited a pub. He crooked a finger in her direction, and in her inebriated state she was easy pickings. Five minutes later, he was licking the last traces of her blood from his lips, and feeling a bit less bitter towards redheads in general, and one in particular.

The way he saw it, he had three choices. He could cut his losses and kill Chubbs and the Slayer now, and knock off the others at his leisure. Or, he could hang around for a bit and wait for the two little lambs to come back to the flock. Because, sooner or later, some apocalypse would come a-knocking at their door, and everyone would be called back home to help out.

But the idea that appealed to him the most was this: to head to Merry Olde and see what the witch and her keeper were up to.

Maybe it would be a waste of time, but time was something he had in abundance. And he had a feeling that Red was there, just waiting for someone to lead her astray.


Chapter Two: Sad Cypress

The trip to England took even longer than Spike imagined it would. Perhaps it was anticipation that made time drag its heels, or maybe it was just the piling up of one long trip after another that made it seem so.

Once he reached London, there was a temptation to look up old friends and enemies, or roam the foggy streets of his former home. He let himself be persuaded to stay a day or two, but before long restlessness overtook him once again.

Finding the Watcher and his charge wasn’t difficult; Spike had made it his business to find out about his fellow countryman years ago, and figured the first place to search would be the Giles’ estate, located several hours north of London. After all, they weren’t hiding; it would be only natural that they chose to stay there.

Sure enough, he saw them both a couple of days later, making their way through the village shortly after dark. He watched them walk past him as he downed a glass of whiskey, safely ensconced behind the dirty windows of the local pub.

Giles strode through the streets as if he owned the place, while Willow trailed apathetically behind him.

He was shocked by the changes that time and circumstance had brought about. Her eyes, which used to sparkle with wit and excitement, seemed lackluster now. And the bounce in her step was gone; she seemed to glide across road, as if her feet were afraid to touch down on solid ground. Her hair lacked its usual shine, and, most telling of all, her face was set into such an expression of weary acceptance that she hardly looked like the girl he knew.

What had they done to her?

---

It took a couple of days before Spike was able to get her alone. He thought about just walking up to the door of the Watcher’s home, but decided to keep his presence quiet for a little while longer. In the meantime he trailed them, studied their schedule, and made his plans.

And that was how, early Wednesday evening, he found himself standing in the woods, watching as Willow sat on a blanket, a picnic basket next to her, as she stared out into the distance.

The entire village was laid out in the valley below her, and from her vantage point she had a perfect view of everything that went on. Not that much went on in a one-horse place like that. Spike had seen more lively towns in Amish country.

He had been watching her for over an hour, trying to decide what to say or do. Tonight was the night he had chosen to contact her, but beyond that, he hadn’t really made any plans.

Killing her would be easy enough, he figured. He knew from watching her that she hadn’t been using magic at all. Maybe the Council had found a way to suppress it or take it away, or maybe she had just overdosed on it, and was now unable to use it at all.

In the end, he decided to tread carefully. If he took the time to talk to her, he might find out something interesting. Something to his advantage…

To his surprise, Willow made the decision for him, calling him out, as they both hid in the darkness.

“Whoever you are, I think you should know that I’ve got a picnic basket full of stakes, a fully loaded gun, and—and,” her voice was losing confidence fast, he noted, “oh, and my blood tastes really, really icky. So you might as well just go away and bug someone else.”

She hadn’t even turned around to say the words, but somehow he knew she meant it. About the stakes, at least. Maybe the gun as well. It was hard to tell.

He took his chances, stepping out from behind a group of trees and into the moonlight. “Guns wouldn’t do much damage to a vamp, Red. You ought to know that by now.”

She did this weird little movement where she jumped to her feet and turned around at the same time, and Spike blinked in surprise at the speed with which she moved.

“Spike? What? How…huh.” She looked shocked for a moment, but then she rallied. “I knew someone was following me. I’ve been sensing it for days. Just wasn’t sure if it was a vampire, or maybe someone the Council sent. So, yeah, the gun.”

“Where’d you get a gun? I can’t imagine the Council would be happy to know about that. Not that I care, mind you. Just curious.”

She shrugged, and then turned and sat back down on her blanket. Judging from the way she scooted to the left side of the blanket, leaving half of it empty, Spike figured he was being issued an invitation. Might as well be comfortable, he decided, sitting down and stretching his legs out in front of him. This little conversation of theirs could take a while.

“I didn’t steal it,” she said defensively. She was staring at him, as if waiting for him to reply, but then she whipped her head straight ahead, looking down at the village far below.

“Didn’t think you had,” he replied evenly, using his voice to calm her.

He watched the way that his tone affected her, as the release of tension made her shoulders relax slightly. The night crowded around them, the sounds of nature continuing the work he’d started and lulling her into a state of peacefulness.

This was the first time he had been so close to her since his arrival in England, and as he took a deep breath, he noticed a new component to her scent.

“So, what kinds of drugs do they have you on, pet?” he drawled.

She flinched slightly at the question, refusing to meet his eyes. “You heard about…” Unable to finish her sentence, she raised her eyes to his, looking up at him from beneath the sweep of her lashes.

“Your little visit to the dark side? Yeah, I heard about it. Gotta say, I’m a little disappointed.” He kept the words light, but apparently she misunderstood, nonetheless.

Willow’s head fell at the implied criticism. “Sorry,” she muttered.

Spike sighed, shaking his head. “Silly bint. I meant that I was disappointed that I missed it. I hear you put on quite a show.”

One minute he was admiring the way the moonlight glinted in her hair, and the next minute his arms were full of sobbing redhead, her body shaking and shuddering from the ferocity of her sadness. His arms came up automatically to hold her, letting her pour her grief into him.

He couldn’t help but marvel at the absurdity of this evening. After all, the entire reason he had traveled to London in the first place was to assess the situation and decide whether he should kill her now, or later. And, suddenly, here he was, holding her while she cried, and making soft shushing sounds against her hair.

Some badass vampire he turned out to be.

He let her do what she obviously needed to do, trying not to think about how wet his T-shirt was, and how it was sticking uncomfortably to his chest. Eventually her sobs lessened, and then stopped altogether. But as the moments passed, she made no effort to move herself out of his arms.

Finally, with a little sigh that he felt as much as heard, she pulled herself away from him, her hand reaching up to wipe the last couple of tears from her eyes.

“Sorry to use you like that,” she whispered, “but I really needed to cry. I just…I don’t feel like I can anymore. The drugs make me feel so numb all the time…” Her voice trailed away into silence, and her head turned so that she was once again staring out at the village below.

“What are they giving you?” he asked, slightly surprised that the Watcher would resort to pills to keep her under control. Even someone like him, someone who wasn’t terribly tuned in to the human condition, could see that instead of helping her deal with her pain, the drugs were merely masking it, until at long last it manifested in a crying jag like the one to which he had just been privy.

There was a strange detachment in her voice as she listed them, ticking each off on a finger. “Prozac, Lunesta, Dalsema, Girante herbs, and Lockroot.”

Other than the first two, Spike was at a bit of a loss. “What do they do?” he asked, trying to hide the discomfort he was beginning to feel. This whole set-up felt seriously wrong.

“Prozac for my mood, Lunesta to help me sleep.” She shrugged. “The others suppress my natural ability to do magic. It’s just too dangerous right now. Once I’ve healed, and learned to control the bad impulses, they’ll taper me off of everything. At least, that’s what they say,” she added. Spike caught a hint of bitterness in her voice, and wondered if she was really as comfortable with this as she wanted him to believe.

The thing was, it didn’t make all that much sense. If they were trying to heal her, then they were going about it all wrong. The drugs were dulling her pain, but they weren’t helping her deal with it. He wondered if maybe the drugs were more about control than healing. As long as she took them, it would buy the Council time to figure out how to deal with her.

Or, a cynical voice inside his head added, how to destroy her.

“So what do you do with yourself all day? Do they have you talking with anyone? Working on dealing with your pain, or whatever it is you humans do?”

She grimaced. “Giles and I talk, a little. We ride horses, walk around the village, but mostly I’m left to my own devices. I guess that’s a measure of trust, right?”

More likely, it was a measure of their trust in the drugs they were pumping into her, Spike thought. Probably figured she could do no harm in her current state.

“So where did you go? How come you missed my…my show?” she asked, staring at him with those huge, wounded eyes. “I mean—I know that you and Buffy had…” she searched for a word that would describe attempted rape, and came up with, “problems. But you just disappeared. Nobody knew where you were. We kind of thought, maybe you’d been dusted or something. And now suddenly you’re here.”

He smiled slyly at her words. She hadn’t said it, but he knew that what they had really hoped was that someone had staked him, saving Buffy the trouble of doing it herself.

“Aren’t you upset about what I did to Buffy?” he asked curiously. “Tried to do, I mean.”

“We all make mistakes,” she mumbled. She didn’t leave it at that, though. “Girl who tried to end the world sitting here. I tried to rape a civilization. I don’t have any right to be throwing stones, you know.”

“What if I said it wasn’t a mistake?” The words came out before he could stop them, and the surprise on her face told him that she wasn’t entirely comfortable with his response.

“It was wrong, Spike. Surely you know it, on some level.” Her words were soft, and they tore a response out of him, even though he hadn’t planned to give her one.

“You weren’t there, Willow. You don’t know what kind of a relationship we had.” He stopped for a moment, staring up at the stars as he thought. “Relationship. Yeah, that’s a lie if I ever heard one.”

Willow sat silently, waiting for him to continue.

“She always said no, pet. No touching. No talking. No fucking. No loving. And then she’d hit me, and tell me I was nothing, and that she felt dirty for being with me. But then, in the end, she always said yes. It always had to be on her terms, though. Well, maybe I just got tired of dancing to her tune.” His voice was angry now, pain and fear leaking out through the edges. “Maybe I wanted to be in charge for once.”

“It was wrong, Spike. Even if she did it to you first, it was still wrong. You were both wrong.” There was a conviction to her voice that reminded him of just how young and naïve she really was.

“I’m a vampire. We’re all about being wrong, aren’t we?”

That silenced her for a moment as she pondered his words. She shifted suddenly, turning to stare at him as if she’d never really seen him before. He felt a chill run through him, but told himself that it was merely a cool breeze. Still, her next words came as no surprise.

“That’s why you disappeared—you found someone to take out your chip, didn’t you? So you could…be a vampire again.”

There was still an edge of uncertainty to her voice, and he suspected that she hoped he would deny it. But he found that he had no wish to lie to her. “True,” he admitted, feeling the way her body tensed. She was preparing to run. Not that it would matter. He could catch her easily if he really wanted to, and they both knew it.

“Did you…hurt anyone in Sunnydale? Before you came here?” Her voice was quiet, with a sliver of fear running through it. Demon that he was, he thought about drawing out his response and making her wait for it. But there seemed no real point to the sport; the phrase ‘shooting fish in a barrel’ came to mind.

“How do you know I went there first?” he asked, unwilling to answer her question just yet. “Might have come here first.”

Willow stared at him for a moment, and then shook her head. “Nope. Doesn’t fit.” At his raised eyebrow, she continued, “You went and got the chip taken out for a reason. And that reason probably had to do with killing Buffy.” She looked at him again, then added, “And us.”

A sly smile curved his lips, confirming her assertion. She really was the brains of the operation. If the magic didn’t pan out, she’d make a hell of a psychologist.

Since he remained silent, she continued on with her little exercise in deduction. “Then you found out that Giles and I were in England, so…” she was stuck now, unsure of how the rest of this drama was supposed to play out.

“So I came here to find out just how black your little soul is,” he concluded, giving her another grin. “Leaving everyone in Sunnydale still alive and kicking.”

She let out a deep breath at his admission, and began to relax slightly.

“Gotta admit, you’re a bit of a disappointment on the evil meter. Instead of being black as night, your soul is just a little off-white. For a girl who tried to end the world, you’re still sickeningly sweet.”

“You do say the nicest things,” she muttered, glancing at him and then quickly looking away. “So what now? Do you kill me? Leave my body for Giles to find? Or—is Giles next?”

He was surprised for a moment by her lack of fear, but then realized that the drugs were probably lessening it. Or maybe she just didn’t care. Either possibility seemed possible, given the circumstances.

“Do you care?”

The question brought on a minute of silent contemplation for the girl next to him, and when she didn’t reply, he began to wonder if she had fallen asleep.

“I should, shouldn’t I?” she asked slowly. “But really I just feel kind of numb. Confused. Tired. I feel like that all the time, now.”

“It’s the drugs,” he surmised. “What happens if you stop taking them?”

More silence greeted his question, so while he waited he watched the way the breeze played with her hair. She was letting it grow out, and the look suited her. He imagined catching a lock and twisting it between his fingers; would it feel as soft as it looked? His hand itched to reach out and answer that question, but he remained still.

“I don’t know,” she finally answered, shivering slightly as the cold breeze brushed past her arms. The light blouse she wore was fine for early evening, but as early evening had turned into night it became woefully inadequate.

She gave a small hiss of annoyance, and then turned to him, a little bit of the fire back in her eyes. “I used to be able to conjure a coat, or still a breeze, with just the flick of a finger. Or—or just by thinking about it. This is all just so…frustrating. Slow. Useless!” The last word was yelled into the wind, as if she wanted to blame it for all that was wrong in her life.

Spike smiled at her little tantrum. It was good to know that the girl he remembered was still inside there somewhere, even if the drugs had sent her into hiding for a bit. He got to his feet, and then brushed the blanket aside, encouraging her to sit in the middle of it and wrap it around herself.

When she was resettled, and looking a little more comfortable, she hit him with the question he had been waiting for.

“Are you going to kill me now?” She spoke the words softly, and he wondered if that was hope he heard behind the words, or merely disinterest.

“Not until you ask me to,” he assured her, his voice teasing, but with a suggestion of something a little bit like a promise. “Deal?”

The sight of her white, shiny teeth told him that she was smiling. “Deal.”

He got up, offering her his hand. She hesitated for a moment, and then put her hand in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

“Time we got you inside. Be a shame to have the Watcher stumble upon us and get the wrong idea, huh?”

She giggled for a moment at the thought, and then headed towards the path in the woods that would lead to Giles’ back door. “You want to come? Or do you have a place?”

And wouldn’t Giles be thrilled to invite him in, Spike thought sarcastically. No, he would head back to the pub, and maybe have himself a little dinner along the way. “Yeah, I’m staying in the village,” he told her. “Not sure I want ol’ Rupes to know I’m in town. Think you could keep it a secret for a bit?”

She turned to face him, her hair flying wildly around her pale face. With those curious eyes she studied him for a moment, trying to make up her mind. Finally she gave him a curt nod, and then turned and ran down the path, as quick and graceful as a wood sprite. Her final words, “Don’t make me regret it,” floated behind her, ringing in Spike’s ears.

Spike watched until the forest consumed her, and then turned and walked back to the place where they’d sat. Looking down on the village below him, he pulled a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. The wind quickly blew it out, and he cursed softly, throwing the cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his heel. Then he sat again, elbows on bent knees, and considered the situation he found himself in.

The witch, instead of needing someone to lead her astray, was looking for a savior. Oh, maybe she didn’t know it, but she was. The council was up to something, even if she was too drugged up to notice it. And he would be willing to wager whatever money he could find in the pocket of his evening meal that whatever it was they were up to wasn’t in Willow’s best interest.

Why Giles was allowing such a thing to happen—and under his roof, to boot—was what confused Spike. Was he simply unable to convince the intransigent council that they were making a mistake, or had he decided that she was just too dangerous to protect?

He thought about letting it all go and moving on. He could drain her and the Watcher easily, and then head back to Sunnydale to take care of the rest of the crew.

The drugged-up emptiness in her eyes had been sad to see. Killing her would be an act of mercy.

“An act of mercy.” He said the phrase again, out loud this time, but it didn’t convince him any more the second time than it had the first.

The problem was, he had always been a sucker for a lost cause. Hell, his last two girlfriends had been evidence enough of that fact. And rescuing the still relatively innocent maiden from the jaws of the big, bad Council? Didn’t that rather smack of Don Quixote and tilting at windmills?

Now all he needed was a plan…


Chapter Three: There Is A Tide

Willow’s pace slowed once she reached the grounds of Giles’ estate, but Spike’s insidious words still haunted her. What *would* happen if she stopped taking the pills? Oh, she knew it was dangerous to stop taking anything cold turkey, but maybe she could ease up a bit, just take a half dose for a while, and then wean herself off them entirely. It certainly was a tempting thought. But what would those men from the Council think? She had a feeling that they wouldn’t be pleased. They made her take those daily drug tests for a reason, after all.

It was just that everything in her head was so fuzzy these days. She knew she was smart; heck, her brainpower was something of which she had always been quite proud. But now, when she really needed it, her brain was failing her. Oh, she had glimpses of solutions to her problems, but the reality of it was, things just weren’t as sharp as she knew they should be.

It was easy—albeit unfair—to blame everything on Spike. His arrival had ripped her from the thick cocoon she had kept herself safe in, and forced her to try to deal with life again. As always, wherever Spike went, chaos and confusion were sure to follow.

But this time, maybe it was for her own good.

She didn’t know who else to talk to about this stuff; the psychiatrist that the Watcher’s Council made her go to didn’t seem to care about anything except whether she was taking her pills. Once he had established that, and was convinced that she would continue taking her drugs, he seemed to tune out the rest of what she had to say.

Giles was better; he really wanted to help her. But even so, he simply didn’t know what she needed. And since she didn’t even know that herself, it was hard to explain it to him.

So she just kept plodding along, making her way from day to day with little progress, and absolutely no joy.

But she had no idea how to make things change.

By the time she got to Giles’ home, and into her own bedroom, a headache was starting to bug her. She supposed that was progress. She hadn’t done enough serious thinking to conjure up a headache in quite a while.

Or maybe it was just talking to Spike that had done it. He had certainly been the cause of many a headache in the past. But this time he had seemed…different.

Well, duh, chip-less vampire—definitely different. But there was something beyond that. Maybe it was that he seemed like he genuinely wanted to help her.

Of course, this *was* Spike she was thinking about—he generally had an ulterior motive, and it usually wasn’t a very nice one. It was definitely too soon to start trusting that he was chock-full of good intentions.

But maybe she could hope…

---


Spike tried to sleep, but mostly he just ended up tossing and turning on the rock-hard bed, the covers tangling in his legs and leaving him feeling tied down. While the pub downstairs served a decent ale, their accommodations left a little something to be desired. Still, it wasn’t like this small town boasted a Holiday Inn, or even a Motel 6. And a Bed and Breakfast was a bit tricky, what with the invitation and all.

Besides, he had high hopes of leaving this little burg far behind him soon enough.

The constant pitter-pat of rain on the roof was getting on his last nerve, and reminding him of how far he was from Sunnydale. It was strange to think of that place as home, but like a demented homing pigeon, something inside kept leading him back there.

Giving up even the pretense of sleep, Spike sat up and looked around the room, his eyes searching for the ancient clock radio.

It was just barely noon. He had hours to go before he could head downstairs, and the room contained nothing to hold his interest.

The furnishings were sparse: the aforementioned uncomfortable bed, flanked by two small nightstands, and an old battered desk. On top of the desk sat a TV that had clearly seen better days. Spike thought about turning it on, but instead he decided to light up a cigarette and let his mind wander.

The subject he kept coming back to, inevitably, was Willow. And what, if anything, he should do about her.

He knew that if he left her with the Watcher, she’d be dead before the year was out. The way that they were drugging her, suppressing her magic, and keeping her here in the middle of nowhere without anyone to help, other than her “friend” Giles, told him that they were trying to buy time. But sooner or later, her time would run out, as would their patience. And then she’d be gone.

Maybe it was the fact that he always figured *he* would be her cause of death that bothered him. It seemed inevitable that he would turn her. He’d certainly tried. Angelus had shown a rather unhealthy interest in her as well. Either way, she was destined to die by vampire bite. Not by the Council and their hired goons.

The thought of kidnapping the woebegone redhead sent a little rush of excitement through him. History had shown that she was a pretty decent kidnapee, and this time he would actually be doing it for her own good, so he had a righteous cause on his side as well. Not that that mattered to him one bit.

He could think of half a dozen lonely places to take her where she would be safe from the Council, and he could begin to wean her off the drugs. And then…what?

His demon’s thoughts on the subject were simple; it wanted to own her. Of course. That was all it ever wanted. Kill, rape, pillage, maim. There was no finesse to that.

Put her back together, so that later on he could pull her apart? Or seduce her, and convince her to let go—to give in to the darkness—so they could cut a wicked swath across whichever continent they chose? Or, he supposed, he could actually help her. Although that idea seemed to have little merit.

He certainly didn’t need to decide right here and now, though.

---

Evening had finally come, and to celebrate, Spike was knocking back a scotch and soda at the pub, sitting at a table by the window and watching the world go by. Or at least, as much of the world as they had in this rather pathetic excuse for a town.

“Spike?”

He would have known that voice anywhere—the disapproving tone, the upper-crust tenor, and that little hint of annoyance. He’d been caught. So much for his plan to sweep Willow out of town unnoticed. He should have known that she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

Spike motioned to an empty chair, and took a moment to study his companion close-up. The little lines of worry around the mouth—evidence of too few nights of good sleep—surprised him, as did the weariness he saw in the man’s eyes.

“Should have known that Red couldn’t keep her mouth shut. The girl does like to talk.”

Giles frowned and began to speak, but stopped short when the barmaid materialized in front of their table.

“Two more, and one for my companion,” Spike replied to the unasked question.

Once she was gone, Giles gave Spike a speculative look, and then spoke.

“Willow knows you’re here? Have you seen her?”

Spike quickly re-evaluated the situation. Seemed the witch hadn’t spilled his secret after all.

“So how did you know it was me?” he asked, annoyance creeping into his voice. “Wait, it’s the hair, innit?” he asked, running his hand over the platinum locks, smoothing down the longer tufts in the back that were beginning to stick up. Time for a haircut. Or maybe a new color or style. It’d been a while since he’d changed it. The 70s had been all about style, but that was a long time ago. He’d hate to be accused of living in the past.

Giles glared at him. “Well, yes, Spike. Not too many people in this part of the country run around looking like a giant Q-tip. Also, Xander called, quite irate. You stopped by the shop, pumped him for information, and then disappeared again without a trace. He was, I would have to say, more than a little put out.”

Spike shrugged. “He always was rather simple. First he’s upset because I’m there. Then he’s upset because I’m not there. Needs to make up his mind, that’s what I say.”

“So, what did you think of Willow?”

It took a moment for Spike to process the rather abrupt change of subject, but once he did, he pulled his thoughts together and answered cautiously. “She seems a little out of it.”

Giles frowned at him. “You’ve never pulled punches before, Spike. Why start now?”

It was a challenge, more than anything, so Spike went on the offensive. “She was drugged out of her mind. That little bit of spark that was her pilot light was dimmed down to nothing. There—did you like that better?”

From the rather pained expression on the man’s face, it was obvious that he didn’t. “Did she tell you what she did?”

“Yeah. She was out of her mind with grief, and she made a mistake.” He made it sound as if she had thrown a rock and broken a window, or accidentally crashed her car. They both knew there was more to it than that, though.

“She almost ended the world, Spike. I still have nightmares about how close she actually came.” His eyes were troubled; as well they should be, in Spike’s opinion.

“Well, what do you expect?” he demanded, leaning over the table and glaring at Giles. “You leave her there alone, with nobody to train her, or help her deal with her powers, and then you’re surprised when she doesn’t use them the way you think she should?”

The sudden vehemence in Spike’s voice seemed to surprise them both; Spike wasn’t sure why he was defending her so stridently, but he felt like it needed to be done. After all, Buffy had had a couple of years, and a lot of help, to get comfortable with her super-powers. Willow, on the other hand, had been thrown in at the deep end, and then expected to swim flawlessly.

The background noise in the pub almost drowned out Giles’ weary reply. “You are correct, of course. I let her down as much as she let me down.”

Spike sat back in his chair, regarding his companion with unblinking eyes. “Are you going to let them kill her?” he asked abruptly.

Giles flinched as if he’d been hit. “No,” he replied sharply. He looked as if he was thinking about trying to deny Spike’s accusation, but in the end he didn’t. “I just—I don’t know how to get her out of here,” he admitted, suddenly looking old and tired. He ran a hand wearily over his face, closing his eyes for a moment. “They’re watching the house, they watch us both whenever we leave, as well. I send off daily samples of her—err—fluids, so that they can be sure that she’s taking her drugs. I do have—contacts. People who are sympathetic. But we simply haven’t figured out how to pull it off yet.”

There was silence for a moment; Giles looked around furtively, and then whispered, “Would you help her? If you could? Get her away from here, so that they can’t find her? Because sooner or later they’ll decide that she’s no longer useful, or safe, and then…”

He didn’t need to finish his sentence. They both knew what, “and then,” meant.

Spike leaned back in his chair, carefully smothering the amused grin that threatened to spill over his face. Fate was a funny bitch, he thought. Earlier he had been trying to figure out how he was going kidnap sweet Willow, and here the Watcher was, giving her to him on a silver platter. Blind luck had never tasted so sweet.

“I might be interested. If there were a little somethin’ in it for me,” he allowed, refusing to show any real enthusiasm for the task. “I know a couple of places where we could disappear. Wouldn’t be cheap, though.”

Relief flashed in Giles’ eyes, and gratitude as well. “I could come up with the money with relatively little problem. I could even, perhaps, come up with a vehicle. It would be…safe. For a bit.”

Drive it for a day, at the most, and then ditch it, in other words. Spike considered that. He could head one direction, steal something else, and then head in a completely different direction, muddying their trail. Of course, he wasn’t about to let on that his chip was gone; news like that would send the man into a quandary from which he might never emerge. Red knew, but hopefully he would be able to keep her quiet about that little secret.

Spike glanced at his companion, not surprised by the rather unfocused look in his eyes. He was thinking, planning, plotting. Figuring out a way to make this work. The vampire let him take his time; years of experience had probably taught Giles more about outwitting the Council than Spike could ever hope to know. The best thing for him to do now was to stay quiet and let the man think.

“There’s a tunnel,” he began, his eyes fixing on Spike’s once again. “From my home. It leads to the basement of the bakery here in town. Do you know the place?”

Nodding, Spike couldn’t help but be a little surprised by this scrap of knowledge. It seemed awfully cloak-and-dagger for the peaceful village.

“The owner is a friend. I’ll make sure that he knows to expect you tomorrow evening. Follow the main tunnel; head due north. It branches off a couple of times, but just keep to the larger passageway and you should be fine.”

“If you’ve got this friend and this tunnel,” Spike drawled, “why don’t you take her yourself?”

Giles shook his head impatiently. “Don’t be an idiot. If I failed to poke my head out by noon, they’d know I was gone and have me picked up before I made it far enough for safety.”

It made sense, Spike had to admit. He shrugged. “Just checking.”

Giles hesitated for a moment, and then added quietly, “Besides, I’m needed here. There’s something going on—something that has the Council baffled, and worried. It’s one of the reasons why they haven’t been able to give their full attention to Willow.”

The eyebrow Spike lifted spoke volumes, but Giles remained silent until Spike prodded him. “You gonna tell me what it is that has their knickers in a twist?”

“I—I suppose it couldn’t hurt anything.” Grabbing his glass, he tossed back the drink in a single motion, sighing in satisfaction as the liquor burned its way down his throat. He fixed Spike with a steely gaze. “Do you know what a Potential is?”

Spike grinned as an old memory surfaced. “Dru used to call them ‘little ticking time bombs,’” he replied absently, thinking of happier times.

Giles made a moue of distaste. “Well, they’re not ticking anymore,” he declared. “Or, rather, someone is going to a great deal of trouble so that they don’t.”

At Spike’s confused expression, he spoke more plainly. “They’re being killed. Systematically hunted and exterminated.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Someone is trying to erase the Slayer line. Completely.”

“Huh,” was all the response that Spike could muster at the moment. He figured that adding, ‘good on them,’ would be a little inappropriate. Still, the man couldn’t expect him to get too upset that his most dangerous natural enemy was on the verge of extinction.

“So, you see,” Giles said, “I really am needed here. Even if I could figure out how to get Willow away without getting caught, there are other matters to consider.”

Spike nodded absently, his thoughts elsewhere.

“Back to the subject at hand,” Giles said, his mind once again on his plans for Willow. “I’ll meet you at my end of the tunnel at midnight, with all the money I can get my hands on, and Willow. Oh, and I’ll make sure to bring along her medications, and instructions on how to wean her off. If she were to just stop taking them altogether…”

“Yeah, I know. Bad idea.” Spike took a moment to think, considering all of the things he would have to do in order to be ready for this little caper. First off, he needed to decide where he would take her. Then plan out the route to get there. And what about Willow herself? “What are you going to tell her?”

“Willow?” He looked a bit flustered, which piqued Spike’s interest.

“No, the bloody Queen. Yes, Willow.”

“I—well, I thought it might be better if she was—well—unconscious. Less to explain. Less chance she might accidentally give the plan away. I’ll write her a letter, which you can give to her once she is awake. It will explain everything to her. How this will be safer for her, and that you will be taking care of her for a little while. Otherwise…well, we run the risk of her saying or doing something that would alert whomever might be watching.”

The man was so afraid of a messy emotional scene that Spike wanted to laugh. Then it occurred to him that an unconscious Willow wouldn’t be telling any tales about a formerly chipped vampire who could kill at will now, and he decided that maybe it would be in his best interests to just shut the hell up.

“Okay,” Spike said, “to recap. I meet you at midnight. You hand me the girl, the pills, instructions on what to give her and when, and the money, I high-tail it to the car and out of town. And then…what? How do I know when, or if, it’s safe to come out of hiding? This isn’t a lifetime commitment, is it? Because I don’t think I have that sort of patience. She’s a nice enough girl, but…” he let his words trail off. They both knew the point he was making.

A weak cough and an even weaker glare were all the answer he received. Then Giles relented. “Once the drugs are out of her system, Willow will be able to perform magic again. At that point, she should be able to manage a teleportation spell, or perhaps a sending. We will be able to plan, and figure out how long you will need to hide.”

Spike nodded absently as his mind went back to planning the details of their escape. Meeting at midnight gave him a good six hours to make his getaway, and also afforded him some time to get some things done before meeting up with his traveling companion.

“Well, I’m off,” he told the Watcher. “Lots to do, and not much time to do it in. Give the girl a nice tip, would you?” he added as he left the table—without leaving any money for his portion of the tab.

It was still early evening, and although it didn’t hum in quite the same way it did during the day, there were still some signs of life in the small village. Spike found a market and bought some hair color—a mousy brown that he was relatively sure would make him blend into the scenery. He also bought some scissors and an electric razor, and figured he could cut his hair himself in the afternoon. When he was finished he wouldn’t look quite so…distinctive.

A part of him was going to miss the hair. It had style and attitude. But it was a sign of the times, and the times were changing. He would just have to change with them.

Next on his to-do list was a little dinner. He came upon an older gentleman who was in his cups, but friendly enough, and got himself invited home after plying the man with alcohol and compliments. Killing him would have attracted all the wrong sorts of attention, but grabbing enough blood for a snack, and a little more from his wife and daughter, had worked out well enough. And the five hundred pounds the man had hidden under his mattress—and what a cliché that was—was an added bonus.

All that remained to be done now was to wait in his room, do a little creative hairstyling, and then meet the Watcher at midnight tomorrow. From then on, life was a bit of a question mark. But that didn’t bother Spike at all.


Chapter Four: Endless Night

The transfer at midnight had gone smoothly, although Spike had caught Giles smothering a grin when he saw Spike in the light. Cutting his hair without the benefit of a mirror’s reflection had been a little more difficult than he had expected; once Willow was awake, he would have her do a little damage control.

Giles had surprised him with the car. It was a late model two-door in a tasteful shade of beige, and had something called ‘necro-tinted windows.’ At Spike’s blank look, Giles had explained that the windows were coated with a substance that kept the sun’s harmful rays at bay, while leaving the windows perfectly transparent. It was going to be hard to give up such a luxury.

The human had also given him quite a lot of cash—five thousand pounds, more or less, and then another couple hundred in smaller bills. Spike would be able to add to it with what he got off of his victims. Between the two income streams, there should be enough to keep them comfortable for quite a while.

Giles had not asked where they were going, and Spike had not volunteered any information. The less Giles knew, the less the Council could get out of him later, should they choose to be unscrupulous in their methods.

Spike had decided to head east, towards Dover. A quick trip across the channel in darkness, and it was all bonjour and croissants. From there he headed south, towards Spain. And in a move that would have shocked anyone who knew him, he traveled the speed limit all the way. There were a few uneasy moments as he waited for morning to come, parked momentarily by the side of the road. But once dawn had broken, and the sun hadn’t come bashing through the window and burned him to a crisp, he had made his way back onto the road, unable to wipe the huge grin off his face.

He reveled in the experience of driving in daylight; sunlight reflected off passing cars, shone down on birds on the side of the road, and illuminated the faces of passing motorists. Spike was having the time of his life. He wracked his brain as he drove, thinking feverishly of a way that he could keep the car with him. Or, at the very least, the windows themselves.

Periodically he checked the seat next to him, eager to share his excitement with someone—with anyone. Even Willow would do. But she remained silent and still. The steady rise and fall of her chest, coupled with the beat of her heart, were the only things that reassured him that she was still with him.

They reached the remote city of Andorra la Vella, high in the Pyrenees, just as the sun was setting. Spike prowled the streets, looking for a new—although not likely to be improved—mode of transportation. The day that Giles had given him was up; he had to ditch the car and take something else, as much as he regretted it.

It didn’t take him long to find a likely replacement. A nondescript little hatchback with a killer sound system beckoned to him, and the owner had done him the favor of leaving the doors unlocked. It took him only a minute to transfer the still-sleeping girl and their belongings into the passenger seat, and then another minute under the dash to hotwire the car. As an added bonus, he noted that the gas gauge read almost completely full. Spike decided to take this as a good omen.

Carefully, quietly, he maneuvered his ‘new’ car out of its parking space, and replaced it with the car Giles had given him. And then, because it would be sure to confuse the hell out of someone, he wrote a little note and stuck it under the windshield wiper.

“Needed your car. You can have this one. Enjoy.”

Grinning like a child who had put something over on its parents, Spike hit the highway again, heading north this time, and back into France.

---

Willow was sure she was in hell. How else could she account for the nails that were being hammered into her head? Everything hurt; from the soft ache that radiated through her body, to the sharp pain in her head, it was all bad.

She opened her right eye slowly, afraid of what she would see. But nothing she saw made a whole lot of sense, so, regretfully, she opened her other eye.

A dark blur greeted her; it took her fuzzy brain a moment to realize that she was in a car, and that the blur was scenery rushing by outside of her window.

Her head moved slowly, and with a fair amount of protest from those nails that were still being driven into it, but she managed to turn it enough to get a glance at the person driving. The fact that the driver wasn’t readily familiar was a cause of some concern to her.

“About time you woke up,” he said, his face turning towards her to take a quick glance.

The familiar voice seemed at odds with the unfamiliar hair—or lack of it—but the cheekbones finally did it for her. “Spike?”

“Yeah?” His head turned back to the road after a moment, when she didn’t immediately pose a follow-up question.

So many questions to ask, the first of which was, ‘What the hell did you do to your hair?’

Then she reconsidered; ‘Where are we?’ should probably be higher on the list. The haircut, if that was what you wanted to call it, had been shocking, but the where-were-they-and-how-did-they-get-there should probably take priority.

“I know. It’s the hair, innit? Looks like crap. You can fix it for me when we stop, right?”

Apparently the hair had been on the top of Spike’s list, too, she thought absently. “Sure. I’m handy with scissors. I used to trim—”

She used to trim Tara’s hair for her. Oh, nothing fancy; she would just even up the ends so that they wouldn’t have to waste money on a hairdresser.

And then afterwards, they would usually make love, and she would—

Willow abruptly pulled her thoughts away from such happy memories. After everything she’d done, she certainly didn’t deserve to be happy. Not after…

“Where are we going?” she asked hastily. Self-flagellation was something she could do later. In private. “Oh, and why?”

“I’m your white bloody knight,” Spike proclaimed somewhat sourly. “Rescued you from the Council, and now we’re gonna hide somewhere until the Watcher tells us the coast is clear.”

Willow’s eyebrows rose a bit more with each word. By the time Spike was finished, they were hanging out somewhere around the vicinity of her hairline. “What in the world are you talking about?” She figured it might be lacking a bit in elegance, but it was certainly succinct.

Spike sighed, gave her a quick glance, and then set his eyes back on the road. “The Council wants you dead, pet. They’ve just been waiting for the right time to make their move. Wasn’t for Giles, you’d probably already be pushing up daisies.”

“No, that’s not true!” she protested.

“Don’t be naïve,” he snapped, and then paused for a moment, as if rethinking his words. “Okay, yeah, I guess naïve is your natural state. But grow up. Get over it,” his voice became harsher now, more like the abrasive Spike she knew and expected. “They were just trying to figure out how to do it without pissing Giles off. They didn’t think you were safe. The drugs were okay for the short-term, but sooner or later you’d decide not to take them, or something else would happen, and once again you’d be a ticking time bomb. They didn’t want to chance that happening.”

She wondered if he was right. Was Giles the only person working to keep her alive? Had she been so far lost in her grief and self-pity, not to mention the drugs, that she remained oblivious to the reality of her situation?

The thought of someone disliking her enough to kill her, for whatever reason, began to creep up on her, tearing and twisting her heart. Everyone always liked her. She was chipper. Helpful. Optimistic. Well, okay, so occasionally she would run into people like Cordelia, who were just going to hate her no matter what, but overall, she felt like people were generally well-disposed towards her. Even Spike tolerated her. And he barely liked anyone.

But the Council—an organization full of careful, intelligent people—wanted her dead.

She felt tears begin to gather in her eyes, and shut them tight. That wasn’t helping, so she turned her face away, laying it against the cool glass and staring out into the night. Tears dropped unheeded from her eyes, trailing down her face and melting into the fabric of her T-shirt.

Something occurred to her then, and her tears dried quickly as they were replaced by anger. “Spike?” she snapped, glaring at him, “How did I get dressed? The last thing I remember, I was in bed. And now I’m here. And I’m not wearing my nightgown. So who put my clothes on me?”

The look that Spike gave her was laced with incredulity, his eyes wide and mocking. “Let me get this straight. The Watchers Council wants you dead. You’re on the run in a stolen car, with a vampire with fully functional fangs, and you’re worried about who might have seen your unmentionables?”

“Shut up,” she muttered, her anger quickly replaced by sullen self-pity. So maybe he had a point, but that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it. Turning away from him, she went back to staring out the window.

After a moment of silence, she heard some rustling, and then Spike tossed an envelope in her general direction. “From the Watcher,” he explained.

She opened it slowly, noting the family crest on the stationery and Giles’ distinctive handwriting.

Dear Willow,

I am terribly sorry to do this, but I think that what I am doing is for the best. You are not safe here. I am needed here and therefore unable to accompany you. Spike has agreed to take care of you, in return for a large amount of my money.

Please stay safe, get well, and I will contact you as soon as it is safe for you to return.

Sincerely,

Giles

Willow glared at Spike. “You took money from him?” Then she remembered something he had said to her a couple of days ago. “You don’t have your chip anymore. Did Giles know that before he entrusted me to your tender care?” she asked bitterly.

Spike gave her a sly smile. “He didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell,” was all the answer she received.

Willow dropped her head into her hands and tried desperately to clear the cobwebs from her brain. If she could just think, maybe she could find a way out of this mess. “God, I can’t believe he did this!” she moaned, resentment making her voice sharp.

“Probably thought savin’ your life was a little more important than worrying about your tender sensibilities,” he told her mockingly, not terribly surprised by the angry look she gave him in response.

“Look, it’s almost morning,” Spike told her. “We’ve gotta stop somewhere soon. You can rant and rave all you want then, okay?”

She felt suddenly deflated. Unable to conjure up the anger needed to give him a snappy response, she simply shrugged, and then turned back to stare out the window again. “Where are we, anyway?”

“Couple hours east of Paris, I guess. Should be in Reims in half an hour. We can find a place there to stop for the night. You gonna be any trouble?” he asked, his voice casual, but his eyes watchful as he gauged her mood.

“I’ll be a good little girl,” she answered flatly, not bothering to turn her head away from the window.

---

Her silence smothered him, her dark mood turning his thoughts dark as well. By the time they reached a Best Western on the outskirts of Reims he was tempted to ditch her. Pity was the only thing that kept him by her side; she was so damned helpless and defenseless that he found himself unable to leave.

True to her word, she didn’t make a sound as they checked in, not even objecting to the fact that Spike was only booking one room.

When they entered the room, her eyes traveled over the bright colors and cheerful pictures that covered the walls. Her mouth curved into a frown and her eyes shimmered with tears.

“Tara and I talked about going to Europe together. Someday. When the hellmouth was quiet. And now we’ll never get to do it together. It’s…it’s just so empty. Inside me. They scooped out everything else when they took away the magic, and now I’m all hollow.” Her eyes were no longer able to contain her tears, and they trickled down her face.

Spike watched her for a moment, unsure of what to do. He really had nothing to contribute to the conversation, and no interest in coddling the girl, so he headed for the bathroom, hoping that by the time he was finished in there, she would have herself all sorted out.

He took a long shower, and then listened for telltale signs of human misery as he dried off. Only the sound of her breathing—the steady, slow breathing of sleep—reached his ears. Tucking the towel around his waist, he went back into the bedroom and examined the room.

She had taken the twin bed next to the window as her own, curling herself into a ball and facing away from the small walkway that separated the two beds. He walked around to the other side of the bed and stared down at her, admiring how peaceful her face looked when indulging in the freedom of sleep.

As if aware of his scrutiny, she stirred. Her head moved a little bit, and the hair that had covered her neck shifted slightly, falling down to cover her face, and he noticed a vampire bite scar low on her neck.

When had she gotten it, he wondered. Certainly she had experienced more than her share of close calls, but he couldn’t remember anyone ever having gotten quite that close to her.

He gently brushed his finger across the mark, tracing a line from one indentation to the other, enjoying the warmth and the pulse of her heartbeat against his finger.

A memory fluttered in the back of his mind, and he sought it out, closing his eyes and concentrating. When he finally figured it out, he wondered if it had been worth the effort.

It had been Harmony, of course.

He cast his mind back to the early days in Sunnydale, when the need to retrieve the Gem of Amara had consumed him like a wildfire. Harmony had been there, buzzing around him like a hummingbird on crack, doing her very best to provoke him into staking her.

Only someone that stupid would have attacked a friend of the Slayer when she was supposed to be keeping a low profile. He shook his head in disgust.

Now that his companion had managed to fall asleep, all that remained was for Spike to do the same. He wandered over to his bed, dropping his towel on the floor along the way, and, in a concession to Willow’s legendary modesty, pulled the covers over his naked body. In less than two minutes they were both fast asleep.

---

It was the sound of Willow brushing her hair, and the smell of wet hair, in combination, that woke him up. But if that hadn’t done it, her softly muttered curses would have done the trick soon enough.

“Ow,” she whined, as she pulled her way through a particularly painful knot. “Stupid hotel with their stupid ‘two-in-one’ shampoo and conditioner. Sure, they *say* they condition, but do they ever really? I think not.”

“What the hell are you going on about?” he muttered, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. He could tell that it was at least two hours until sunset, and was more than a little annoyed at being awake already.

It was satisfying to see the way that she jumped at the sound of his voice. And it was even more gratifying to see the look of shock on her face when she realized that he was one hundred percent naked. Her head whipped back around so quickly that he was afraid she was going to dislocate something.

“You’re,” there was a sound suspiciously like a nervous giggle, “you’re naked, Spike. Could you…you know, put on some clothes?”

He noticed that she was no longer wearing the T-shirt from earlier. A shower and new clothes had left her looking almost as good as new, at least superficially. The somewhat faraway expression on her face was still there, though, and it reminded him that he needed to give her some pills soon.

The continued silence made him realize that she had made a request, and was waiting for him to answer her. He shrugged, although he was aware that she couldn’t see it, and went looking for his suitcase.

Five minutes later he was fully clothed, and standing behind her as she finished tearing through the last of the snarls in her hair.

“Here,” he said, holding out a handful of pills of all colors, shapes and sizes. They reminded him a bit of candy. The selection had been carefully culled from the various jars and bottles that Giles had given him. Specific instructions had been followed; the dosage would decrease a little each day, until it was so low that it was almost negligible. Only then would she be able to stop taking them altogether.

“No!” she objected, her eyes widening in surprise. She scrambled backwards, trying to get away from him. “I—I don’t want to take them anymore. I thought you were going to help me get better,” she accused.

Her tone of voice was so pitiful and grating that Spike’s hand itched to slap itself over her mouth and earn him some peace. He let her make her attempt at escape. It wasn’t as if she could go far, and they both knew it. It was just a matter of letting her get it out of her system, before he could calm her down a bit. Reminded him a bit of how he used to deal with Dru when she was in one of her moods.

She hovered around the corner of her bed, her eyes darting first to the door, and then at him, as if gauging her chances.

“You can’t stop taking them cold turkey,” he told her, his voice soft and reasonable. She didn’t look like she was quite ready to run for the door—not yet, at any rate—but there was no point in pushing her, he figured. “Here,” he said, tossing her the baggie full of drugs, along with the half-page of instructions from Giles. Her trust in him was a slippery thing, but she would certainly trust Giles.

She turned the package over in her hands, listening to the sound that the pills made as if it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever heard. It took her a while to get through all the instructions, but when she did, she glared at him for a moment, and then went into the bathroom to get some water.

When she came back, she made a show of swallowing them in front of him, washing them down with a glassful of water. Then, as if she was a child, and he her nurse, she stuck out her tongue, as if to say, ‘all gone.’

Spike rolled his eyes. Her sense of the dramatic was bordering on ludicrous. If she stopped taking the pills cold turkey, the side effects could conceivably kill her. And in that moment, the idea didn’t bother him all that much. Of course, chances were good that before she died, she’d be even more of a pain in the ass than she was right now, and that thought didn’t cheer him much.

“I’m hungry.”

He wasn’t surprised. It had been over a day since she’d eaten. “Me too,” he told her, and then had to smile when her eyes got big.

Giles had managed to scare up some blood for him, filling several thermoses and freezing them. Spike really didn’t want to know how he had managed that, because what did that say about the man, when he knew how to find a fair amount of blood at a moment’s notice? Ol’ Rupert always had been full of surprises. Most of them weren’t nearly that pleasant.

The urge to kill was fighting against the urge to remain hidden, and Spike wasn’t sure which was going to be stronger, in the end. He could certainly find a meal here, but if the Council figured out that he was the one who had ‘liberated’ Willow, the first thing they would do was search for victims.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

He shrugged. “Got a couple of to-go meals from the Watcher,” he told her, walking over to his bag and scrounging around a bit. He grabbed one of the thermoses, relieved to feel that it was still cool. Then he went into the bathroom and grabbed the hotel’s ice bucket and handed it to Willow. “Fill ‘er up with ice, would you? And try not to be seen, right?”

Her expression was slightly confused. On one hand, she seemed to want to complain about being ordered around like a servant; but on the other hand, this was evidence of a fair amount of trust on his part. Trust that she wouldn’t wander off. Trust that she wouldn’t call Giles and have him pick her up. Trust that she wouldn’t call the authorities and accuse him of kidnapping, which would end up with him being dragged out into the waning sunlight.

Spike watched as all of these possibilities played across her face, and then scrounged around in his pants pocket, pulling out a couple of euros and handing them over to her. “If you find a machine, get yourself some crap.”

When she didn’t immediately move, he turned back to his bag. “Today would be nice,” he muttered.

He heard a series of clicks as she undid the locks, and then watched carefully to make sure that she didn’t open the door wide enough to put him in the path of the deadly sun. She was careful; the door opened just enough to let her go, and then closed quickly behind her.

The five minutes that he waited for her to return felt like an hour. Several times he decided that she must have just left him, letting her fear of him override her fear of the Council. While the thought that he could inspire such fear in her left him almost giddy, the practical reality of the situation was more sobering.

His level of uneasiness was reaching new heights when he finally heard footsteps approach the door. She stood there in the hallway for more than a minute, and he could almost hear the conversation she was having with herself. Stay the course, or cut and run? Suffer almost certain death at the hands of the Council, or commit to a more dubious fate with him?

He wasn’t surprised when the door finally opened; even in her drugged state, she was still smarter than most people. She was playing the odds and throwing her lot in with him. Although he was relieved at her choice, he certainly wasn’t going to let it show. Instead, watched her close the door, and then place the bucket of ice on the small table. She sat down in one of the chairs, looking at the three items she’d managed to get out of the machine. Two packets of chips, and an oversized Kit-Kat bar. Breakfast of champions it was not, but it would do, for now.

Running a hand over his head, he could feel his hair sticking up in places it shouldn’t. Time to get that taken care of.

“When you’re finished with that, could you help me out with a little problem…”


Chapter Five: Crooked House

Willow stretched and yawned, letting her eyes wander around the room that she was trying hard to get used to. They had been here four full days now, but most of the time everything still felt unfamiliar.

Spike had done his best to create a confusing trail for anyone who might be following them. For almost a week they had driven from country to country, leading any potential pursuers on an insane wild goose chase. She caught roadside glimpses of Luxembourg, Dusseldorf, Geneva and Frankfurt, and stayed in a couple of really neat towns that she hoped someday to visit again. Preferably when she could actually venture outside the hotel room.

Eventually, they had ended up in a small house not far from Busca, Italy. From what she remembered of her admittedly limited Junior High Spanish, she thought Busca meant looking for. She figured it probably meant the same thing in Italian. It seemed rather cheeky to be hiding in a place named Busca when everyone was looking for her, but then again, it was a very ‘Spike’ thing to do.

The house they were staying in belonged to an old friend of his. It was cute, in a rundown sort of way; although the chains-and-handcuffs decorating motif in the basement left her more than a little uncomfortable. The rest of the place wasn’t bad, though. And the satellite TV was more than worth its weight in gold. Considering the weight of the TV, that was a lot of gold.

The walls of her room were painted a pale yellow; when the curtains were open and the early morning sun hit them just right, the room seemed to glow. The bookcase just below the window was short, but it was also almost empty, so that didn’t seem to matter. Giles had packed a couple of books for her, and they sat forlornly in that bookcase, as if they were squatters in an abandoned house.

An antique armoire made of oak was directly across from the foot of her bed, and even with the doors closed she knew that it was almost empty. Again, Giles had done his best, but most of her clothes had been left in England. She missed her green terrycloth robe, and her matching fuzzy slippers, but at least she was alive, she reminded herself. And if she didn’t remind herself, Spike would be more than happy to push that particular button for her. As he had commented on more than one occasion, he *liked* pushing her buttons. Willow, herself, was less keen on it.

They were weaning her off the drugs slowly, and her thoughts were finally becoming her own again, but she still didn’t know what to think of her unusual roommate. His moods fluctuated erratically, and his personality didn’t seem to be much improved by the vast amounts of alcohol he drank.

And speaking of drinking, she knew that his blood supply was getting low. He’d been rationing it out, trying to get by on less, but soon it would be gone. She tried not to think about what would happen after that, even though she knew that sticking her head in the sand was not a wise thing to do.

It was early evening, and she could hear Spike moving around in the living room. They were both living on what she thought of as ‘vampire time.’ Sleeping days, staying awake during the night. It was yet another part of her new life that was taking a little getting used to.

“You awake yet?”

The question was mostly a courtesy. Or at least as much of a courtesy as Spike would ever grant her. The sound of her heartbeat told him whether she was awake or asleep at all times, which stripped away her privacy in a way that really annoyed her.

“Yeah,” she muttered, getting out of bed and slipping into a pair of sweat pants and a top. She had three sets, in green, blue and red, and they were pretty much all she wore most days.

When she got to the living room, he was already halfway to the front door. And judging from the look he gave her, his mood was far from pleasant.

“I’m going into town. Back before sunup.”

‘Why yes, I’d love to take a trip into town. Thanks so much for offering,’ she thought bitterly. Although calling the place a town was really giving it more importance than it was worth. There was a post office, a small store, and, much to Spike’s delight, a bar. Unfortunately, there was no butcher. Or anyone who would sell blood to a vampire.

And the worst part was that she suspected he was going through Giles’ money like crazy. Most nights he’d come home pretty drunk, and judging from past experience, she knew it took an awful lot of liquor to get Spike drunk.

“Maybe you could stay in tonight? We could watch some TV? Maybe—I know, we could watch soccer!” She tried to inject some enthusiasm into her voice, but Spike wasn’t buying it. The look he gave her was one part annoyance, one part pity.

“It’s called football, not bloody soccer,” he muttered, hating all Americans in that moment, because they couldn’t give in when the rest of the world had it right and they didn’t. Take the metric system, for example. “I’ll be back before sunup,” he repeated, before walking out the door and leaving her alone.

---


God, he was hungry. The blood in their refrigerator was going bad—turning his insides to fire when he drank it—so he was trying not to drink it if he could help it. Which left him fucking hungry *all* the time. And bored. But hungry was the one that was really getting him down. And the thing that pissed him off the most, the thing that drove him to that crap-ass bar in ‘town’ every night, was that he could smell her blood and hear her heartbeat, and it was all there for the taking. So why the fuck didn’t he take it?

Giles would probably figure it out eventually, when the weeks ticked by and Willow never got in touch with him, but there was sod-all he’d be able to do about it by then. And it wasn’t like Spike was afraid of some bloody Watcher anyway. What would the man do, watch him to death?

Willow, herself, wasn’t doing much to keep him entertained. Most nights she meditated, or read, or watched TV. If she wasn’t going to offer up any of that succulent blood, the least she could do was give him a shag. But that seemed to be off the menu as well.

He’d made veiled references to fun things they could do: terrorizing the local populace, creating crop circles, things of that sort. But she had made it abundantly clear that in the war of good vs. evil, she came out staunchly on the side of good.

Which made her pretty much useless as far as he was concerned.

The man behind the bar gave him a friendly nod as he entered. Mario didn’t speak any English, but he spoke Jack Daniels just fine, and that was good enough for Spike. Mostly people kept to themselves here, but he no longer got the suspicious glances they used to give him. He was becoming a regular, for what it was worth.

Cradling the bottle in his hand, he made his way back to a small table in the corner. With a wink at Mario’s wife Gina, he hefted his bottle and took his first swig of the evening.

And so began another exciting night in Busca, Italy.

---

“Concentrate,” Willow told herself, as she centered her energy on the pencil on the table in front of her. Her eyes began to squint as her attention focused on her goal. “You can do this. You know you can. It’s just like riding a bicycle.” Self-confidence was a very important part of the re-learning process, and this time she was going to do it right. So, little pep talks were definitely a go.

The magic was coming back to her, albeit slowly. She could feel it thrumming through her veins, much in the same way that Spike could probably sense her blood as it rushed beneath her skin. But something that used to be so simple that it didn’t even require conscious thought now seemed almost impossible. Willow reminded herself that with practice, patience, and time, what had once been a natural part of her would be so again.

When the pencil floated off the table and hung in the air for fifteen seconds, Willow felt as if she had just teleported several hundred miles. Excitement, exhilaration, and a sense of accomplishment battled with weariness, and as she closed her eyes she gave thanks to the Goddess for allowing her the small bit of progress she had made tonight.

---

Spike was drunk. Wonderfully, gloriously drunk. And hungry. But it was easier to forget the hungry part when he was drunk.

And while he was in this state of perfect drunkenness, he made himself a decision.

He was going to eat the witch.

Oh, he wouldn’t kill her, or even take enough blood to harm her permanently, but he also wasn’t going to spend one more night starving to death when there was a bloody snack just feet from his fangs. So what if she was shy about sharing? That wasn’t his problem. Not anymore. After all, if it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

It was an epiphany of sorts, and with that decision made, a certain sort of lassitude came over him. Suddenly it felt like way too much effort to keep his head upright, so he slumped down and rested his head on the table for a moment, imagining how things would go when he informed Willow of his decision.

Maybe she’d be understanding. ‘Oh, Spike, I’m so sorry,’ she’d say, with that same guilty look on her face that she’d had after she’d made him snog the rancid Slayer. ‘I didn’t realize that things were so bad.’

Or maybe she’d fight him, and he’d get to chase her around for a bit before he caught her. That might be fun. Blood always tasted better when it was spiced with a little fear.

But the main thing was, in the end, he’d eat. Better than he’d eaten in at least a week.

That was the last conscious thought he had, until suddenly Mario was shaking him, and using a ‘shooing’ motion to inform him that he had to leave. The bar was empty, the chairs stacked upside-down on the tables, and he could hear the sound of dishes clanking together in the back room.

Time to go home.

Spike was still at that point of perfect intoxication where anything seemed possible. So he picked up his bottle, set more than enough money down on the table to cover his evening, and made his way out of the bar.

And promptly got lost.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t traveled this road before. But for some reason, this time everything looked different. He was *pretty* sure that the house should have been right over there to the left, but when he got there, all he found was an old tree that was so crooked that it looked like it ought to have fallen over years ago.

He retraced his steps, swearing all the while, and becoming more and more aware of how morning was creeping up on him. But for some reason, he decided that a swig from his magic bottle every couple of feet would protect him from the sun. So as he stumbled in circles, he continued to drink. And morning got closer and closer with each swallow.

---

Willow knew exactly what time the sun came up each morning. She had taken to noting it when she watched the morning news reports, in the same way that someone who lived near the ocean kept track of high and low tides. And on this particular morning, the sun would rise at precisely 6:14 a.m.

It was now 5:59 a.m. And Spike was nowhere to be seen.

Willow was more than a little concerned. Downright panicked was actually much closer to the mark.

Spike had a flair for the dramatic; that much she would acknowledge readily. But he also had a very strong sense of self-preservation. Cutting things this close just didn’t feel right to her. What could have happened to him?

The silence in the small house was complete; no appliances whined, no TV chattered in the background. Only the sound of her own thoughts kept her company. And in this unnatural quiet she heard, as if from a great distance, the sound of cursing.

Relief flooded her body as she listened to the slurred, highly offensive words. Nobody could swear like Spike. And with his accent, even the most disgusting words sounded almost…exotic.

Or maybe that was just the huge rush of relief talking.

Opening the door, she leaned out and yelled for all she was worth. “Spike!”

His answering curse was distant, but clear. Subsequent curses became louder as he approached the house, stumbling and weaving, his progress halted every dozen steps or so as he up-ended his bottle, which was long empty, in search of another mouthful.

As the first light of morning made its way above the horizon, Willow grabbed Spike by his jacket and pulled him bodily into the house. She stumbled over the threshold and fell to the floor, the inert vampire landing heavily on top of her.

“Jeez, Spike. Get off of me so I can close the door,” she said. They were in no danger from the sunlight, thanks to the way the roof hung over the porch, but she would still feel better if the door was closed—and locked—behind her.

He rolled off of her, landing on his back with his hands thrown out to the sides, eyes closed, appearing to be fast asleep. Willow got to her feet, slammed the door shut, and then glared down at the vampire.

Anger burned inside her, building from a mild thing to an all-consuming rage as she stared down at him. “I can’t believe you,” she ranted. “You storm out of here, spend the entire night—somewhere, and then scare me half to death because apparently you can no longer tell time! You do still remember that sunlight will kill you, right?”

Spike opened an eye, peered up at her, and then closed it. “Lemme sleep