This Means War

by mak324

Instead of a lonely and depressed Willow, a freshly chipped (and clueless) Spike finds himself face to face with a feverish Slayer on the night he first escapes The Initiative. Challenge response.

2. Chapter 2

I think it's the shaking that wakes me up. Or it could be the clicking sound. The constant clicking and clacking that echoes in my ears way too loudly. It takes me longer than it probably should to figure out that the sound is me. My teeth are chattering.

And everything hurts.

It's the first thing I think of when I finally force my eyes open. Both my arms and legs are shaking violently, teeth chattering so hard I can't get them to stop, pain radiating through my right wrist and up into my arm. That literally everything hurts.

And I'm freezing. The kind of bone chilling cold that sinks into your skin and down into your muscles and sort of steels all the heat you have, leaving everything numb. But not numb numb. Just numb enough to leave every limb virtually useless, but not enough to not feel how much pain the cold is causing.

It's dark, too. Majorly dark here…whereverhere is. I don't recognize it. And I don't have a single clue how I got here.

Shuddering and shaking, I clench my jaw in an attempt to stop the chattering noise and strain my eyes forward. Or what I think is forward, anyway. It might be up.

I really wish I had a flashlight.

Peering into the darkness all around me, I fight the surging swell of panic I feel rising in my chest. That little Slayery tingle that isn't just reserved for vamps, but also tells me just when a situation is bad.

And this feels like an ocean of bad.

"Hello?" I call out, half hoping no one will answer me.

But when I don't get a response, I kind of wish the opposite.

I wait for another long moment in the silence before I decide that I won't be getting a response and put my hand down beside me, shifting myself shakily up into a seated position. It takes way too much effort. Every muscle in my body aches in protest of the small movement. My right wrist is throbbing, something hot and stinging that runs along the stretch of my collar bone is on fire, and the chills running rampant up and down my arms remind me of the fever I'd never gotten the chance to take medicine for.

Which reminds me of the reason I hadn't gotten to take the medicine in the first place.

Spike.

I cradle my throbbing wrist against my chest and continue to look around, thinking through everything that had happened tonight.

God. What had happened tonight? I try and think back further into the night, but my brain keeps running in circles and ending up at the same spot each time.

Spike. Spike had been a thing. He'd shown up, made some threats, tired to kill me, failed...and then...and then what?

We'd talked. That's what.

We'd talked a little about what had happened to him, where he'd been before he'd shown up so unceremoniously at my door. Which, yeah,might have been the wiggiest part of the night if hadn't been for what happened right after. There'd been an attack. The commandos had attacked me, us, no doubt having come to take the vampire back into their custody and I…

I'd fought them, or I'd tried to fight them at least. I remember that much.

But remembering that much does jack in the way of squat to help me figure out where I am, or how I got here.

Narrowing my eyes as if that might help me see something, anything, in the growing darkness, I gaze wide eyed out into the space directly in front of me, then down toward my own body.

You know when people say a place is so dark they can't see their hand in front of their face? Well, this isn't quite that dark. I can make out my hands, and my legs, and the socks on my feet. But just barely. The ground below me is hard, and cold. Stone or concrete or something similar, and my legs twinge from where my bare skin has scraped over it. And I don't even want to think about how dirty my favorite socks probably are.

I reach around me, groping blindly with the hand that doesn't feel like it's about to fall off until it comes in contact with something that has to be a wall, and I shift sideways, positioning myself so that my back can rest against it. Letting my shoulders sink against it, I tuck my still-shaking legs up into my chest so I can stretch my oversized sweatshirt down over them, protect them from the draft.

There's a scent that I recognize, too. Something...musty. Stale. Like the air around me has been sitting somewhere sealed off for a really long time.

Now that I don't feel quite so freezing, and I have a wall behind me to get a little of my bearings back, I feel a little less panicky. Even though I still can't see much beyond the hand in front of my face as I glance around in the blackness.

But just because I don't know how I got here doesn't mean I can't try and noodle out where here is. So what do I know? It's cold, dark, musty, and the walls and floor are made of stone.

Survey says, mausoleum. Probably.

So, okay, I'm most likely sitting with my back against the stone wall of a crypt in one of Sunnydale's cemeteries. Obviously, I didn't get here by myself, which means I've been brought here. Which means there has to be a door I'd been brought through.

Which means there has to be a door out.

Steeling myself, unhooking my knees from my sweatshirt's fabric and placing both my palms tentatively on the floor beside my hips, I grit my teeth and force myself up onto my feet. My head is pounding and my cheeks are hot, the muscles in my legs tense from disuse. But everything else seems fine.

Actually, everything else seems fine for all of about, oh, two seconds...and then my legs give out. I squeeze my eyes shut preparing for the sting of the stone floor, my one good wrist flying out in front of me to brace my fall, but the pain I'm expecting never comes.

Instead, I find myself smashing cheek first into something hard. Just not, you know, concrete hard.

Muscley hard.

And I can't see him, can't see anything, really, with the way my cheek is turned to the side, my eyes still squeezed shut from a moment ago. But I know who's there. Who it is that's caught me, who's chest smells like cigarettes and whiskey and aged leather.

I guess that part about thinking Spike had carried me here in his arms hadn't been a dream.

Dimly I recognize that I should probably move. Push him away from me, but I don't. I feel frozen and confused and honestly, I'm not sure I won't just go crashing back into him the second I do move from his support.

And Spike and support in the same sentence? Definitely on the list of top ten things I never thought I'd think.

Beneath my cheek, I feel the vampire's chest do a shuddering rise and fall. Like he's sighing.

A sighing vampire.

It's weird.

It had been something I'd taken specific notice of the last time we'd fought, on the campus quad. That the vampire breathed. Why, I have no clue. Angel never did. But sure enough, I'd seen Spike's chest heaving in and out during the fight. Had felt it brush against my back when he'd shoved me into that lamp post.

And I feel the steady, regular movement of his chest now, his breath fanning over me and tickling the hair at the crown of my head.

Again, and I'm thinking this is probably all some wiggy side effect from the fever, it takes me longer than normal to realize that I should never,ever be close enough to Spike to take notice of his breathing patterns. Regular or not.

Deciding to risk the jell-o legs, I bring my hands up so quickly I forget about the fracture in my wrist and brace my hands on his chest, lifting my cheek away and shoving him backward.

Unfortunately, he must be quite a bit steadier on his feet than I am, because instead of shoving him away from me, all I really manage to do is push myself further back onto said jell-o legs, which I think have gotten even jell-o-ier in the last ten seconds. I let my arms fly out on either side of me for balance, but it isn't necessary. The vampire growls, a deep, low rumble that echoes through the cavernous room. There's a whoosh of smokey air accompanying his movement forward to catch me again before I can crash backward to the floor.

"Laid you on the ground for a reason, Slayer," Spike says, his voice low and biting even as I feel his hands curl around the tops of my arms to hold me up. "Like a bloody newborn colt, you are."

And he grips me harder, digging his fingers into me and lifting me up effortlessly off the ground.

"Hey!" I shout, startled, my hands flying out to grip at his waist as if on instinct. I'm trying for indignant, but my voice is too high, a little scratchy. "What do you think you're doing?" I ask, voice still high, managing to get the question out just as he slams my butt down on a cold stone surface, letting go of my arms as fast as he'd grabbed them to begin with and leaving me with my legs dangling what has to be at least a couple feet off the ground. The whole thing happens in about three seconds and leaves me dazed, head still all cottony from the fever, heat raging through my veins.

"What does it look like I'm doin'?" Spike counters coolly, but he's already moving away from me, out of the circle of space I can see into. "Makin' sure you stay put."

I stare after him, watching the white-blonde of his hair disappear into the darkness and frowning. I shiver again, wondering how high up this…whatever it is he's sat me on top of is. And why he cares if I try and leave or not.

It's not like he can do anything to me.

"Okay," I say, this time going for snarky instead of indignant. It goes a little better. Or it would, I'm guessing, if it weren't for the teeth chattering thing. "And why exactly do I need to stay put?"

Spike scoffs, chuckling like he doesn't actually think anything's funny. "I'll let you figure that out for yourself, pet."

Pet. Ew.

I wrinkle my nose up in the direction I think he's gone. "You could just tell me."

"Or you could not ask bloody stupid questions."

I narrow my eyes into the blackness, clenching my jaw again to try one more time to still my clicking teeth. So, the vampire's not in the mood for twenty questions, then. That's too bad, considering I have a lot more than twenty questions jumbling around in my head right now. I just don't know which one I want to ask first.

I decide to start with one he might at least answer, even though I figure I probably already know what he'll say.

"Where are we?" I ask, listening for the hollow bounce of my voice as it echoes back to me.

There's a shifting sound, leather brushing against stone, and even though I can't see Spike I imagine he's gone back to sitting wherever it was he'd been before I'd first tried to make it to the door.

"Crypt," he says tersely, coupled by a couple more rustling sounds.

Crypts, mausoleums, giant cereal boxes of death. Same thing. So I'd been right about the here part at least. And, I'm guessing, about the how I'd gotten here part, too.

I'm not expecting Spike to keep talking, so I jump a little when his voice cuts through the silence again. "Dunno which cemetery," he mutters, and I find myself leaning forward slightly and straining my ears, listening hard for what the new clicking sound I'm hearing now might be. "Just picked the first one that came along."

I guess I have a few answers, but all they've done is give me more questions. Likewhy we're here. And why we're here, together. And why the vampire doesn't seem to want me up walking around even though I'm pretty sure having me here does him zero in the way of good.

"I called out earlier," I say, tucking my bare legs up beneath me again and covering them as best I can. "Why didn't you say anything?"

A long silence. Then, "Didn't feel like talkin'."

He says it like he still doesn't.

There's a final sharp clicking sound, and the flicker of a flame blazes to life in the palm of Spike's hand where I can now see he's sitting, his back against the wall, only actually about five feet away from me. It illuminates the vampire's face, casting it in a sheen of red and gold as he brings it to the end of the cigarette wedged between his lips. I watch him inhale, waiting until the tip sizzles and ignites before he snaps the lighter closed again.

I make a face as the scent of smoke reaches me, wrinkling my nose up in disgust and wrapping my arms tighter around my legs.

"What are you lookin' at?" He hisses, his lips, the planes of his cheeks just barely visible in the dim glow of the cigarette.

The question catches me off guard. I guess I'd figured if I couldn't really see him he couldn't see me. Which is dumb to figure, but again, I'm thinking it's the fever.

"Do you have to do that in here?" I ask, forgetting to keep my jaw clenched tight and letting my teeth chatter freely, making the words sound way less venomous than I want. Another wave of chills has my skin prickling in goose bumps.

"Well," Spike drawls, words sounding slightly off as he murmurs them around the cigarette. "Seein' as how it's daylight outside." A beat. "Yeah."

Through my shivers, the word makes my ears perk up. Daylight. Already?

It couldn't have been more than 10:00pm last night when Spike had first shown up. How long have I been out?

I can just barely make out the shrug of Spike's shoulders when I ask him. I think he isn't going to answer me, but then he reaches up and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, the swirl of smoke he exhales curling up in front of his face.

"Five, maybe six hours." His eyes are glued to the glowing tip in front of him.

I balk at his response, shocked.

Five or six hours? I've been lying here, unconscious and sick, on the floor of a crypt—with William the Bloody—for five to six hours?

If I'd had any niggling doubts at all about whatever it is the commandos had done to de-fang the bleached vampire, I don't have them anymore.

I frown then, a new thought crossing my muddled mind as I bring my hurt wrist up and tucking it more securely into my chest. Sure, Spike hadn't been able to hurt me over the last few hours. Still. Him not hurting me and him helping me are two very different things.

"Why did you bring me here?" I ask suddenly, watching in the dim glow as his eyes shoot to mine, glittering in the dark. I can't make out anything detailed about his expression from here. Only that his gaze is on me.

When he speaks his voice is low, harsh. Like he hadn't expected me to ask and isn't prepared to answer. "What?"

Despite the fever and chills creeping up my spine, I can still summon enough Slayer indignation to glare at him—what I can see of him— and infuse my shaking voice with a decent amount of venom. "You heard me," I say, wondering how well my legs might support me if I were to hop down from what I'm starting to think is one of those creepy stone coffin thingies. "Why did you bring me with you?"

In my mind, it's a great question. He'd been halfway down the hallway the last time I'd seen him, when I'd been in the middle of that sorry excuse for a fight. I hadn't seen him at all by the time whatever it was that had knocked me out had hit me.

So…he'd what? Come back?

If I think about it, rack my brain, I get these sort of…flashes. Like false memories, or dreams, of being tucked securely in a pair of leather-clad arms, moving way too fast through the night. But they don't feel like memories. Or maybe I just don't want them to be.

Because the vampire I'm staring at now came to my dorm room last night to kill me. Had tried multiple times before we'd figured out that he couldn't.

So, yeah, the idea of him…rescuing me from those commandos? It's not settling too well with me now.

It doesn't make sense.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he bites out, his voice stinging and sarcastic. Now that the glowing tip of the cigarette has burned down a little, I can see his face a little more clearly. Or maybe my eyes are just adjusting to the dark. I don't know, but I can see his eyes narrowed on me, lips twisted in a cruel sneer. "Did you want me to leave you to your soldier chums?"

I blink at him.

Okay. So…he did rescue me.

I think I'm too delirious to try and figure that one out right now. I fleetingly think that maybe I should, you know…thank him or something. But I'm not quite so fevered that I'm ready for that to sound like a good idea.

"I would've been fine," I say instead, un-tucking my knees from my chest and turning away from him to peer down, trying to spot the ground beneath my feet. Spike might not be able to hurt me, but that doesn't mean I'm raring to spend an entire day shut up in here with him.

If I could just get to the door…

Spike laughs suddenly, making me jump again. A harsh, scoffing sound that has me whipping my eyes back toward him. The sneer has morphed into more of an amused smirk, but his voice is still cold. "They'd justshot you, Summers." He shakes his head, placing the last remnant of the cigarette between his lips. "Not sure fine is what they were aimin' for."

I frown, feeling my brow crease as I think about that. I guess he sort of has a point. Not that I'm willing to let him know that.

"Well, it was dark," I say simply, but my brow stays furrowed, my teeth still clicking. "A-and confusing. Once the lights came on they probably would've seen I was human and just let me go."

I try and ignore the fact that it doesn't sound like I believe this, myself. Especially not after that little roundhouse to the chest display in my room. Most college freshman can't send a 6'5'', 220 guy flying through the air. Probably would've raised some suspicions.

I watch from my perch as the vampire nods, but not like he agrees with me. It's more knowing, arrogant. He removes the cigarette and exhales a long, last swirl of smoke, flipping the stub out of his fingers and sending it sailing across the darkness.

When he looks back at me, my eyes have adjusted enough that I can still make out his face, and I swear I see his eyes flash as he lowers his voice and asks "And you woulda been willin' to stake your life on that?"

Well, apparently youhadn't been willing to.

The thought passes through my mind before I can stop it, making my eyes go wide. I tamp it down hurriedly, forcing it back as soon as it does. Not enough brain power to deal with that just yet.

And Spike's pushing himself to his feet, already talking again before I can get a word in. "Besides," he murmurs, the black of his coat and the dark denim of his jeans all but disappearing into the wall behind him. "Still need help figurin' out exactly what it is those wankers did to me."

I let my legs dangle down over the edge of the coffin, reaching out with my feet until they come in contact with what has to be solid ground, and I start shifting my weight forward.

Whatever this is, this weird, uneasy almost truce happening between us, it's gone on long enough.

"And you think…what?" It's my turn to scoff now, placing my feet fully flat on the floor and doing my best to brace my weight on my palms behind me. My wrist twinges, but I ignore it. "That I'm going to help you?"

His eyes whip toward mine, freezing me in place. "Saved your life, didn't I?"

Oh.

Oh.

Now that does makes sense. Selfish bastard. Came to my dorm to kill me, couldn't, so decides to what…use my life as a bargaining chip? Oh, no. I don't think so. There's no way I'm going to let him use me to get what he wants. I…am leaving.

And if I thought my legs would support me if I let go of the coffin lid, I'd do just that.

"You still didn't answer my question," I say, testing my weight, turning around to brace my hands on either side of the coffin lid.

From behind me, Spike sighs, like dealing with me is the single most exhausting thing he's ever had to do. "I just bloody told you—"

My cheeks flush hot with frustration and I turn my head over my shoulder, probably a little too quickly, to cut him off. "Why you saved me, yeah," I snap, emphasizing the word with more disbelief than I would have thought possible in the awkward position I've found myself. "But why bring us here, Spike?"

The vampire balks, blinking at me through the darkness.

"Where would you have had me go?" he asks me, and now his voice is missing that usual mocking tone. He sounds genuinely curious.

I shake my head and turn away from him, preparing to let go of the coffin and see how well my legs hold up when a fresh course of violent shivers suddenly wrack my frame. My knees wobble and I wince when the sudden unsteadiness causes me to grip on to the edges tighter rather than letting go.

"Somewhere with central heating wouldn't have been a bad start," I remark dryly, half under my breath, feeling the cold, stale air wrapping itself around my legs and prickling more goose bumps over my flesh.

"Right," Spike drawls, his voice back to being bitter. "Because the people in this town are just itchin' to invite a stranger carryin' some bleeding chit into their homes."

The mention of blood, of my blood, has me whirling around again, headless of my jell-o legs and fixing the bleached blonde with what has to be a horrified expression.

"I'm bleeding?" I ask, voice pitching high and eyes widening. I drop my gaze down to my body, frantically searching in the darkness for whatever wound I must have missed before. This time I see it. I'd felt it earlier, sure, but with everything else going on I hadn't realized. The stinging, burning line along my collar bone is a cut. A gash, really. Long but not overly deep, staining the torn fabric of my sweatshirt in a dark color that has to be red.

Spike chuckles at my panic, voice lowering to an almost husky purr as he says "Not anymore, you're not."

It's the way he says it that has my stomach rolling.

Instantly, my hackles raise, and all my self preservation instincts disappear, replaced with a much more violent, primal reaction. I launch myself away from the stone coffin and slam myself as hard as I can into the smirking vampire, knocking him back against the wall and pressing my left forearm into his throat.

I'm relieved to find that my legs seem to be cooperating for now.

"What did you do?" I hiss, pressing my arm tighter into him, my eyes burning into his. This close, I can just make out the blue of his irises, the scent of the cigarette he's just finished smoking fanning over my lips. Just the slightest bit minty, and cool.

It's headier than I'd like to admit, but in the midst of the haziness in my brain, I find I can't move out of his space. Even when I feel shift toward me, feel him press himself harder into my arm.

His eyes narrow and he lowers his voice to a deep rumble, tongue curling up behind his top teeth. "What d'you think?"

My stomach rolls again, just for slightly different reasons this time.

"Spike," I hiss harshly, ignoring the pressure of his body beneath mine as I press my arm more firmly into him, as threatening as I can manage. "I swear to God, if you did something to me—"

The predatory seduction I'd seen on his face a moment ago is gone in a blink, and he rolls his eyes, smacking the back of his head into the wall. "Relax, alright? Didn't do anythin'." And then he looks down at me again, frowning. "Your blood's all sickly right now, anyway." His lips twist in distaste. "Bloody disgusting."

This has me freezing, frowning up at him and instantly pulling my arm away from his throat.

"You know I'm sick?" I ask.

Spike scoffs, glaring down at me like it should be obvious. "Know?" Another eye roll. "Christ, Slayer, I could smell it the second I set foot in your room."

And now I take a step away from him, still frowning, needing to swallow down some air that doesn't reek of Spike.

"And you tried to kill me anyway?" I ask, continuing the line of questioning, the distant thoughts popping up as I think about the interaction we'd had last night in my dorm room.

Spike looks down at me, confused, like he can't fathom why I'd ask such a stupid question. "Well, yeah," he answers quickly, again, like it should be so obvious. At my raised eyebrow, he glares at me, his voice turning caustic. "What?"

I admit, I'm a little surprised. Spike's killed two Slayers before me, and I've just never thought of him as wanting to miss out on the big fight. If he'd known I was sick and wouldn't be able to really fight back, it seems like it would have…cheapened it for him, or something. Like it wouldn't have really counted without the epic knock down, drag out battle to the death.

And I can't pinpoint exactly why it is that this bugs. Like every other traitorous thought I've had tonight…er, today…so far, I'm thinking it's probably something to do with the sickness creeping through my system. It has to be.

Why else would I care about the integrity of Spike's Slayer slaying record?

"I guess I always thought you were sort of in it for the thrill of the fight, or whatever," I tell him, though I don't know why I feel like I need to explain what I'm thinking. I shrug. "Didn't think you'd be all down with the easy way out."

The vampire looks for a second like he's as surprised as I am that it's something I seem to have actually thought about. And then his eyes flash, lips quirking up in a cruel smirk.

"Or," he counters haughtily, drawing the word out, still fixing me with a hard look. "Maybe I got tired of draggin' it all out?" he chuckles, leaning toward me again. "Foreplay's all fine and good, pet, but eventually you have to get to the fucking, yeah?"

His words hit me like ice water. My stomach clenches tightly, and the chills I'd nearly forgotten about return with a vengeance.

I take yet another step away from him, eyes narrowed nearly to slits. "You're a pig, Spike."

He's completely unfazed by my go to insult, shaking his head and clicking his tongue. "And you're too bloody predictable, Slayer."

I turn at that, moving as quickly forward as I can on my traitorous legs toward where I'm kind of blindly assuming the door is. Spike's behind me in an instant, sending my vampire tinglies shooting down my back as his footsteps echo behind mine.

"Where are you goin'?" he asks.

"Home," I reply flatly.

"Mmhm," he muses, his voice still right behind me, almost in my ear now. "And what happens if those GI Joe's are still there?"

I pause for a moment, brow furrowed. I hadn't really thought about that. I guess I hadn't been that concerned with them.

Though, if I was forced into another fight with them feeling like I do now, I don't think I'd fair much better than I had last night.

Giles. That had been the original plan, anyway. No reason I can't just…stick with the original plan.

"Then I'll go to Giles," I say tersely, glancing around the crypt to make sure I'm still heading in the right direction, moving forward too quickly and catching my sock on the stone floor, stumbling for my efforts.

When Spike's arms come around my waist to steady me, I'm not surprised.

But I'm a little surprised that I'm not surprised.

"Bloody hell," he grouses, moving around to step in front of me, blocking my path to the door. "You're not goin' anywhere on those chicken legs of yours. You won't make it past the cemetery gate."

I glare up at him, cheeks heating up. In no way, shape or form am I used to having to rely on anyone for anything, least of all my currently fangless mortal enemy.

"And you care, why?" I put my good hand flat against his chest and shove him back, out of my personal space. He steps back slightly in response to my push, the corner of his lips turning down into a frown.

"I don't," comes his harsh reply, and silence fills in around us for a moment as we glare at each other. Then he sighs. Again, it's weird. "But since you mention the Watcher, maybe I'd like to have a word or two with him myself." He tilts his head down, dropping his eyes to the ground. "See if he can figure out what's goin' on up in my noggin?"

I gape at him. Full on gape, my mouth falling open, eyes bugging and everything. When I don't respond right away, he shifts his eyes back up toward me.

"Are you out of your mind?" I ask him after a minute, voice loud in the space between us. I shake my head, regaining a little of my normal Slayer fortitude as the full force of the absolute insanity that is this moment right now hits me. "You tried to murder me less than twenty four hours ago, and now you're asking me…" I trail off, lost for words. I blink at him, lashes fluttering rapidly. "You want me to let you borrow Giles?"

The vampire leans slightly away from me, looking down his nose at me with cool, gleaming eyes.

"For lack of a more eloquent way of sayin' it," he drawls, tilting his head back to the side as he looks at me, seeming to consider it. "Enemy of my enemy and all that rot. Which, as it happens, would be you and me workin' together." I watch as he inclines his head in the direction of the door, as though to indicate whoever he might sense is on the other side of it. "Seein' as how it seems to me we have ourselves a common enemy—"

"Oh, no," I cut him off quickly, shaking my head and jabbing a finger hard into his sternum. "No. You and I have nothing in common, Spike. And the last time we tried the whole working together thing?" I raise both eyebrows at him, cocking my head to the side and lowering my voice to a harsh hiss. "A thousand gallons of you leaving me there to die."

Spike rolls his eyes as if the reminder of just how stellar an ally to me he'd been before is completely irrelevant.

He'd done me about as much good as the French did in…well, any war, ever if what they'd tried teaching us in history is right.

"Knew you'd be fine, 's all," Spike says dismissively.

"Yeah," I snark, "I'm sure it was my Slaying prowess you were thinking about when you ran off with the Queen of the Damned."

I know they're a mistake the second the words leave my lips, but it's too late to suck them back in. Spike's eyes flash and he leans toward me, the scent of him flooding my nostrils, making my head spin more than it already is as he growls low in his throat.

His nose is almost touching mine. That's how close he is.

"Listen to me, you stubborn bint," he says, the words leaving his lips slowly, deliberately, through gritted teeth. Like he's talking to a small child. "You're sick, and whether or not that precious ego of yours will let you admit it, you need help." I open my mouth on instinct to deny this, but Spike ignores me, plowing full steam ahead. "You won't make it ten bloody feet by yourself, let alone all the way to your Watcher." He waits for a long moment, eyes blazing down into mine, waiting to see if I'm going to say anything to disagree.

I don't. I can't. Even now, it's taking all my energy to stay standing up right, to not give in to my body's call to rest. A very long, impossibly tense moment passes between us with our noses still almost touching, neither of us willing to back down.

And then it's over, and he moves away from me again. I release the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

"Wait until the bleeding sun goes down and I'll take you to him," he says flatly, looking away from me, back toward the far wall of the crypt. The thinly veiled rage in his voice from a moment ago is gone, replaced with something else. Something tired.

"Why?" I ask, my brain not as ready as my body to back down. "So you can use being all hero of the hour to make Giles feel like he owes you something?"

The words sound funny. The thought of Spike being the hero is almost enough to make me laugh out loud. It seems to amuse the vampire, too, because he turns back to look at me, a low, harsh chuckle reverberating from his chest.

He smirks at me in answer. "Smarter than you look, pet."

I give him a wide, falsely sweet smile in return. "Wish I could say the same for you."

He raises his scarred eyebrow in an expression that's as mocking as it is challenging, making my hands itch to curl into fists where they now rest at my sides.

"You wanna try and make it on your own?" He asks, his voice light, infuriatingly casual. "Be my guest." He cocks his head to the side, dark lashes fluttering against his pale cheeks. "But we both know that the second I let go of you, you're gonna pull a London Bridge."

I freeze at that, my mouth halfway open to make whatever sharp rebuttal I'd been planning. It takes a second for the words to register, but once they do, I feel certain I'm about to be sick. For real this time.

I hadn't even noticed that his arms were still around me. Strong, leather clad forearms wrapped around my waist, hands splayed across the fabric of my sweat shirt, supporting me along my lower back.

Oh, God.

Have we been standing like this the whole time? Sure, I remember him having caught me when I'd stumbled, but I'd pushed him away after that. I know I had.

Hadn't I?

On instinct now, I shove away from him, breaking his hold across my waist and stumbling backward to brace my hand along the cool stone wall.

"See?" I manage, hyper aware of how ragged my breathing sounds in my own ears. "No London Bridging here."

Spike tilts his head to the side, eyeing me through his lashes. Even in the darkness I can see his eyes glittering.

"Right," he says, his voice still low and casual. "Well then, I'm sure you'll be just fine."

But my legs are already starting to tremble again, knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight they haven't had to support at all yet today. I'm wishing desperately that I had enough strength in my arms to reach over and uppercut that infuriating smirk right off his stupid face. But I don't. And I know I don't.

And so does Spike.

"I hate you," I hiss, letting my hand slide further out along the wall, turning my back to press against the stone. I fix him with as withering a look as I can and let myself slide down to the floor, folding my arms around me as tight as I can to make the most of my body heat.

"I can assure you, Summers," the vampire says snidely, watching me from his position in front of the door. "The feelin' is more than mutual." He shoves his hands in the pockets of his duster and cocks his head to the side, considering me. "But I'm all you've got."

The words hit me in a weird way.

I wonder if he hears it when he says it, how similar the sentiment is to what he'd told me the last time we'd been in a position to help each other out. Maybe that's why he says it. I don't know, can't read his expression as clearly now as I could when I was standing in front of him.

"For now," I mutter, half under my breath, just loud enough for me to know he's heard me. Then, much louder. "Can we at least…crack the door open or something?" I shudder on cue, teeth starting up their chattering again with the added chill of the stone at my back. "It's freezing and it's pitch black in here."

A beat.

Then, "Will it get you to quit your whinging for two bloody seconds?"

I think about it for a minute, using context clues to figure out what normal word whinging equals in Brit speak. And then I nod.

Spike grumbles, making a big show of sauntering toward where the door must be, putting his hand on what must be a handle, and yanking back. A bright stream of sunlight filters into the crypt, spilling across the stone floor and illuminating a path from the door to where my sock-clad feet are. The sun warms them instantly, which is nice, but it doesn't help with the rest of my shaking limbs.

I close my eyes, shifting slightly so more of my ankles and legs are in the stream of the light.

My eyes snap open again when I feel it. The sharp smacking of leather slapping against my cheek, filling my nose with the scent of cigarettes. I reach up instinctively to grab it, pulling the heavy material away from my face and blinking down at it.

Spike's coat.

He's just tossed his precious leather coat at me.

I stare at it for another long second, blinking, wondering if this is part of the fever, too. But when I turn to look at Spike, my eyebrow raised in silent question, the vampire just shrugs and rolls his shoulders back, looking away from me.

"If I have to listen to your teeth clicking together for one more sodding second, I'll go as barmy as Dru," he says simply, like it's enough to explain everything.

Normally, I think I'd ball the leather up and toss it right back at him. But honestly, I'm sort of feeling the same way. I never thought I could be so sick of hearing my own teeth knocking together. And besides that, it's also starting to make my jaw hurt.

Or that could be the fever too, I guess.

So, apart from the wigginess that is Spike offering me his coat, which if I think of it that way my head starts to hurt, I take the gesture at the facest of values and don't throw it back to him.

Instead I un-ball the coat and fan the leather out, draping the longest part over my legs, tucking my arms securely beneath it and pulling the collar up to my chin.

The words thank you float to my lips, but I bite down on them before they can escape. Apart from the little voice in the back of my head telling me the bleached vampire now sitting against the crypt wall across from me would probably just throw the sentiment right back in my face, I'm still feeling totally bugged by his motives for "rescuing" me in the first place. It's ookie, that he's using me to get to my Watcher.

I mean, hello. Slayer here? And he's supposed be all Big and Bad. Shouldn't his evil plans go more along the lines of him using other people to get to me? I'm not totally out of my mind, right? That is normally how this would go.

Then again, I'm a vampire slayer who's currently holed up inside some musty crypt with a Master vampire— and have been for the last five hours, at least— and neither of us is dead or dust. So okay, yeah. There's pretty much zip in the way of normal about any of this.

And I'm not even going to think about why I'm more bothered by the fact that Spike came back and rescued me from the commandos than I am about the fact that he'd come to my room to kill me. Because trying to kill me? That's just Spike being…Spike.

The other is a peroxide pest of a different verging-on-radioactive color.

I watch from my spot against the wall, below his duster, as Spike pulls the worn down package of cigarettes and his silver lighter out of his jeans pocket, tapping one out of the pack and into his hand. The question is leaving my lips before I can stop it. "What all did they do to you?"

Spike pauses, cigarette wedged between his lips, lighter halfway to the tip as he glances up toward me. "Who's that, then?" he asks, still frozen mid-light.

"The commandos," I say. When he raises an eyebrow I sigh, rolling my eyes. "Your friendly neighborhood soldier boys." I bring my gaze back to his, leveling him with a hard look. "When you were in that…cell or whatever, what all did they do to you?"

The vampire stares at me for another second before looking away, bringing the waiting flame of the lighter to the end of the cigarette. He doesn't answer me, choosing instead to slowly put the lighter and package away, taking a long, deliberate drag and exhaling the smoke languorously through his nose.

"Why?" he asks finally, reaching up and plucking the smoking cigarette from his mouth, holding it out between his index and middle fingers. And his lips twist into a sneer. "Plannin' to avenge me, Slayer?"

I frown, blinking at him, wondering at the weird tone of voice he's using. "No."

He nods like that's the answer he'd been expecting, placing the cigarette back between his lips and looking down toward he ground. "Plannin' to send 'em a lovely thank you card, then."

I grimace at the thought, at the hollow, cruel trace of humor in his voice. "No," I say again. "I was just—" But I cut myself off mid-sentence when I catch the cold look on his face, shaking my head. "You know what, never mind." I tilt my head back into the wall, letting my eyes flutter shut.

He doesn't ask me any more questions, and I'm glad. Because honestly, I don't know why I'd asked in the first place.

And I don't want to have to think about it.

"How many hours until sunset?" I ask after a while, breaking the not completely uncomfortable silence that's woven around us since my teeth have stopped doing their castanet impression.

Spike—who's been sitting opposite me with his knees bent, arms propped over them and extended out straight with his head back against the stone and his eyes closed for the better part of the last few hours—doesn't bother to look at me before he answers in a low murmur. "Half hour, give or take."

I nod even though he can't see me, wondering why why I'd even bothered to ask. I can see from where I'm sitting that the sky is getting hazy. Bright blue fading to shades of fiery orange, shadows from the headstones I can see growing impossibly long as they stretch over the grass.

It's been hours, but I'm still shaky, muscles aching now from having sat in the same position for so long. Shivers wrack my frame every once and a while, but they're your average, run-of-the-mill fluish symptom chills now, not from the cold. I'm not cold.

Haven't been since Spike had thrown me his coat.

I still haven't said thank you.

I still don't want to.

Biting down on my lip, wishing for some unfathomable reason that the bleached blonde would look at me, I sigh. "When can we leave?"

He still doesn't open his eyes, but his lips curve up slightly at the corners. "Achin' to be away from me already, are you?"

I frown at him, again, even though he can't see me. "Like you're not ready to be away from me?"

I watch as one crystal blue eye pops open, gleaming dimly in the fading sunlight from the doorway. "I dunno," he muses, lips twisting fully now into a knowing smirk. "Haven't staked out a good place to hole up yet. Maybe we'll stay here another few days, let that Slayer stench of yours mark it up good and proper, keep the other nasties out."

The shivers return at his words, the thought of being stuck here for another day and night being more than my already weakened body can handle. How many days could pass before anyone thought to look here for me? Would they even think to?

Could the fever kill me before that?

And I guess I should have known. Spike can't bite me, so he has to find another way to add my name to his record. He is trying to kill me, the smug bastard. Just really, really slowly.

And while letting me borrow his duster.

"We had a deal," I remind him angrily, trying to keep my voice level, keep any hidden notes of panic out of it.

"Relax, Slayer," he drawls, opening both eyes now and shoving himself much too easily to his feet. "We'll be off in two shakes."

He's been sitting still for just a as long as I have, but you'd never guess by looking at him now, how quickly his muscles stretch and bounce back to normal. He closes his eyes again, tilting his head back and raising his right arm high above his head to stretch his shoulder. My eyes light on his left hand, splayed flat over his stomach, watching as the black t-shirt comes un-tucked and rides up just the slightest bit.

I look away again quickly. I don't know why.

When I chance a look toward him again, he's moved. Standing right in front of me now, hand extended down and out toward me. I hadn't even heard him cross the crypt.

I look up at him, tilting my chin all the way back so I can see his eyes. He's looking down at me expectantly, like he's waiting on me for something. My brow furrows.

After all the other bizzaro things that have happened today, if he's honestly offering his hand to help me up I think my head might explode.

"What?" I ask warily, eyes traveling from his face down to his hand and back up again.

Spike's scarred eyebrow shoots skyward and he extends his hand again. "My coat?"

Oh.

Oh, right.

I reach my hands around, out from the cover of the heavy leather and reach up, peeling it away from my body and passing it over to him. I watch him shake it out, making a disgusted face as he slips it back over his shoulders.

"What's wrong now?" I ask bitterly, already feeling the chills starting to build up my arms again.

Spike glares at me. "You," he complains, flipping the collar up on the duster as if to explain what he's referencing, adjusting the sleeves. "'S gonna take me ages to get the smell out."

I feel my expression darken as I stare up at him, mouth dropping open slightly. I so do not smell.

It's what I want to tell him, but I stop myself, knowing he'll just throw it back in my face. So I go a different way.

"I didn't ask you to let me borrow it," I say, spitting the word out for emphasis, throwing it back inhis face that it had been his idea in the first place. That he'd been the one to give the leather duster to me. Err, throw it at me.

Whatever.

Either way, my words hit a nerve. They have his lips coming together, pursing. I watch from my seated position beneath him as he clenches his jaw, the muscle there ticking once.

"No," he finally agrees, his voice low and quiet. Not at all the response I'd been expecting. "You didn't."

I refuse to be the first to break eye contact with him, wondering what it is exactly that's passing between us now. His eyes never leave mine, either, gleaming in the rapidly setting sunlight. I shiver again in spite of myself when the first breeze of the evening blows through the crack in the mausoleum's heavy door.

"C'mon then," he says suddenly, turning his back on me and stepping up to the small set of stairs I can see now leading up to said door. "Got things to do."

I nod absently, careful to keep my wrist tucked against my waist as I brace my left hand beside me and struggle to my feet. I think it's already starting to heal itself, but with as weak as I am it's going to take longer than usual unless I get some food and some medicine soon.

Spike's there to brace me when I all-to-predictably stumble forward. His long fingers wrapping firmly around my upper arms as my hip joints creak, protesting their stiffness.

He lets go of my arm and I make like I'm about to move forward, brushing past him to step out into the night when he stops me again. Wordlessly hooking one arm beneath my knees and the other across the middle of my back, he lifts me roughly against the wall of his chest before I can think about what he's doing, before I can form a coherent sentence at all.

"What thehell are you doing?" I ask, pushing against him, struggling in his arms. It'd be more effective if every inch of me wasn't so achey already.

I seem to be asking that question a lot.

Spike's response is to snarl low in his throat, tightening his hold on me, crushing me hard into his chest until it's almost painful. "Stop wigglin'," he warns harshly, fingers digging harder into me as if to still my movements himself. Not quite hard enough to hurt me, I notice, but enough that I get the idea. "You're gonna set off that sodding spell."

I stop moving instantly at the reminder, having forgotten for a moment the reason why we're in this mess in the first place. Not that I care a whole lot if my struggling causes Spike pain, but I'm not in a big hurry to get dropped on the stone floor, either.

"I'm…" I'm about to apologize, the word sorry a breath away from leaving my lips when I bite down on it, swallowing instead. I clear my throat and try to ignore the proximity of Spike's face to mine. "What are you doing?" I try again, this time remaining still in his arms. Or, as still as I can be. I'm too tense, so aware of where the leather of his coat brushes the backs of my bare legs, where his cool hand wraps around my back and upper arm to grip me.

"What's it look like I'm doin'?" he asks me for the second time tonight, teeth clenched in aggravation. "Not in a real big hurry to run into those soldier boys again, yeah? And with you goin' knock kneed every few feet we'll never make it out of here," he explains matter-of-factly. "Be faster if I just carry you."

It's funny to me that every time he makes a logical argument, I have this super intense, irrational desire to hit him. Just reach right up and slap that knowing expression of his face, that let's-see-you-argue-with-me-now curve off his lips.

This close to him, though, I can't help but notice the dizzying scent that seems to surround him like a cloud. All smoke and alcohol and an earthy, musky scent that has to just be him. His skin. I can feel the subtle movement of his chest beneath my hands where I've splayed them over his t-shirt.

I swallow hard, yanking them back and folding them against my own chest to give me the most space from him as possible in our way too close position. If Spike's noticed the abrupt shift in my body language, he doesn't comment on it. And again, I'm glad.

"Ready then?" He asks me, already moving us up the small set of stairs and toward the door, nudging it open with his boot.

"Yeah," I say, and my voice sounds small in my ears. Hollow.

And then we're gone, moving at an insane speed through the quickly darkening graveyard, making it through the front gate and out onto one of Sunnydale's main roads in record time. Through the sounds of the wind whipping past us, the hazy smell of smoke and leather that's making my head a little dizzy, I manage to explain to Spike vaguely where Giles's apartment is. He nods to acknowledge me but doesn't say anything, doesn't look down, like somehow actuallyseeing me in his arms will confirm just how far he's managed to fall in the span of twenty-four hours.

And for some completely illogical, unexplainable, totally unreasonable reason, this kind of bugs me, too.

I close my eyes against the wind and wait out the rest of the way to the apartment complex, already thinking of hot showers, chicken noodle soup and Ibuprofen. The sooner I kick this definitely-making-me-delirious fever thing, the better.