Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS. It is owned by Joss Whedon and affiliates. No copyright infringement intended.
I also regret to say that I don't live in a complete vacuum and as such, not all my ideas are my own. The Big Bad in this story is derived from Adam Nevill's The Ritual, the first horror novel in a long time to scare the panties right off me. Something my husband very much appreciated.
I really wanted to participate in the October Challenge Month at EF so a huge thanks to Kittyfajitas and Juggler for making that possible with their challenges. I felt really bad about staring a story while I have so many WIPS out there, but this story is mostly done. Mewstly. So I'm confident that you'll won't be left hangin'.
Spoilers: Canon up to "Harsh Light of Day".
Many thanks to ObscureBookWyrm for looking this over for me. However, its gone through some heavy revisions so any mistakes are entirely my fault for not sending it off to her again.
Awakening
Chapter One
It was the sound that woke her. A nausea-inducing cacophony of noise pressing on her from all angles. The high pitched screams pierced her brain with knife-like intensity, along with the shrieking of rending metal, all layered on a continuous mechanical hum that made her bones vibrate. But it was the bovine cough, guttural-rough and deep-throated, ricocheting off metal bowels, that sprung her completely into consciousness.
The first thing she noticed when she opened her eyes was a pool of vomit at her feet. The acid taste in her mouth told her it was hers. Followed quickly by the realization that she was strung up like a side of beef, sans the hook in her back. Reinforced, canvas cuffs abraded her wrists, attached to the corners of the wire mesh cage where she hung limply, her knees still too weak to support her weight.
She tried to focus on the last thing she could remember. The frat party; loud music and underage drinking making her a little uncomfortable. She wasn't supposed to be the one at the center of a good time, she was supposed to be at the fringes protecting those would couldn't see to themselves.
Parker with his soulful brown eyes… Spike in all his snarky splendor, ridiculing her. They fought. Spike collapsed. Then pain, erupting through her entire body, convulsing her muscles until it felt like they were going to snap under the strain.
After that she couldn't remember. She closed her eyes, willing her broken skull to mend itself back together, quickly opening them again when her body shuddered with impact.
She lifted her head as minimally as possible, watching as a black boot kicked at the front corner where her cage intersected with a second one. She turned her head ever so slightly, eyes widening when she recognized her mortal enemy, strung up exactly as she was, trying to kick the panel out of his cage.
"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bacey." The strong East End accent rolled over her. Normally, it was delivered with lecherous undertones or murderous intent. The undercurrent of fear she heard in the falsely cheerful words did not settle her stomach. She had never seen Spike afraid. Ever.
She shook her head in an attempt to clear the spirals of haziness that encircled her brain. She needed to get her bearings. Pushing down the natural anxiety she felt at waking in an unfamiliar place, in an untenable situation, she called up the instincts of the Slayer. If Spike's tone was any indication, they were in danger. And if there was one thing she had learned throughout the years, it was that Spike was a survivor. If he said it was time to get the hell out of Dodge, then dammit, time to mount up and ride.
The bovine cough echoed, and Buffy felt something icy slide down her spine, nestling in the pit of her stomach. She yanked on her cuffs, frowning when they didn't give. Swallowing down her rising bile, she examined their surroundings. She and Spike were strung up in a dual set of wire cages similar to the one in which they kept the sicko baby killer in the movie Con Air. And yes, she definitely needed to stop letting Xander choose the movies they watched on Scooby night. Of course, the ambiance helped tickle the memory. They were most definitely in the belly of a cargo plane or some sort of military transport, which explained the constant rumble engulfing them.
As far as places to be strung up in, it was a new and somewhat pleasant change from the usually dark, dank caverns. The canvas cuffs were kinda nice, too – not nearly as chafey as manacles.
Okay, Summers. Snap out of it.
Screams choked off abruptly, and she realized with a dull sense of horror that she'd been tuning them out. She shot a terrified glance over her shoulder, only to see another, much larger cage. The steel mesh was bent outward, black, shaggy fur clinging to the sharp tines where something clambered out. Beyond the cage, a thick metal door teetered on a single hinge. Something in the other room hacked low and wet in its throat. The sound, though less abrasive than the previous cough, seemed to set Spike into overdrive. He kicked the cage with renewed fury, drawn brackets of fear etched around his thinned lips.
Reinvigorated by Spike's energy, Buffy added her kicks to the adjoined corner of their cage. Even with their combined force, the welded steel cage shuddered, but remained solid.
The plane pitched and she lost her footing, slamming backwards as far as her restraints would allow.
"We're goin' down," Spike seethed. His blue eyes were bright with panic, and Buffy could barely find the spit to swallow. "If we don't get these restraints off, we're goin' to lose our soddin' arms when we hit." He turned away, but over the roar of the powerful engines she heard him mutter, "If we even live."
"Spike?" She hated the uncertain quaver in her voice. Only a year ago they had fought together at the magic shop. He had danced, parried, and snarked while imparting terrible truths about the reality of love and lust, doing his damndest to point out all the flaws in her relationship with Angel – just for the thrill of it, she was sure. She had never hated someone as intensely as she hated him in that moment. The hatred had yet to ease, but it was overridden by fear. She didn't even know what she was asking from him in that moment, what she needed. She was scared – really, really scared.
He looked at her, no reassurance in his gaze. His blue eyes icy, but not hateful. Maybe a little bit sad, and that only served to intensify her fear.
"Not goin' to lie to you, kitten," he said softly. She swallowed, allowing the tears she would have normally hidden from her enemy to well up. She knew the warrior's code. Never show weakness to your enemy. Never let them see you cry. Never let them see you afraid. But this wasn't a moment of conquest and defeat between them. This wasn't a fight to the death. It was an execution by fate. As warriors, they resented dying by means other than bloodshed. This was not how they were meant to die.
They were supposed to go out in a blaze of glory, another warrior taking their lives, preferably each other if at all possible. They weren't supposed to die in something as utterly pedestrian as an accident. It didn't matter if it was a plane crash, an auto accident, or a slip in the bathtub. Warriors didn't go down without a fight. But how do you fight fate? How do you fight something so completely out of your control? On this both enemies were reconciled with each other. This was not an honorable death.
The plane dipped again; the tenor of the engines changing as the air became thicker the closer to the ground they dove. Buffy strained against her restraints, her fingers just able to curl around the wire mesh that separated them. Spike shifted towards her, stopping when something hard knocked against his knee. Whoever captured them hadn't bothered to divest him of his heavy leather duster, nor of the contents of his pockets.
"Slayer. I need you to get something out of my pocket."
Buffy's eyes roved over him. "I don't think I can reach, Spike."
"Yeah." Normally, there would be an exchange of snark with the passing of obvious information, but now was a time for action, not useless words. Spike lifted his foot and pinned the hem of his jacket against the steel cage. He wrapped his hands around the straps of his cuffs, lifting his weight onto them as he slowly slid the leather duster up the cage towards Buffy's hand. He braced his other foot on the cage door, using it to help walk himself up the cage until he was hanging nearly upside down.
Finally, he was able to draw his pocket even with Buffy's fingers. It took some fumbling since she was only able to scissor two fingers through the diamond pattern of the mesh, and she had to gather up more of the leather to try and fish her way inside his pocket.
"What am I looking for?"
"A switchblade."
Her fingers slithered against something cool and solid. Very carefully she pinched it between her fore and middle fingers and withdrew from his pocket. She inched it upwards until the hilt slid into her palm. She lost no time depressing the button, not even flinching when the sharp blade snapped out. Instead of trying to cut through the thick canvas cuffs, she concentrated on using the blade as leverage to slip the straps from the buckles. Once she had one hand free, she quickly worked the buckles on the other strap. She faced the front of the cage, realizing instantly the limitations of her new found freedom. She was still locked in.
"Slayer."
She whirled towards Spike, wordlessly handing him the switchblade hilt first so he could undo his restraints. The plane tilted and Buffy's breath caught when Spike almost lost the knife. He nicked his finger on the blade, but regained his grip and was soon free.
Something loud scraped the belly of the plane. Spike turned towards her, his eyes wide. "Get down!" he ordered. They dropped to the floor, curling up at the bottom of the cages, using the walls of their prison to brace their bodies as much as they could. At the last moment, before everything went to a fiery blaze of hell, Buffy felt Spike twine his fingers over hers where they were clenched around the wires of the cage.