Chapter 9:

Spike came out of the bathroom, drying his hands. He shook his head indulgently at his most recent rash behavior, and was more than certain he would need stitches to undo the damage he'd inflicted on himself, but didn't much care. Distractedly, he threw the towel streaked crimson to one side, not minding where it landed. As bloodstains went, the soiled linen possessed the least of many in this once des res. Spike's eyes scanned lazily the room he'd gone into, rather proud of the destruction wreaked here. His appreciation for the palpable violence he'd left behind him only heightened when he saw her.

"Something the matter, pet?"

Elizabeth stood before him, rigid and shaking visibly from trapped rage. In the doorway connecting the entrance hall to the lounge, she'd positioned herself, looking deeply disturbed. Though it was not her emotions that had evoked the severe understatement on Spike's part, but the fact that she'd leveled a gun in his direction, aimed fairly well despite trembling hands.

"Yes," she said, and though Spike had expected vehemence, her voice carried an oddly pleasant tone, "We have a problem."

"Do we?"

"I can't make that phone call for you. See, I found this…gun…in my purse, and something occurred to me," she told him, purely impassive.

"What's that?" he asked, trying to keep his temper in check, "That you've gone off your trolley?"

He failed.

She laughed.

"Imagine you thinking I'm crazy. No, Spike, don't be stupid."

"All right," he said, taking a step forward, "What is it you've―"

"And don't come any closer." She waited for him to back off before continuing, "It occurred to me that you, William, are a killer. And nothing you can say, none of your influence over…people…will change that."

"That right, luv?"

"Stop interrupting. The truth of it is―you know what truth is, don't you?"

He began to make a patented smart-ass remark, though obviously the question was rhetorical.

"Don't answer that. The truth of it is that shooting you would be self-defense. And I really have no problem defending myself."

"Go ahead then, sweetheart. Slay me," he provoked with a grin.

"Thought about that…but something else occurred to me."

Spike was getting rather brassed with the girl's epiphanies, "Yeah?"

"I'm not sure if a bullet would kill you."

His smirk widened, "Neither am I. Do it…and we'll find out." With that, he started to close the distance between them, slowly.

"I asked you not to come any closer," she said, and Spike heard the tremor making its way into her voice.

"And I'm asking you to kill me. Come on, Elizabeth. Give it me good."

She faltered, and he used the opportunity to draw himself near.

Glancing at the pistol now pressed directly over his heart, he said,

"You're not going to shoot me, are you?"

Buffy was surprised by the disappointment tinting his tone. At the same time, she heard the challenge; she pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

Again…

His laugh was vicious, mocking, "Safety's on, luv."

She wondered briefly if that was some kind of sign, as if Spike couldn't be killed. At a more logical time, the notion would have been immediately dismissed, but today, omens were everywhere.

Defeated, she did not move as he took the gun from her.

"Where'd you get this?" asked he with a long whistle, "Knives weren't the only weapons I collected, you know. This…" he told her, laying the sidearm flat against his palm, "this is a Beretta. Cougar, if I'm not mistaken. And I'm not. So, I suppose you've got Detective Finn to thank for deliverin' a thing of pure death straight to a killer."

The last word was stressed with just the right level of fury, causing a flush to crawl through Buffy's skin. She hung her head, but continued watching him as he disengaged the catch that had rendered her defense useless.

"Look at me," he demanded, voice amazingly cold, accepting of nothing but her compliance. When she had given it, Buffy was shocked wordless as she found herself staring down the barrel, "That half-assed attempt at defiance deserves punishment. But I need you," she knew enough not to relax at his words, waiting for the condition, which came in the form of, "…at least for now." A pause, and then, "Still, you've wasted my time, and we've got loose ends to tie up. That's your job. Do it fast," Spike said, raising the firearm in the style of a marathon starter.

"On your mark."

He cocked the hammer.

"Get set."

He cocked an eyebrow.

"Go."

He put a bullet through her ceiling.

Rupert Giles had fallen asleep at his desk. Waiting all day by the phone for further news regarding his missing patient, or his soon-to-be-missing job, was too troublesome to bear with no rest. And not surprisingly, when at last he'd drifted off, he was jolted awake again by the shrill tone of the blower.

"Hullo?"

"Hello? Mr. Giles?"

Immediately alert, he sat upright in his chair, rubbing grogginess from aging eyes, "Dr. Summers. It's…" he glanced at his wristwatch, "rather late. How are you?"

A harsh laugh broke through to his end, making the poor woman sound awfully unnatural.

"I've been better."

From her response, Giles got the feeling he shouldn't press the matter, "What do you need?" he asked, a little concerned.

"I would like to apologize for my behavior toward you this morning. I didn't mean to be rude, but the mention of William Beverley caught me off guard."

"I understand―" he began, but was interrupted by her declaration of,

"My husband was attacked."

Rupert sighed, "Yes, Detective Finn told me as much. I was sorry to hear―"

Again his attempt at niceties was foiled, "The police believe William committed the assault, and I'm…not sure what to think. But I need to be with him―my husband―so I won't be exactly reachable, for the next few days."

The content of her speech, and the manner in which it was delivered―stilted and without inflection―struck a chord of caution within the older man, "Are you quite alright, Buffy? You don't seem well."

"I'm fine," she rushed to reassure. There was a pause, a muffled noise, and then Summers was back on the line, "I…I have to…go."

Before he could pose another question, or even offer a good-bye, the dial tone was buzzing in his ear, and what had been a subtle inkling of oddity became full-fledged suspicion.

I have to go…

"Oh, dear Lord."

Buffy winced, "Does it need to be so tight?"

"Can't have you hitting me again…or laying hands on another weapon," he told her, ripping the duct tape from its roll, "Don't complain; I'll be forced to gag you."

She bit her lip, swallowing discomfort at the arms wrenched and bound behind her back. Watching Spike circle her, surveying his work, she tried to flex her wrists. When this showed itself to be an impossibility, she slumped into the chair, sulking. Their situation had definitely taken a turn for the worse. Angered by her obstinacy, Spike had forced her―at gunpoint, she might add―to first pack a duffel, then contact Rupert. She'd done his bidding, yet still managed to cock things up, her mechanical obedience too phony to be believable (according to her captor, anyway). He'd interrupted Buffy in the midst of her phone call, shoved her into a chair, and whispered hotly in her ear to 'chivvy along'. She took this, accurately, to be his way of telling her to hurry up, which she did. So much so that his fury was not assuaged. Then came the restraints.

"Elizabeth," he called, grabbing her attention as he came toward her, "stand up."

With some inconvenience, robbed of the use of her upper appendages, Buffy rose. Spike knelt for a moment, gripping the handles of her overnight bag. She caught sight of the Beretta as he did so: flashing-steel tucked into the waistband of tight jeans. Fresh distress hit her, the notion of how close she had been to escape biting at her conscience. However, such thoughts, all thoughts, were dispelled at the feel of Spike's hand on the small of her back. Nearly comforting it was, the soft pressure of him guiding her away from all she knew. This was as nice as he'd be, Buffy realized. The most kindness he could show: hand-holding her through this bizarre night of atrocity he himself had caused.

And it was baffling, really. Because his simple touch did make her feel―

A jab of pain shot through her as she was tossed to the floor of the DeSoto. Buffy grunted, twisting around to watch her once-client-now-kidnapper slam the backdoor of his vehicle and leave her lying prone and disoriented. She heard him cross to the driver's side; she managed to roll onto her back. The action was immediately regretted, as her shoulder wedged itself painfully against the bench seat behind her. Attempting to muffle a cry, she caught Spike's attention.

"It won't help. Struggling, I mean. You may as well enjoy the ride," he told her, his statement simultaneous with the sound of the engine turning over. From her position, she had a good view of his profile. She knew he was smiling, and got the distinct impression that their 'ride', however metaphorical, was to be a long one.

Even still, only when the car began to move did Buffy resign herself to her predicament. With arms going numb beneath her own weight, she observed what little scenery she could from the window. Minutes flew by in a silence only broken by a whispered pitiful exhale as, through her limited vision, she read:

You are now leaving Los Angeles.