Of all the different ways I'd envisioned tonight going, none of them had included this. Me, in the dorm, by myself. At 9:30.
On a Saturday.
And on my night off. God, I shouldn't even be surprised at this point. This is pretty much par for the course for this year. Isn't college supposed to be like the best years of your life or something? So far, I'm not seeing it. Sometimes it kinda feels like the PTB and Angel and my professors and the roommate from hell and the Parkers of the world all got together and made big with the make-Buffy-miserable assembling. For someone who's supposed to be the Chosen One, I feel like all I'm ever "chosen" for is the short end of the stick.
Like tonight. Tonight was supposed to be about pulling Willow out of the Oz-shaped hole she's been sinking steadily into over the last few weeks. Tonight was supposed to be about her dealing, me helping, and both of us finding a way to battle back against the Freshman year slump I keep seeing artfully cartooned posters about in the dorm bathrooms. I mean, no, I'm not sure whatexactly I'd expected to happen tonight, but I don't think I'd ever considered that Willow might manage to have more fun at a party than I would.
But that's pretty much what had happened.
Granted, no, me getting sick hadn't been super high up on the list of fun and exciting weekend-in-college activities either, but still. The whole me helping thing had kinda gone out the window when I'd spotted Willow chatting so comfortably on the sofa with our psych TA, the two of them looking like they were deeply involved in discussing… something. I'd never gotten close enough to eavesdrop, and when I'd come by to tell them both that I wasn't feeling too whippy and had planned on heading back to the dorm, they'd both sort of…clammed up.
So I'd dropped it, giving Willow a curious look and asking if she was ready to go, too. She hadn't been, which had been surprising and if I'm being honest, a little disappointing. It's not like I'd been jonesing for a night in all alone, and the fact that she clearly hadn't been needing me to have a good time had kind of stung. But she had seemed relaxed, almost happy, and in the end that had been the point in us going to the party to begin with… so I'd told her I'd see her back at home later and left.
That had been almost two hours ago, and now I'm slowly going out of my mind.
Looking back, I guess I could have stayed at Lowell House. It wasn't that the party had been bad, exactly. But it hadn't been all laughs a plenty, either. Too many drunk pseudo frat boys, not enough good music, and I hadn't been lying when I'd told Willow and Riley that I hadn't been feeling great. Actually, I hadn't been feeling fully myself for a few days before I'd decided to take Willow to the party tonight.
Slayer healing doesn't make me immune to catching the common cold, and my slayage skills only go so far when fighting the fever demon.
Which is kinda lame, but oh so true.
Thus, the lameness that is me, lounging in my PJs stomach down on my lumpy dorm mattress and reading a two-year-old People magazine at 9:30 on a Saturday night on my one night off.
And I'm bored. Like, majorly bored. The stomach churning aside, and the slight aching in my muscles that I know has to be from more than just my fight last night, mybrain won't shut off. Won't even slow down. Being here by myself, no one to talk to, no vampires to slay— it's given me way too much time to think, which has been brining me dangerously close to self reflection, which somehow always leads down the path of Angel which is a place of badness that I spend a lot of energy trying to avoid.
Now would be a really great time to leave and go slay something. Even with the sickness that I know is taking root in my body, I want to move. Stretch until the aching disappears and expel some of the restless energy that I know is probably going to bottom out, zapped from my muscles by this fever any time now.
I think about this for a minute. I guess I could hit the cemeteries, if I wanted to. If I really wanted to. God, I'm surethat would go over just peachy with Giles. Especially after my little show earlier, demanding the night off to try and cheer Willow up.
I bite down onto my lip and consider that option, flipping the magazine shut and rubbing my fuzzy-sock clad feet together behind me.
Xander and Giles are already out in the cemeteries patrolling, anyway. Would have been whether I'd gotten sick and left the party early or not. Apart from agreeing to let me take Willow to that party in the first place, my Watcher had been the one to first to suspect that I might be coming down with something. Maybe a cold, he'd assumed, when he'd heard the slight catch in my voice earlier today. I'd denied it. Being sick, kind of like taking nights off, isn't exactly something they cover in the Slayer handbook, and except for that wicked flu that almost killed me during the whole Angelus debacle, I haven't been even close to being that sick since.
And I had really wanted to go to that party.
But the runny nose tells all, and of course Giles had been right. Although, judging from the slow building waves of nausea rumbling through my tummy, I'd venture a pretty solid guess that what I'm coming down with now is more than a cold. Though I'll deny it until the end, and I'll never admit to Giles he'd been right.
I roll over onto my back, letting the magazine slide down to the floor with a soft thudding sound and resting my head in the folds of my comforter at the foot of my bed. Lifting my feet up to press them into the headboard, I stretch out the growing tightness in my calves and eye my long, striped socks. I have them bunched loosely around my ankles now, but with the cool air of the AC vent kicking on, I'm tempted to pull them up to their full knee height glory for the extra warmth.
Another shudder races through my back, and I shiver, turning my head to glance at my open dresser drawer and contemplating pulling out my thickest pair of sweatpants to replace the flannel boxer shorts I'd put on when I'd first gotten home, flushed from the walk back from Lowell House. The only problem with that is I know I'm feeling a little chilled now, but it's only a matter of time before the fever crests and I'll be boiling up all over again.
I frown, trying to remember if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Are you supposed to sweat fevers out, or cool them down? I can't remember. Mom always knew that stuff so I never really had to deal with it. If Mom had been home tonight and not off buying more creepy tribal art for the gallery, I could have just gone home tonight and let her take care of this dumb cold.
Or whatever it is.
If I'm honest with myself, I'm starting to get the sinking feeling that thisdefinitely is more than just a cold and mild fever combination. If the full body chills I keep trying to ignore haven't given it away by now, then the sudden hot flushing in my cheeks that hits me out of nowhere is trying hard to. It's been a long time since I remember being sick, like really sick, but I'm not quite so stubborn as to not see the signs when they're flashing, neon and bright right in front of me.
Still, I hate it, especially now with my head still spinning, going 100 miles a minute and my body unable to do anything much other than lay here like a lump.
Seems I've finally hit that energy crash I knew would be coming.
With a long, drawn out sigh, I try to go back to ignoring the chills that are creeping up my sweatshirt covered arms and stretch them out in front of me, listening for the tell-tale cracking of my back as I arch up off the bed. And then I let all my muscles go lax, letting my feet flop limply over the side of the mattress.
On top of the muscle achies from the rapidly strengthening mystery illness, my arms are still a little on the sore side from the scuffle I'd had early yesterday morning. One massive Chirago demon too many. I lift my right hand up and knead my left bicep, wincing a little and wonder dimly what Giles would think about a Slayer allowance for massages.
I catch a glance at my chipped pink nail polish as I retract my hand, and frown.
Or manicures.
I drop my hand back down, letting the muscles in my arm relax into the mattress and trying to remember what types of medicine I have over in the cabinet under the sink that might work double duty— reduce my fever and get rid of the muscle aches.
I force myself to sit up, ignoring the fuzziness in my head and stretching forward to press the play button on Willow's portable CD player, grimacing at the melancholy sounds the float to me from the CD she's been playing. I switch it over to FM and flip it to some random radio station, waiting until I've found a song with a less depressing tempo before pushing myself up to my feet, hoping the upbeat party tune might convince my body that I am in fact not sick.
It doesn't work. I can feel the tightness everywhere now, that uncomfortable, twitchy ache, and little creeping goose bumps bubbling up all along my arms and legs as I push myself to a standing position and begin to move across the room, aiming for the cabinet in the sink where I store my toiletries.
I hum along absently to the melody I recognize, the lyrics I don't, and bend down to peer into the bottom cabinet, ignoring the way the position causes the blood to rush into my cheeks, making my head throb and my face flush hotter than before.
I'd forgotten my first aid kit in the initial move and had been too lazy to pick it up the last time I'd gone home, but I know Mom sent some Tylenol or something with me when I moved in…
I don't hear it the first time. The music's too loud.
But the second time, yeah. I hear it.
A knock.
The unmistakable sound of someone knocking on my dorm room door. I frown, brow furrowing, and pop my head up to stare at the wood as though it's said something offensive. I run through the list of people it might be. Not Willow— this is her room, she'd just come right in. Not Xander— he's patrolling, which means it isn't probably Giles either. Mom's out of town this weekend for work.
I guess it could just be another girl from down the hall, needing to borrow something. Or, I mean, this is college right? Maybe it's some other lame Saturday-night-in-the-dorm dweller who's heard my music and wants to hang?
It's kinda too bad I'm being all under the weathery, because under other circumstances I wouldn't have minded a little company.
I clear my throat, still standing with my hands in my desk drawer and raise my voice to be heard above the music. "Who is it?"
I wait for a minute, listening hard. No answer.
Now that is weird.
Maybe it's just being the Slayer that's made me this way, but I've grown increasingly paranoid over the past few years. Not that I don't have a reason to be, but sometimes I think I might let my imagination get the best of me.
So I'm probably being silly now. Probably halfway imagining the faint tinglies that I think I'm getting. It's probably nothing. And even if it isn't, I remind myself dismissively, I have that bag of weapons under my bed, if I need it.
Straightening, shaking my wiggins off and telling myself that I'm just being a silly Slayer, I move toward the door and unlock it. Wrapping my hand around the cool metal of the handle and twisting, I exhale as I yank the door wide open.
I don't know whatI'd expected, what I'd convinced myself I'd find when I'd decided to open the door. But it isn't what I see now. My vamp tingles fire, shooting down my spine, my hand gripping the flimsy faux wood of the door even harder.
No. Of all the different ways I'd envisioned tonight going, none of them had included this.
Him.
Spike.
She hadn't been expecting me.
That much is right bloody obvious from the start. Eyes widening, black pupils swallowing up the green of her irises as she finally seems to register who and what it is she's seein'. I can hear her blood, too. Hot and loud in her veins. Pulse hammerin' away, throbbin' visibly in the hollow of her throat.
Good.
I watch her, letting a slow, deliberate smirk twist the corner of my mouth as she stands there, gaping at me.
"Hi, honey," I purr, watching her eyes widen even further. Whether in fear, or genuine shock, I'm not certain yet. Not that it matters. Either one bodes well for me. "I'm home."
The little bitch is quick, I'll give her that. One second she's staring wide eyed at me, a regular deer caught in the sodding headlights, and the next she's using that iron tight grip of hers to try and slam the door shut in my face.
Yeah, she's quick. I'm quicker.
For tonight, anyway.
I slide my foot forward into the door frame the second I see her hand tighten on the wood, letting my boot take the brunt of her attempt to close me out. Chuckling low in my throat, I reach up, lay both my palms flat against the top edge of the door and shove.
Hard.
I don't know which sound is more satisfying, honestly. The sharp crack of the wooden veneer as it crashes back with just the right amount of force into that stupid, upturned nose of hers, or the sharp cry of pain that follows immediately after.
Both of 'em do their fair share of makin' me a little giddy.
Then again, so does the look of confusion and…what I'm sincerely hopin' is terror all over the silly chit's face as she stumbles backward from the force of the door. She watches me, eyes widening and dilating further as I step through the doorway. She's pressing one hand to her nose, catching herself sloppily with the other against what I assume— from the overwhelming scent of Slayer— is her bed.
Delicious.
"What's the matter, Slayer," I bite out, voice smooth and low and just a touch, just the right amount, of condescending as I step fully through the doorway, gripping the edge of the door in my right hand. "You don't seem too tickled to see me."
The Slayer is still starin' at me, though she's managed now to get herself back to her feet. That same look of confusion still warring on her face, her heart racin', blood pulsing in her veins a million bloody miles a minute.
"How…" she stammers out, dragging her hand away from that silly little nose and forcing herself into a half assed fighting stance. Her eyes narrow on me, and she seems to regain a crumb of that laser-like focus I remember so well. "I didn't invite you in."
Christ.
I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Dozy bint really thinks I need an invite into a ruddy dorm room?
Bloody hell, does that Watcher of hers teach her anythin' about vamps? it's a sodding miracle she's lived as long as she has.
I have half a mind to tell her so. Would, too, if the scent of her blood didn't take this very second to tickle the air, makin' me freeze in place. Her nose. It's bleeding. Not a lot, mind you, but just enough to make my throat burn. Remind me why it is I'm here.
"'S true," I concede instead, cocking my head to the side and raking my eyes over her in a shameless appraisal of her body. Lingering a half second longer than I need to on the tops of her thighs before finding her eyes again. Rufflin' her feathers. I can see the blood pooling in her cheeks even as she brings her tiny fists up in front of her body. "Would appear that I don't need one."
I take one more big step into the room, slamming the door shut behind me for emphasis.
And, God, if isn't fucking delicious to watch her jump at the sound. But the Slayer's eyes aren't on me now. They're dartin' around the room in a blind panic, still wide, still dilated. Just the smallest tad unfocused, too. Probably searchin' for something, anything, to use as a weapon. I'm sure she has a weapons chest in here somewhere.
All I have to do is get to her before she gets to it.
Sink my fangs into her throat and drain her dry. Leave her bruised and broken body here for those ridiculous little friends of hers to find. Be done with it, once and for all.
And then this whole sodding nightmare will be over.
Fueled by that thought, by the near blinding rage that accompanies it, I let the bones in my face shift and lean forward into my own predatory stance.
We move in the same instant. She leaps backward, whirling around and diving beneath her bed just as I growl and lunge toward her. But again, for the second time tonight, I'm faster than she is. Usually, this isn't the case. More often than not this Slayer and I've been evenly matched, or she's been just one step ahead. Under other circumstances, I might have stopped, wondered for half a mo if something here might be different. Might have bothered to notice the slightly off scent emanating from her skin.
But not tonight. There's no room for thoughts like that tonight.
She's diving underneath her bed, her back to me, when I catch her. My arms band around her waist in an instant, pinning hers down hard so they're flattened ineffectively to her sides and dragging her slight body back hard against my chest.
If I'd been expecting her to beg for her life, I'd have been real bloody disappointed. If I'd been hoping for that, or hoping for more of a struggle. If I'd had any other thought goin' through my bleeding mind other than simply wanting to end her, the whole night would've been a bust.
Good thing I hadn't.
Because the girl doesn't say a word. Not one sodding word. No quick-witted quips, no inane insults. Not a please, or a don't do this, or even a you'll never get away with this. Nothing.
She struggles briefly in my arms before her muscles seem to melt into me, and she goes still for about two seconds before her small frame is suddenly wracked with shivers. Involuntary shudders coursing through her body, causing me to tighten my grasp, but that's it. And it's not even from fear. I don't smell fear on her anywhere, actually.
Plannin' to take it like the warrior she is.
Again, if I'd expected anything less, it might have been enough to stop me. To hold out until I could force her to beg for her life, revel in her fear, relish in the sound of those choked, strangled sobs I think I've imagined a thousand times over by now.
But I'm not here for that, and I know it.
"Well," I say, dropping my voice down low, leaning down so that the tip of my right fang is directly beside her ear. "'S been fun, Slayer."
The funniest part? Sod all if I don't actually mean it. It has been fun. She'd certainly made my unlife more interestin'. Not always for the better, sure, but I have a real hard time believing the next one's goin' to be half as exciting as she'd been.
Oh, well.
I shift slightly, dragging my mouth away from her ear and down, ghosting it along the curve of her neck until my lips are right above her throbbing jugular. She might not be strugglin', but I can feel her pulse here. How wild, how fast it's goin'.
God, my mouth is waterin' just being this close.
Finally.
All that power, all that promise making hunger flare deep in my gut, my throat burning all over again. Vanilla and strawberry and something else, something...overly sweet. Not just the usual sweetness of her blood, either.
It's siren call is there, too, yeah, but it...no, this scent is different. Thicker. Hotter. Completely intoxicating.
And I've waited bloody long enough.
I open my mouth and let loose a wild growl, bending my head further to spear the wildly pulsing, pounding jugular vein in her throat on the tip of my fangs. The Slayer inhales sharply, holding her breath and waitin' for the death bite.
My fangs just barely nick her skin, and everything explodes around me.
Spike lets go. Spike lets go of me.
I don't know why, can't fathom what he's doing, but his arms release me so suddenly I actually go flying forward, crashing into my bedside table and knocking over my lamp.
It's the undeniably inhuman wail of pain that has me whirling around, staring at him with wide, shocked eyes.
I'd been about to die. He'd been about to kill me.
Actually kill me.
After all the years, all the threats, all the attempts that had been of the majorly unsuccessfully variety. Spike, the self-proclaimed Slayer of Slayers, had been about to kill me. It had been about to happen. It had taken me next to no time at all to noodle out that there would be no way, none, for me to fight him off. Not now. Not with the fever hitting it's stride and me growing weaker by the second.
I had literally just been about to die. Right here, in my dorm room. In my personal space. I hadn't felt so totally powerless since the night in the Hellmouth with the Master.
Spike had had me.
And Spike had let me go.
Why?
My hand flies reflexively to my throat, covering the Master's mark as I watch Spike fall to his knees, gripping his forehead in both of his hands and gasping for air he doesn't need.
And my thoughts are racing, jumbled, swirling in my head so fast I barely have time to think one before the next is whipping up.
Is that it? Could he not bite me there because of the Master's mark? Is this some…wiggy vampire, bloodline thing?
Spike is from the same line, right? I think that's what Giles told me.
He'd been sired by Dru, so yeah, that's right.
So is that it? Is this a thing I didn't know about?
And why I'm not jumping at this opportunity, why I'm not diving for the bag of weapons that's just barely visible from beneath the ruffle of my comforter, I don't know.
Shock? Nausea? My fever addled brain?
Or maybe I just want answers.
"What…" I begin slowly, my voice sounding strained as I drop my hand away from my throat, eyeing the vampire in front of me on the floor. "What the hell was that?"
Spike looks up at me, like maybe for a moment he'd forgotten where he was. That I've been standing here. His expression is tense, pained, but he seems to come back to himself a little as he registers my presence.
"Dunno," he growls, the pained expression melting away as his demon's feral eyes narrow on me. I watch as he braces his hands on the ground and leaps back up to his feet. "Why don't you tell me."
I step back on instinct, for some reason that I can't even begin to fathom,in the direction away from my bag of stakes.
And I have just enough time to realize what I've done before Spike's flying toward me again, snarling, fangs bared. He doesn't get nearly as close on this attempt, though, because my right hand shoots out and catches him hard across the jaw, sending him stumbling backward until he crashes into the corner of my desk.
And now I do dive for my weapons bag, scrambling as quickly as I can, unsure how long my punch will have kept Spike incapacitated.
Which, as it turns out, is not long.
He's up again, already on his feet by the time I drop to my knees in front of the bag and dig for the first pointy piece of wood I can find.
I wrap my hands firmly around a stake and leap to my feet, brandishing it in front of me, wondering how much easier all this would be if I was feeling fully up to Slayer snuff. As it happens, I'm not so sure I'm not about to lose the apple and frozen yogurt I'd eaten for lunch all over Spike's stupid leather coat.
God, does he ever wear anything else?
He lunges for me and I side-step him, dancing out of the way so we switch sides. My back to the door, his to sliver of wall visible between Willow and my two nightstands. He throws a wild, frustrated punch at me and I manage to block it weakly with my left arm, using my right to propel the stake in my hand toward his heart.
But my aim is off. Whether it's the sickness creeping through my muscles, the fever making my head fuzzy, or something else…I don't know.
What I do know is that Spike catches my hand, stopping the tip of my stake as it's barely an inch from pressing its way through the fabric of his shirt, into the center of his chest. He growls, inhaling deeply, and I watch the cat like pupils dilate until the yellow is nearly swallowed. Cool, strong fingers wrapping around my wrist and snapping it back so quickly that I almost forget to cry out.
Almost.
I gasp in pain, my fingers immediately releasing the stake and letting it clatter to the carpet at my feet, the heavy end I'd been gripping smashing into my toe as it does. I hardly notice.
I'm too busy watching Spike, his demon guise contorting in a fresh wave of pain as he snarls and releases my wrist as though my skin has been doused in Holy Water.
It lasts only a moment, just long enough for him to gather his strength and come at me full force again, fangs gleaming in the dim lamplight. Aiming once more for the hollow of my throat.
Finding myself for the second time tonight weaponless and weak, I throw my hands up to shield myself from the worst of it, hurriedly wracking my fogged out brain for another way out of this.
But it doesn't matter.
Spike barely gets near me this time before he's crying out again, reeling backward, clutching violently at his head and tearing platinum hair loose from the gel that slicks it back.
Maybe if I hadn't been sick I'd have realized it sooner, what I think it is that's happening. That he seems to get hurt every time he lunges for my throat.
It's like...well, it's like he can't bite me. Like something happens to him every time he tries.
Definitely of the not normal.
What exactly is happening here?
What the bloody buggering fuck is happenin' to me?
It's the only coherent thought goin' through my head now. Everything else is dimmed, drowned out by the searing waves of pain radiating through my skull.
Three times now. Three times I've felt this violent, blinding pain…and all in the last sodding minute and a half.
It's her. The Slayer. Fuck, it has to be.
Why else would I not be able to bite the little bitch?
"What did you do to me?" I hiss, one hand cradling my temple, staggering backward until my legs come in contact with one of the small tables between the beds.
And the stupid bint has the nerve to look at me like she has no buggering clue what I'm talkin' about. Her eyes are wide, hair a tangle of golden waves from our brief struggle as she coddles the wrist I've just broken.
"Me?" she asks, having the gal to sound incredulous, her voice pitching high. Lookin' more confused than I think I've ever seen her, which is sayin' something. Furrowed brow. Heaving chest. Doe eyes.
Bitch.
"Yes, you," I counter heatedly, lowering my voice to a deadly murmur. "Figure you would know the reason why I can't seem to lay a bloody finger on you."
She stares blankly at me, eyes hazy. Glazed over. She blinks once, like it's a struggle for her just to make sense of what I'm sayin'. "What?"
Oh, for the love of….have I been the only onehere for the last five minutes?
"In case you haven't noticed," I growl, temper flaring, growing angrier by the second. "I've tried three different times now to rip your goddamn throat out and I can't."
And then, driven by some impulse that I can't even begin to explain, I race forward and make like I'm about to bite her again. She tenses up but doesn't move away. Doesn't make a move to hit me, either. Or to shield herself.
So a part of her must have already riddled it out by now that I can't do it. Can't bite her. Can't hurt her at all without gettin' myself one hell of a migraine.
As if on cue, the rippling shockwaves of pain start up again. This time, my fangs hadn't even gotten near her throat. I stumble back again, howling in a truly undignified manner and breathing heavily, sucking in long gulps of useless air.
And that's when I finally do smell it, let myself notice it. Figure out exactly what that other, thicker scent had been I'd smelled coming off the Slayer before. Besides the rich tang of her blood and the faintly strawberry-like tickle of her shampoo in the back of my throat.
I can practically taste it now. The heat of her skin radiating toward me like a bloody furnace from three feet away, the scent of the fever in the sickly sweet, vanilla scented room.
Slayer's sick.
No wonder she hadn't fought me off.
It also explains that glazed look in her eye as she stares at me now, muscles still tense, pulse still poundin' away.
That's when I remember it. What that other vampire had said to me earlier, before I'd escaped. That he'd been runnin' from the Slayer, blacked out, wound up in the cagey thing with those white coats all around. Same thing had happened to me.
And now I can't bite the chit.
The muscle in my jaw tenses as I grit my teeth, finally putting two and two together. It's gotta be a spell or some rot. Some kind of…protection spell she's puttin' on all the nasties in Sunnyhell to keep herself all safe and sound-like.
Clever.
Wouldn't have pegged her for the clever type.
A tiny surge of respect niggles at me in the back of my brain, but I shove it down, easily beating it back with the sweltering rage I can feel burning hot behind my eyes.
"You," I accuse, my voice deadly. "You did somethin' to me." I stab an accusing finger at the Slayer. "When I was holed up in that cell of yours."
Another feverish, blank stare. "What are you talking about?" she asks me, cradling her wrist closer to her chest and taking a measured step away from me. "What cell?"
I sneer at her. "What d'you mean, what cell? The bloody cell I was caged up in for the past three days." At the Slayer's blank stare, I feel my temper start to rage. God, I want to snap her pretty little neck. "White walls. Tile floor. Shoots drugged-up blood packets out the sodding ceiling?"
And that's just bloody brilliant. Now she's lookin' at me like I'm the fevered one here. Like she has no fuckin' clue what I'm on about.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she says, eyes flitting from my face down to the stake she'd dropped earlier and back up again. Tryin' to figure how fast she'll need to move to beat me to it, I'd wager. "I didn't even know you were back."
Ooo, right. Like I'm supposed to bloody believe tha—.
"You've been locked up in a cage for three days?" she asks me suddenly, frowning, her nose wrinklin' up. Like she's only just now figured somethin' important out.
I raise a sardonic brow in her direction, the words leaving my lips on a harsh question. "Did I stutter?" I scoff, sneering at her and tilting my head back in the general direction I think I've come from. "Just escaped not five hours ago."
A beat. Then, and her voice sounds funny to me, "And you think I put you there?"
A growl rumbles from my chest before I can stop it, eyes narrowing dangerously on the insufferable little blonde standing across from me. "There's nobody else."
The Slayer narrows her eyes at me, but she's still thinkin' about something. We stand here for a while just gawping at each other until she finally asks me "How'd you get there?"
"I…" I trail off, the scathing remark, sharp retort catching on my tongue. It's a good question. How did I get there?
I stare back at the Slayer, watching the green in her eyes flicker with a smug looking realization as the seconds drag on and I have yet to answer her.
Bloody hell, how did I get there?
Oh, sod all. I can't fucking remember.
"There were people," I say finally, planting my hands on my hips and drumming my fingers against my jeans. I find myself looking away from her, but not because she's proven a point or anythin'. Just…because. "And…an electric shock."
That much I do remember.
The Slayer makes a face at me and leans back on her heels, raising a skeptical eyebrow. There's a thin sheen of sweat forming on her brow, the trembling in her limbs barely disguised by the way she holds her arm to her chest. I can still smell it, too.
Fever's gettin' worse.
"And why would I shock you instead of, say…dusting you?" she asks me haughtily, false bravado coloring the words. She's trying so damned hard to put on a face for me. Like she isn't in pain. Like whatever it is that's ailing her isn't gettin' worse by the second. It'd almost be admirable if I didn't hate her so bloody much.
But the bitch has a point.
Bugger.
"Dunno," I say, rolling my shoulders back and finally letting the demon fall away, feeling my bones shift to bring my human face forward again. A thought occurs to me then, and I cock my head to the side, smirking in that smug way I knowbrasses her off. "Why haven't you dusted me tonight?"
Ha! That one has her mouth opening and snapping shut real quick, lips forming a hard, thin line.
Stupid vampire.
Stupid, logical, making with the good point vampire.
And if I had half as much strength as I'd need to to do it, I'd punch that stupid know-it-all smirk right off his face and into last week. It's not like I don't know what he's doing, but it makes me mad anyway. Two can play at this game, though, even if I'm a little slower on the uptake.
"Well, I was trying to get to the bottom of whatever it is that's going on with you, but fine." I reach over to my wooden desk chair and brace my hand on one of the legs, kicking it roughly until it splinters off in my hand and forms a makeshift stake. I ignore the shooting pain in my right wrist, holding it tightly in my left hand and fighting to control the tremors shooting down my back. Praying to whatever Powers might be listening that weren't in make-Buffy-miserable attendance that the vampire hasn't noticed how off my game I seem.
I tilt my head to side and offer my biggest, fakest, all sugar smile. "Have it your way."
Spike steps back, bumping one more time into my nightstand and putting both hands out in front of him. "Hey now," he says, all traces of the smirk suddenly gone. "Let's just…hold on a bloody second." I lower the chair leg immediately, relieved to not have to hold the pretense longer than necessary.
Things grow freakily quiet in my room. Well, aside from the peppy music still filtering in from Willow's CD player which somehow hasn't gotten knocked over or turned off in all the ruckus. It might be a little softer now, though.
Spike stares at me hard for a long minute. I stare back. This is the longest I think we've ever stood in a room together where we haven't been A) trying to kill each other or B) plotting to kill my ex-boyfriend. And thus, this might be the longest minute in the history of ever.
Finally, Spike seems to decide on whatever it is he's been deciding and cocks his head to the side, narrowing blue eyes on me. "You really don't know what's going on?"
I let my left arm drop all the way down to my side, fingers loosening around the wooden chair leg, unable to hold it in even the semi-raised position any more. God, I need medicine. I need painkillers. I need...well, honestly, I could do with a cuddle session with Mr. Gordo right about now.
But it can wait. It'll have to.
"For the however many-eth time," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. "No."
The vampire's eyes flash and he takes a menacing step toward me. "Mmhm," he almost purrs, lashes sweeping down then up again. "And how do I know you aren't just lyin' to me?"
The tone of his voice, the body language, the threat he's trying so hard to imply all fall tragically flat. He isn't going to do anything to me, and we both know it. We both know that he can't. I've seen it enough times tonight now to know that much. For whatever reason, it isn't physically possible right now for him to bite me. Or hurt me at all, I'm guessing, if the reaction he'd had after snapping my wrist meant anything.
So, sure, I could stake him right now. Be done with it.
But I'd be lying if I pretend my curiosity isn't just the slightest bit piqued, and I don't think…no, I know I don't have the energy right now. Whatever illness I have is getting worse by the second, and all the energy I have is being spent making sure Spike doesn't realize that.
And besides all those other good reasons, Giles will probably want to see whatever's controlling Spike in action.
And yeah, okay, maybe it's the fever talking...but I feel like there are more reasons to not stake the bleached menace right now than there are to stake him.
I think I'm very tired.
"Not that I care what you think of me," I tell him, affecting my best Slayer sneer and narrowing my eyes. "But I'm not lying. Being the Slayer is a one-person gig, Spike. Besides, what you're talking about sounds…complicated." I cast a cautious glance down to the ground, mulling as coherently as I can over everything he's told me about what's happened to him. "Definitely a multi-player operation."
And by multiplayer, I'm thinking more firepower than us Scoobies are packing, because if we'd found a way to effectively neuter vampires by now, I'd be out a job.
The vampire blinks at me, dark brows knitting together. "You sayin' there's someone else in this miserable town who's in on the demon fightin' biz?"
I nod. "Looks like."
"Fan-fucking-tastic," Spike growls, whirling around and slamming his booted toe hard into my nightstand, sending my lamp finally toppling all the way over and crashing to the floor.
I don't even have the energy to yell at him about it.
Fever, I think lamely, another chill shooting it's way from the tips of my hair down to my toes. Has to be the fever.
That, and I'm using all my mental energy to figure out what could possibly be going on here. Someone else is in the business of demon dealing here in Sunnydale. Someone who has a lot of manpower, and a lot of resources. The means to take down and kidnap a vamp as old and powerful as Spike. Access to a facility to hold him in. And the know how to perform…some kind of anti-harming spell on him. And, knowing it wasn't me that put the spell on him in the first place, I have to assume the effects of said spell extend to more people than just me. Probably to everybody with a pulse.
But that still doesn't explain to me what it is, and still doesn't tell me who's doing it, or why. Why fight demons only to…handicap them, and throw them back out into the wild? Wouldn't it be better, and easier, just to finish them off and be done with it?
Unless the goal isn't to stop them at all, but to…rehabilitate them? Whatever it is that's keeping Spike from being able to hurt me had obviously caused him a lot of pain. Each time he'd tried, something had happened. Something focused somewhere in his head.
Hadn't we studied this? Something…in Professor Walsh's class. Conditioning? Positive reinforcement versus negative reinforcement. Like snapping a rubber band on your wrist every time you think about something you aren't supposed to. Which so doesn't work, because I'd tried it after the Parker incident and all it had done was give me some nasty welts and left me with a pile of broken rubber bands.
So maybe not conditioning, or rehab. The end game could be something much simpler. Experimentation.
If what the blonde vampire has told me is the truth, then they hadn't let him out— he'd escaped. Which means to me that whatever it is they've done to him to prevent him from hurting me, hurting people, has to be something they'd planned on testing out.
My eyes light on the vampire in question, who's still watching me intently. Curiously. It's kind of wigging me out. I don't think I've ever seen him look at me with anything other than hatred.
"What else can you tell me?" I ask, shifting back to rest my butt on the top of my desk, suddenly aware of how shaky my legs have become. I'm still clutching my makeshift stake, though I know with a kind of certainty that only comes with this level of exhaustion that at this point I won't be using it. Couldn't probably, even if I wanted to.
My stomach rolls again.
The vampire regards me warily for a very long moment before shaking his head. "Not much. Didn't pay a lot of attention."
The snort happens before I can stop it. "Gee, that was smart."
Blue eyes flash again, and he does step toward me this time. Hands curled into fists at his sides, muscle in his jaw clenching hard. He has a tenuous hold on his temper, and knowing there's pretty much nothing he can do about it leaves me with a just shy of zero desire to keep myself from igniting his fuse.
Like, the way he's looking at me now. It'd probably be menacing if I didn't know he couldn't do anything about it. His nostrils flare and his expression darkens further. "Well, I thought it was you, didn't I?"
As if that explains everything.
"But it wasn't," I remind him snidely, wanting pretty desperately to punch him square in the nose but knowing that even if I tried my body wouldn't obey me. It's a struggle just to stay upright at this point.
"So says you," Spike gripes, muttering it almost under his breath a little like he still doesn't believe me. But he has to know at this point that I have less than a clue about what's really going on here.
You didn't see anything else?" I ask, my voice sounding about as tired as my body feels now.
"I…" the vampire begins, then stops, thinking. He looks like he's concentrating very hard, turning his eyes down to the floor, bracing his hands on his hips. Then he whips his eyes back up to mine as though the light bulb just kicked on. "They were human. Blighters who nabbed me were human." He pauses again, nodding, warming to the memories. "Had some weird lookin' guns on 'em, too. Wearin' masks, though. Couldn't see their faces—"
And it suddenly clicks for me all at once. I cut him off, pushing myself back up to my unsteady feet. "Oh my God."
The commandos. Of course. Oh my God, of course. Now my brain is going a million miles a minute for different reasons.
Giles. I need to talk to Giles.
I start scanning the room instantly, looking for something, anything, I can use for rope. I'll have to tie Spike up and take him with me…can't just let him go running around Sunnydale until we know for sure what's going on. That this spell or whatever applies to more than just Slayer necks. I remember a second too late that I have rope in the weapons bag under the bed and head toward it without thinking, brushing Spike aside as I do, headless of the low warning growl that rumbles through his chest.
"Watch it," he snarls, but moves out of my way anyway.
"Or what?" I ask, dropping to my knees, legs still jello-y, and dragging the bag toward me. My hands shake as I begin to dig through it. "You'll give yourself a brain freeze?"
My taunt only makes the vampire fume more, growling again in indignation. I grab the rope out and wind it around my wrist before bracing my hand on my mattress and pushing myself back up.
"And what's that for, then?" Spike asks, side stepping away from me as I make a move to approach him.
I stare at him blankly. "You think I'm just gonna let you leave?"
Spike glares at me, leaning forward and dropping his voice down dangerously low. "You're cracked if you think I'm gonna let you tie me up."
"Okay," I say, drawing the word out, not in the mood for banter. I shrug, muscles stretching uncomfortably as I do. A fresh shiver makes it's way down my spine. "I could just stake you and be done with it."
It's not true. It's not true, and he probably knows it, but I'm hoping the threat will be enough to make him easier to deal with. Just for now. Just until we can get to Giles.
But Spike just shakes his head, eyeing me through a narrowed gaze that always makes me feel like the vampire is much smarter than he looks. "If you were gonna do that," he says slowly, eyes widening and eyebrows raising mockingly as he moves a little closer to me. "Youd'a done it by now."
Case in bleached blonde point.
Damn it.
But I force myself to press back and up into his personal space anyway, my own voice low. "Wanna test that theory?"
Spike opens his mouth to say something, some further rebuttal, but he doesn't get the chance. A second later, the lights shut off, causing both of us to freeze in place and glance around. I can see the lights in the hall are out, too. No light filters in from the crack under the door.
Another second later there's a thudding sound. A steady thrum of pounding movement, and faint screams coming from the other end of the hallway. The thundering of footsteps reverberating through the thin dorm floor.
And they come to crashing halt right in front of my door.
"Think somebody decided to come after you," I tell Spike, dropping my voice down to a whisper and turning my body so I'm facing the door. I can hear muffled sounds coming from behind it, like whispers maybe. Some shuffling movement.
"You were thinkin' that too, huh?" he asks back, not as biting and sarcastic as I'd expected. His voice is just a little off kilter, too. Laced with something I don't think I've heard from him in particular before.
Fear.
Whoever these people are that had held him, whatever it is they'd done, he's afraid of them. And for some reason this is what has my fingers curling into my sides, turning to fists, headless of the pain radiating up my right arm.
Because the only thing demons in this town should be afraid of is me.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doin'?" Spike asks me suddenly, his voice a low hiss breaking through my thoughts, directly in my right ear.
It's a great question.
Somehow, in the course of the last five seconds or so, I've maneuvered my way over so that I'm standing in front of him, and little to the side. The better part of the right side of my body is shielding him from whoever's about to bust down my door.
"You wanna fight them off?" I hiss back, ignoring his question, ignoring the beads of sweat that are beading along my brow and are starting to fall down my face, the over heated flush on my cheeks. "We don't know if you can even fight anymore, remember?"
I expect a snide comment. A snarky come back. Something, anything, from the vampire at my side. The last thing I'd ever have expected is what actually leaves his lips next.
"You're sick, Slayer." His voice is gravelly, low. And it's probably the fever talking, but I'd swear I hear what might almost be concern there, too. "Won't last thirty seconds in a fight with this lot."
It's self-preservation on his part, I know, but it's too big with the weirdness for me in this moment. Besides the fact that he's right, and he knows it, having seen first hand not too long ago just how worthless the fever has made my Slayer skills tonight— he's also dealt with the commando's much more p close and personal than I have at this point. And if he doesn't think I can manage right now, then I probably can't.
But what other option do I have? Sure, I could let them take Spike and it wouldn't be any real skin off my back. One less thorn in my side. One less vamp snacking on Sunnydale's clueless residents. Yeah, so they might be doing something less than…savory, if it is experimentation they're after. But this is Spike we're talking about.
Would it be the worst thing in the world?
I'm in the middle of considering the merits of letting the commando's vampnap Spike when the door suddenly crashes open, two masked men with guns rushing into my room.
And my instincts take over, making the decision for me.
"I guess I'll have to take 'em out in twenty," I quip over my shoulder, spinning out of the grip of the first commando and ignoring the pounding in my head so I can send a hard roundhouse kick into the chest of the second. He flies backward into the edge of Willow's dresser, all the way across the room, crashing into it with a gratifying smack before sinking to the ground—immobile.
Which is seriously of the good right now, because that one move took just about any energy I might have had left and zapped it.
And now commando number one is charging for me again, and I can make out the shapes of three, maybe four others out in the hallway.
My eyes meet Spikes in the dark of the room for one, heart poundingly slow second, and whether he knows what it is I'm thinking or not, I don't know.
I don't think a whole lot before I do it, don't take the time I probably need to to think it out, weigh my options. I take off at a sprint, side stepping out of the way of the masked man coming at me and pushing with all the force I can muster into the wall of bodies crowding the door.
Which pretty much isn't a whole lot in the force department.
But it doesn't need to be, because the next second I feel it. A pair of wide, strong hands on my back, pushing, helping me break through the commando barrier and out into the long, free stretch of hallway.
And I'm about to turn around to tell Spike to…well, I don't know what I'd been planning on telling him to do, but it doesn't matter. A second later he's taking off, thrusting his body passed mine and sprinting toward the plate glass window at the end of the corridor.
I watch him go longer than I should, turning back just in time for me to get caught hard in the jaw by a sucker punch I never could have seen coming. It sends me reeling, crashing into the little pay phone vestibule to my right. My hand flies out to grip onto the edge to keep from falling, tweaking my broken wrist in the process and making me gasp in pain. It hurts and it's dark and I can't see much of anything through the haze in my head and the shivers in my legs. I've completely lost sight of the commando that's just hit me.
My lip is split. I know that much at least, because I can taste it. Hot and coppery as my tongue flicks out to catch the blood, head spinning worse and worse every second.
I struggle back to my feet and lunge forward, intent on landing at least one more, solid hit to the commando emerging in front of me before the night is over.
I never make it.
There's a loud cry of "No!" that echoes up around the hallways a half second before I fall to the ground, every muscle convulsing in a much different way than they had been moments ago. A sharp pain hits me in the shoulder and radiates throughout my entire body before everything around me goes black.
Silly chit's going to get us both killed, mark my words. And all before I'm able to get this sodding spell reversed so I can do her in my-goddamn-self.
The heat from her body had scorched my hands when I'd pressed them into her back and shoved her forward, leeching through her clothes and into my skin before I'd had the good sense to remove my hands and take off at a sprint down the hallway.
I'm still not sure what it had been that had stopped me. It hadn't been the Slayer's sharp cry of pain, that much I know. And it hadn't been the sizzling sound of those oversized bug zappers shootin' out of the soldier boys' guns, either.
Might have been the scent of her blood in the air, fevered and thick and pungent. Makin' my mouth water, the denim of my jeans strain painfully across my cock. Might've been the sound of her heart rate speedin' up again, or the faintest hint of fear rolling off her skin that I'd been able to smell from twenty yards away.
No, I don't know for sure. Not that it matters now why it is I'd done it.
But I'd frozen in place and whirled around with just enough time to take in the sight of the Slayer gettin' set to launch a fresh attack, to see the hulking black clad figure rising up behind her, gun aimed square at her back.
I don't know which of those blighters had shouted. Someone shouted.
But it had been too late, and I'd watched as little blue shocks wound their way around the Slayer's body, watched as she'd slumped roughly to the ground. Instantly, the two soldiers on either side of her turned on each other. Fightin', hollering about…something or other.
And by then it had been too late. To late for me to scarper off, make a run for it, to do anything but stare at the gun aimed at me before the blue sparklers shot out. Their barbs digging into my chest, electric pulses strong enough to bring me to my knees coursing through me. And it's here, on my knees, that I finally remember exactly how I'd gotten into that bloody cell to begin with. But the wankers forgot somethin', didn't they?
It had taken more than one of their little toy guns to bring me down last time.
With a venomous growl, I wrap my hand around the still sparking blue barbs and yank them out, flying forward and taking the soldier's legs out from beneath him, aiming one hard punch to his gut in the process. I scramble back to my feet, pressing the heel of my hand to my head and shaking it to clear my blurred vision. So that tells me a little something, too.
I can't even hit people.
The movement forward brings me some unwanted attention, but I see the gun aimed at me this time and have enough time to think, grabbing for the fire extinguisher in the wall to my left and putting it out in front of me like a shield. The electric barbs strike the side, sending the entire hallway up in a blaze of foaming white salvation. Everything goes hazy, and even though the white substance stings my eyes a bit, it doesn't bother me. The guttural cries all around me is proof enough that it isn't the same old story for the soldier boys.
I can see through it. They can't.
I turn around to run again stopping for half a second when I hear the pained moan from below me. Glancing down, my eyes narrow in on the semi-unconscious girl at me feet.
And again, I don't know why I do it. What makes me do it. Have not one fuckin' clue.
But I'm reaching down and grabbing for the Slayer before I can tell myself not to, closing my hand around her wrist and yanking her up. She's still out, obviously unable to stand on her own two feet, so I grip her harder and haul her into my arms. Her body is almost unbearably hot at this point, every inch of her searing me through the layers of clothes we both wear.
Crushing her with bruising force against my chest, I take off again, back down the hall.
The whole thing takes me maybe ten seconds. Well, fifteen if I count the momentary pause between first grabbing the bint up off the floor and shoving her into my arms.
Point is, it happens fast. Too fast for any of the soldier boys to wise up to it before I'm jumpin' through a plate glass window.
In hindsight, I probably should'a planned a touch better.
I land on the hard ground below the window, twisting my body on instinct with just enough time for my back to crash hard into the concrete. The maneuver shields the Slayer from the worst of the fall, and I'm only halfway wonderin' at this point why it is I even sodding care if the stupid bint gets crushed beneath me…when I smell it again, for the third time tonight. Fresh blood. Fresh Slayer's blood.
It's strong in my nostrils as I inhale, and I know without having to look that she's been sliced open somewhere.
Perfect.
I let go of her and scramble to my feet, takin' a second to crack my neck before bending down and scooping her back up. If possible, she's even hotter now. No doubt gettin' shot with that laser gun isn't doing that fever of hers any favors.
Not that I give a bloody damn.
It's what I'm thinkin' when I tuck her body tighter against mine and start running. Into the night, away from the dorm, cradling the unconscious, fevered body of the girl that I'd come here tonight to kill.
And the other thought pops into my head, too, as I make it deeper into the trees lining the edge of the campus. That I've gotta wise up and stop makin' so many bloody plans.
They never turn out right.
