A/N: This was written for the 2015 Fag Ends Halloween Challenge. For those of you unfamiliar with Fag Ends, it's a prompt-based Spuffy community where posts are required to be under 1000 words. You can cheat a little by stringing together a series of prompts to form a longer story, which is what I've done here. The story was originally posted in eight 'chapters', but it's quite short (~4000 words), so I'm posting it all in one go here.
WARNING: This is angst with a capital ANGST. If you want a fluffy Spuffy ending, you won't find it here. You have been warned.
Warning #2: Hints of dubcon/noncon.
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Spike's not too sure why he's headed back to Sunnydale, but in his alcohol-addled mind, he knows it's where he has to go to prove to Dru that he hasn't gone soft. He'd made the deal with the Slayer for Dru's sake alone (why can't the crazy bitch understand that?), and now that he doesn't need her anymore –
The picture in his head of just what he'll do now that he doesn't need the Slayer anymore is a bit muzzy, but Spike's sure it will come to him. Something appropriately evil and despicable and not soft.
His first stop (post smashing of the Welcome to Sunnydale! sign) is the factory. He can't quite find whatever it is he's looking for there, only the burnt remains of Dru's dollies, so it's on to the mansion. It's cold and dark and lifeless, which, come to think of it, it's always been, what with them being undead and all. But it's also empty. When he manages to force himself to think it through, it makes a certain sense. World didn't get sucked into hell, ergo the Slayer must've defeated Angelus. Ergo empty mansion.
Spike's next stop is the Slayer's house. It turns out to be empty and lifeless as well. He squints at it a while, then passes out, still squinting.
He wakes up on fire.
After rolling the blacked-out window back up and dousing himself, he tries to figure out what to do next. His brain, still pleasantly marinated, proves uncooperative. Something about the Slayer... the Slayer...
Right. Find her and kill her. Wear her guts for garters, bring Dru her head, etc.
Except the Slayer's not home. Spike ponders, trying to piece together the clues. Daylight. Empty house. Teenage Slayer...
He takes a celebratory drink when he figures it out, and heads for the school.
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Willow's deep in research mode, but she still hears the soft whuff of the library door as it opens. Part of her wants to look up – after all this time, she still hopes that one of these days she'll look up and Buffy will be there – but she squashes the urge. It won't be Buffy. And since Giles is in the back room chasing down the latest lack-of-Buffy lead, Xander's right next to her, Oz is in math, which he promised not to skip, and Faith is over in the corner whittling a pile of stakes, she has no other reason to look up.
She still looks up.
And yips.
"Yip?" Xander says. "Yip wha-" He follows Willow's gaze, and yips too. He falls out of his chair, then grabs it up and holds it in front of them like a weapon. "Spike! That's Spike!"
Spike grins. "Missed me, did you?"
Whatever Faith's other faults (most of them falling somewhere into the category of 'She's Not Buffy'), she's quick on the uptake. She's got a stake to Spike's chest faster than Willow can blink.
But apparently not faster than Spike can blink. With barely a glance her way, he's got her in a chokehold, her stake clattering uselessly to the ground. "I've come for the Slayer."
"You're in luck, blondie," Faith rasps as she pries at his arm. "I'm right here."
Spike grabs her hair to tilt her head back, and squints down at her. "Sorry, sweets. I'm sure you're a tasty little extra-crispy treat, but I'm looking for the original recipe." He winds his fingers more tightly in her hair, and twists her neck to the breaking point. "Hand her over, or I add another Slayer to my name," he says to Willow and Xander.
They look at each other, unsure of what to do. "She's – she's not here," Willow says.
"Well then, go and get her!"
Faith gasps, and makes a noise Willow doesn't really want to think about.
"We can't!" Faith makes an even worse noise, and Willow rushes on. "Buffy's gone. We haven't seen her since the thing with Acathla! We don't know where she is. We've been trying to find her – really trying! – but we don't know if she's dead or just somewhere and not coming back, or..." She knows she babbling, but she can't help it. She's pretty sure Faith shouldn't be that color, and the sight of the Slayer slowly turning purple doesn't help her to be any less babbly.
Spike narrows his eyes and cocks his head, considering. "Tell you what. I'll just hold on to this one, then, shall I? Until you can scare up the real deal for me." He looks down at Faith's bulging eyes, then back over at them. "I wouldn't take too long, if I were you."
Xander tries to rush after them as Spike drags the mostly-still Faith through the door and down the hall. He stumbles back a moment later, empty-handed and with what looks like it's going to shape up to be a massive black eye. "He got away," he says, his voice cracking.
Giles opens the door to the back room to peer at them with bleary, red-rimmed eyes, a glass of something Willow's sure isn't appropriate for school grounds in his hand. "Did something happen?" he says.
Willow can't help it. She bursts out in tears.
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When Faith wakes up, it's to find she's been hogtied, and not in the fun way. Also not in the no-problem-I'm-a-Slayer way. Whoever did this to her knew what they were doing.
"Fuck," she says, giving up the attempt to burst free from her bonds. Brute strength isn't going to be enough. Panic threatens, but she tamps it down and wiggles until she has a better view of the dimly lit room she's in.
She wrinkles her nose, wishing she hadn't tried for the better view. It looks to be a burnt-out husk of a building, littered with trash and animal droppings and empty bottles. Along with – great. A corpse. Faith cranes her head a little farther, ignoring the feel of the filthy, ripped sheets beneath her cheek.
Make that two corpses.
"About time," the more animated of the two corpses says, using the bottle in his hand to emphasize his point.
The smell of spilled alcohol hits her. Wonderful. As if she didn't have enough with Boozy the Librarian, now she's got Sloshy the Vampire to deal with. What vengeful god had thought she deserved a life filled with alcoholic wastes of space? And this Spike asshole, what's his deal? She vaguely remembers some stories about the other Slayer's run-ins with him last year, but the details are skimpy. The Watcher barely even pretends to do his job, and while Xander and Willow do their best to fill her in, they're too busy moping about their lost friend and their dead schoolmates to be helpful.
Wherever this Buffy chick is, Faith hopes it's hell. The bitch deserves it for the way she's abandoned everybody who cared about her and left the wreckage to Faith.
"Let me go," she says in her most dangerous voice.
Spike rubs his chin, making a show of thinking about it. He ambles over and plops down on the bed beside her, sending up a cloud of dust, and throws his arm around her. "No," he says cheerfully. "The only chance you have is if they trade Buffy for you, and even then, it's only a chance. You know, I really don't think the odds are in your favor, pet." He leans down to whisper in her ear. "But don't fret, I'll make it special for the both of us."
Faith shudders, and then freezes when he leans even closer. Oh, god. Is he... sniffing her?
He is. He's sniffing her.
"That smell... Your neck..." Spike says, his voice turning ragged. "I haven't had a woman in weeks." He brushes her hair away from her neck. "Maybe you'd do. Dozy bint probably wouldn't even notice the difference which Slayer I brought her."
Faith wants to throw up. She wants to spit in the vampire's face. She wants to not ever again have to be the girl who had to pretend to want it because she was too weak to say no. Instead, she does her best to arch her body in what she hopes is an alluring way. She figures he'll have to untie her legs to fuck her. It's her best shot.
Whatever it takes to get out of this, whatever it takes to stay alive, she'll do it. It's what she's always done.
(But, please God. Let them find Buffy first.)
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Buffy sits up with a gasp, and gasps again when the abrupt movement tugs painfully at the scar that runs in a diagonal slash from the flesh above her upper lip and through the lower one towards her chin.
She's woken from the same dream every night for the past week, visions of Spike and Sunnydale dancing in her head.
On the far side of the room, Bernard Crowley is watching her, huddled in his armchair like an overgrown bat. "You know it's a Slayer dream, Buffy," he says. His tone is gentle, but firm.
"I know no such thing."
"You have to go."
"I really don't." Buffy stretches, briskly and efficiently, and stands up. She fluffs the couch pillows out and puts them back where they belong, then folds the blankets, ignoring the man in the corner. "I'm needed here," she says when his silence overwhelms her own.
"Cleveland will survive your absence, I'm fairly certain. She and I were doing just fine before you arrived."
Buffy purses her lips. Her scar twinges, so she presses them together instead, imagining her face emotionless. Like a mask. For some reason, that always lessens the pain. "I'm not going back there." She doesn't specify where, and Crowley doesn't ask. Probably because he's already guessed but is too polite to say, just like she's guessed that he's an ex-Watcher. (The tweed is the real giveaway, more so than the knowing what she is.)
"If your dreams are telling you, then you must. Or have you already forgotten what happened the last time you tried to ignore them?"
Her scar flares white-hot, as if she needs the reminder. Over the past two weeks, it's gone from what should have been one of a set of mortal wounds (and probably would have been, if Crowley hadn't found her in that alley) to a thick, ropy ridge of flesh. And while it will probably continue to heal, Buffy's pretty sure there's going to be a permanent mark.
There goes her modeling career.
"I had a call from an old friend this morning. He happened to mention that an ex-colleague of mine has been searching high and low for his Slayer these past months." Crowley ignores Buffy's sudden jerk and startled deer-in-the-headlights look. "I knew Rupert Giles back when he was a young man at the academy, and he always struck me as being very much like myself. Inclined to becoming a little too attached to his charge. So when I heard this, I found myself empathizing with the amount of distress he must be experiencing. Wondering if perhaps I could ease his worry in some way."
"And did- did you? Ease his worry?" Buffy's voice is much higher and smaller than she would like.
"I don't believe that will be necessary, do you?" Crowley leans forward. His eyes are warm and understanding. Too understanding. "It's time to go home, Buffy. You are needed there, and not just because your dreams are telling you so."
Though he looks nothing like Giles, other than the tweed, Buffy is suddenly struck by the resemblance. She turns away, chest tight and vision blurry.
She feels a large, steady hand rest lightly on her shoulder for the briefest of moments. It's gone sooner than Buffy would like, and then Crowley is pressing something into her hand. When she's finally able to pull herself together enough to see that it's a one-way ticket to Sunnydale, he's gone.
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"We have no other choice," Giles tells them. "We have to go after Faith ourselves, before it's too late."
"But Giles, how? Spike didn't even blink at Faith, and she's a Slayer. How are we supposed to –"
"He's right, Will. We have to. It's not like Buffy's going to stroll in here and offer herself up on a plate." Xander stands, fed up with arguing and getting nowhere. It's almost dark, and who knows how long Spike will wait before making good on his promise. "We'll figure something out. We've managed so far."
Willow bites her lip. "I don't like it."
"Neither do I, Willow, but as Xander says, we've managed so far." Giles moves to take a sip of what Xander's pretty sure is not tea, or at least not just tea, then hesitates and sets it down. "I don't suppose either of you have any ideas?"
Xander looks at Willow and Giles in turn, and sees only desperation. "I wish Buffy were here," he says.
Willow nods fervently. "She'd know what to do. She'd kick Spike's hiney all the way back to –"
He cuts her off with an angry slash of his hand. "No. I wish she was here, because I'd hand her over to Spike myself."
"Xander!"
"No, don't Xander me, Will. She deserted us." Xander emphasizes each word with a stab of his finger. "Deserted her town, her calling, her – if Buffy had been here – if Buffy had been here –" He drops his hand, unable to continue. "She should have been here."
Willow gives him a reproachful look. "We don't know why she isn't. We don't even know whether she's alive or – oh," she says suddenly, the forehead crease that indicates she's working something through in that big brain of hers making an appearance.
Xander gives her a moment, then prompts, "Willow?"
"Locator spell! We can do a locator spell!"
"We've attempted it already, multiple times," Giles says heavily. "I doubt it will work now."
Willow shakes her head. "No, not for Buffy, though that's what made me think about it. For Faith. We can figure out where Spike took Faith." Her confidence fades, and she says, "I- if I can make it work. I've never –"
Xander puts his arm around her shoulder. "I know you can do it."
"Yes, Willow," Giles adds. "You can. You must."
Willow looks even more terrified, but then nods, resolve face on. She doesn't say anything, but Xander knows she's thinking the same thing he is: if she doesn't succeed, Faith's name will join the others on the long list of people they've lost since Buffy abandoned them.
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Buffy's first stop is the art gallery. She can't quite find whatever it is she's looking for there, only a 'For Sale' sign and a display of seriously creepy masks in the window, so it's on to Revello Drive. Her old home stands cold and dark and lifeless. And also empty.
She'd known it would be, but it doesn't make the sight any easier.
What Crowley hadn't realized, when he'd saved her life, was that she'd ignored the visions in her head on purpose, knowing it would be a means to an end. The end. Half out of her mind with pain and pain-killers, Buffy had tried to explain to him just what he'd taken from her, but he'd either misunderstood, or chosen to.
Either way, it doesn't matter. She's still here.
And her mother isn't.
If only, when she'd come home from her shift at the diner to find a newspaper clipping pinned to her door with the names of multiple Sunnydale High students circled in red, and the details of their definitely-not-natural demises underlined with angry red slashes, she'd gone home instead of fleeing whomever it was that had found her.
If only she'd faced up to her mistakes.
If only –
But Buffy hadn't. She had run, until she'd thought she was safe. When the guilt had caught up to her, she'd gone online looking for recent Sunnydale deaths, and found more names she knew.
Including Joyce Summers.
She'd thought she understood pain, after Angel had died at her hands. She'd thought that she had already killed the person she loved most in the world.
She'd had no idea how wrong she'd been.
So Buffy had run again. Headlong into the only escape she could imagine, only to have it taken from her.
"Damn Crowley," she mutters, swiping angrily at her wet face. "Damn him!" But it isn't really his fault, is it? Or any of the other people she's tried to blame, instead of herself.
Buffy shakes off her self-pity. She doesn't deserve it.
Crowley had probably believed she'd be welcomed back into the fold with joyous, tearful embraces, but Buffy knows better. He hasn't seen the word 'deserter' scrawled across the front of her empty, lifeless house in flaking red spray paint.
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Giles marks the page with the locator spell, then closes his book and looks up at the clock. It's barely past dark, and they've only just left – Xander to find something of Faith's, and Willow to purchase the spell components – but it's been almost six hours since Spike took Faith. Each minute that passes is another minute closer to her death. Assuming Spike hasn't already killed her.
By sheer force of will, what little remains to him, he curbs his longing for the Glenfiddich. He'd locked away the half-empty bottle in his bottom drawer earlier today, and has been fighting the urge to retrieve it ever since. Giles isn't sure how much longer he can hold out – he's already strung past his breaking point – but his self-pity and self-indulgence are what led to this disaster in the first place. If he'd done his duty by Faith, she would have been better prepared to deal with a vampire of Spike's caliber.
And, perhaps if he'd done his duty by Buffy – been more of a Watcher and less of a father – she wouldn't have abandoned her post. Perhaps he wouldn't have Mrs. Summers' death on his conscience, or Cordelia's, or any other number of Sunnydale's residents.
With a deep, bone-weary sigh, Giles removes his glasses and massages his temples. Wishing for a better world, one wherein he'd made the right choices, is another form of useless self-indulgence. It's time he faced up to his failures.
Right after a drink. What's one more, at this point?
Giles fists his knuckles into his temples in a desperate attempt to stop the shaking of his hands. He can hold out. He must hold out. Faith is depending on him. He breathes slowly, counting out the beat, much the same way he used to teach Buffy to control her breath. It actually works, to his surprise. As he slowly centers himself, he becomes aware of... a prickling sensation. On the back of his neck. As if he's being watched.
He whirls, but the doorway to his office is empty. Frowning, he steps out into the library proper, and sees the door to the hallway just swinging shut. "Who's there?" He hurries through the door and into the hallway.
At the far end, he sees a flash of a whipcord thin-girl with a blonde ponytail, a grey tank top, and utilitarian cargo pants round the corner. For a moment, his heart skips a beat, and then he's running down the hallway. When he rounds the corner himself, there is nothing. Nobody.
"Buffy?" he calls.
Silence.
It couldn't have been – she was so thin, so colorless – if it was her, why now? Has he somehow wished her home? Is such a thing even possible?
"Buffy?"
Still nothing. Maybe he'd imagined her – imagined everything. Giles rubs his eyes, and heads slowly back to the library. His hands are shaking again, and he wants a drink more than ever, but even he knows hallucinations are not a good sign.
Willow and Xander return together, just as he sits back down. Just in time to prevent him from unlocking his drawer. He brings her the spellbook, and together they set up the locator spell. Giles finds himself glancing at the doors while Willow performs the spell, hoping for a glimpse of a familiar face in the porthole windows.
"Oh," Willow says when the dust settles. "Spike's got Faith at the factory."
"Geez. I guess we should've figured that one out ourselves," Xander says. "But better to be sure than wandering around aimlessly after dark. Let's arm up."
"Not yet," Giles says. "Try a locator spell on Buffy first."
Xander looks up at him, startled. So does Willow. "But Giles," she says. "There's no point, you said so yourself."
"Just do it."
They flinch at his vehemence, and guilt washes over him. They've put up with so much, risked so much, suffered just as much as he. More, to be honest. And he's failed them repeatedly. Apologies are in order, but Giles has no time for that now.
"Please," he says, curbing both his impatience and his longing for the Glenfiddich. "Please."
Willow does, with pinched expression and shaky hands. When the dust clears, they all stare in stunned silence at the small, bright glow only a block away from the abandoned warehouse district.
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Spike's lost in a haze of lust and alcohol, and it takes a while for that nagging little voice in his head, the one he thinks of as his sense of self-preservation, to assert itself. It finally breaks through with a metaphorical kick to his bollocks.
"Hold on," he says, pulling away from Faith. She strains against her bonds, pushing her breasts closer to his face, and he almost dives back in, annoying little voice be damned. It won't shut up, though. Spike narrows his eyes, thinking hard. Something... something isn't right.
And then he gets it. "Oh ho. Aren't you a clever thing?" And the bitch is, he'll give her that. She almost had him. He'd been just about to loosen her ropes, for easier access to the tasty bits. But give a Slayer – a Slayer who most definitely would not be choosing to make out with a vampire in this situation, unless she was seriously bent (Spike favors that explanation, but knows better than to hope it's the real one) – give a Slayer an inch of rope, and she'll rip your bloody head off with it.
While the thought makes him even harder, self-preservation has taken over. "You're good," he says.
"You haven't even found out how good, yet."
Spike likes this one. She isn't afraid to get dirty. Only problem is, she's not the Slayer he wants. Not Buffy-fucking-ruined-his-life-Summers. "We'll get there, don't you worry. But I've got me a Slayer to kill first."
The girl rolls her eyes. "Haven't you been listening? Buffy's not here. She's been AWOL for months, bleach boy. If you think she's just going to magically show up today of all days, I wouldn't hold your breath."
"Good thing I don't need to breathe, then."
Spike slides off the bed and over to his duster to rummage through the pockets for a smoke. Now that he's got a little space from the Slayer, her words begin to sink in. Not here. Gone for months.
Fuck.
It's going to be nigh impossible to carry out his plan of bringing Dru a Slayer's-head-on-a-pike souvenir without a Slayer's head to put on said pike. (For a moment, Spike gets distracted, wondering if he actually has a pike in his trunk. There's a good chance he might, somewhere in there.) He looks over at the dark-haired Slayer, considering. He could bring Dru this one's head. It would grant him a temporary reprieve. But he's getting sick and tired temporary. Sick and tired of hearing about how he isn't good enough, how he failed her, how he's gone soft. Only the real deal will suffice, but Spike has no idea where Buffy is, no idea where to find her. And in the meantime, he's got himself a hogtied Slayer at his mercy.
However will he pass the time?
After finally finding his smokes and getting one lit, Spike takes a drag. "You say she's not coming. Fine. I guess the only question, then, is how do you want to die? Fast and messy, or slow and sweet?"
"I vote not at all," she says, glaring at him.
From the top of the stairs, another voice says, "Do I get a vote? Because if I do, I second hers."
He looks up, and there she is. Harder, thinner, less perky than he remembers. But it's her.
God, she's beautiful. Even with her hard eyes and her scarred face, she's still the most glorious thing he's ever seen.
Spike grins, fangs elongating. He can't wait to kill her.
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Fin.