"Will you please stop that," Spike asks me from his position, seated in one of the large leather chairs, "you're makin' me dizzy."

I cast a glance in his direction, half apologetic and half glaring. I've been pacing for what feels like hours. Folding and unfolding my arms over my chest, running my hands through my hair, practically chewing a hole through my bottom lip.

As the time's passed, I've started to feel more and more anxious. The reality of the situation, the plan that's not a plan, the emergency exit that might not exist…I'm starting to feel a whole lot of things.

Confident isn't at the top of the list.

I stop pacing, turn toward Spike. "Let's run through it again."

He gives me a knowing and a little exasperated look.

I've been asking him to go through the plan again for what feels like hours, too.

"You're goin' to make yourself sick, pet," he says in what I've realized is his soothing voice. It's sort of a mix between a sensual purr and a gentle murmur. "Calm down."

I blink at him with wide eyes.

"I'm calm," I tell him, sounding anything but. "Who's not calm? I'm way calm."

Spike smirks at me, quirking an eyebrow.

I grimace.

"Everything's goin' to be fine, pet."

I scoff, turning on my heel to begin pacing again. "Yeah. This coming from mister 'bloody hell, luv, that's the worst plan I've ever bloody heard'."

I turn back to him and he's staring at me again, his scarred eyebrow raised sky high.

"We need to have a chat about what we English actually sound like." He shifts on the mattress, putting his hands behind him and leaning back. "And I never said that."

Except he kind of did. Maybe not in so many words, but it wasn't like he'd made a secret about not being overly thrilled with the plan from the get go. I'm not sure why it bothers me so much, why I feel like I need him to tell me this will work.

Probably because I'm not sure it will.

But he's right. All this worrying, pacing around, I'm starting to make myself dizzy. And what good does worrying do us now? Either we try and make a break for it, or we don't. Either we try to get Dad somewhere safe, or we don't.

Either we try and get the prophecy to someone who can read it, who can tell us if it's even real, or we don't.

There don't seem to be a whole lot of options.

I stop pacing again, face Spike and cross my arms again. He looks at me knowingly.

I sigh.

"Can we just go over it one more time?"

"We've gone over it enough," Spike tells me, sitting up, leaning his forearms over his thighs as he looks at me. "There innit much to go over."

And it's there again, in his voice. The tiniest edge to his tone that's all read between the line-ish. The thing that sets all the warning bells off in my head.

"See?" I say, pointing a finger at him. "That right there. That's what's making me so nervous."

Spike furrows his brow, eyes narrowing. "What?"

"There isn't much to go over," I murmur, imitating him with a little bob of my head.

Spike rolls his eyes.

"Oh, for…" He sighs, pushing himself up to his feet and stalking toward me.

I'm expecting him to grab me, wrap his hands around my arms like he usually does when he's frustrated with me. But he doesn't. He just stands there in front of me, indigo eyes searching my face.

"Look, you silly bint," he says, and his voice is back to the soothing tone from before. "'S not the best bloody plan I've ever heard, but that doesn't matter. We can't really be choosy, yeah?"

Because that makes me feel much better.

I eye him, tilting my head to the side.

"Wow," I mutter sarcastically, "You're a regular Tony Robbins."

Spike gives me a sort of deadpan look, crosses his arms over his chest.

"What I'm sayin' is I'm not worried."

Oh.

That hadn't been what it sounded like.

"That makes one of us," I mumble, dropping my eyes down to the floor.

There's a brief pause between us. Then, Spike takes a step back from me.

"Alright, what happened?" He asks, voice gone from soothing to almost angry in one breath.

I turn my eyes back up to his, frowning at the frustrated expression on his face.

I shake my head.

"What do you mean what happened?"

Spike scoffs, exhaling a short puff of air out through his nose.

"What I mean," he draws the word out, pointing a finger over toward the door, "is that not even an hour ago you were ready to storm the bloody castle, all consequences be damned. And now—"

"Now I've had time to think about it," I tell him, matching my tone of voice to his.

Spike folds the arm he'd used to gesture toward the door back over his chest, considers me, pursing his lips.

"Thinkin'." He tsks his tongue, cocking his head to the side, "Never useful, that."

I try my best to glare at him but it falls flat, turning into more of a weak grimace.

I turn my eyes back down to the ground.

"What if Dad was wrong?" I ask quietly, giving voice to the fear that's plagued me since first coming back down here. "About that emergency exit."

I feel rather than see Spike shrug, practically hear the gesture in his voice.

"Then we adjust."

It's my turn to scoff.

I look back up at him.

"We adjust…" I murmur, nodding my head. "And does that 'adjustment' account for the plan totally failing and me getting you both killed?"

Spike's expression softens instantly, his eyes widening in understanding.

And he does reach for me now. Reaches out to wrap his arm around my waist, tug me against him.

I don't let him.

I don't need to be pat on the head right now. Don't want to be soothed, or told that everything's going to be all right.

"Don't," I say, spinning out of his grip, taking a couple steps out of his reach.

He doesn't come after me, but it's there on his face. I've hurt him.

My insides twist a little, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath in and exhaling slowly before I open my eyes again.

I don't apologize, but I try and soften my features a little.

"I just…" I trail off, biting into my lip, searching for the right words. How to explain to him what I'm thinking, why I'm scared. "I've been so focused on getting Dad out of here," I pause, meeting his eyes again, "on getting you out of here, that I haven't really considered…" I trail off again, glancing around the room and let out a short, humorless laugh. "Look, if anything goes wrong out there, it'll be my fault."

Spike's eyes darken. "Bollocks."

I shake my head at him. "Spike, don't—"

"Bollocks." He says again, more forcefully this time.

I give him an exasperated look, but I can see it on his face that he's had enough of this. He crosses to me, reaching a hand out toward my face.

As soon as he does, I turn my cheek away from him.

"Hey," he says, cupping his hand underneath my chin and turning my face back toward his.

And he sounds so sincere. Sincere and intense with just the slightest hint of anger when he asks me to look at him.

So I do.

I almost immediately wish I hadn't, because what I see is overwhelming.

"You can't keep doin' this to yourself," Spike murmurs, studying me with a fierceness that makes my breath catch in my lungs. "Putting the weight of the entire buggering planet on your shoulders. 'S a good way to drive yourself crazy, that." He lets go of my chin and moves his hand to my shoulder, his voice dropping lower. Hypnotic. "I don't know if everything'll be fine. Can't make you any promises. So you have to tell me…are you gonna be ready when that door opens?" My eyes go wide at the thought of it, and Spike moves on quickly before I can respond. "If you need more time, just say the word. You wanna sodding chat this out a thousand more times, we'll do it."

He pauses, unfathomable eyes searching mine. Then his hand slides over from my shoulder, up to my neck, until his fingers are twined in my hair. His thumb brushes the tender point on my cheek just in front of my ear.

He takes a deep breath.

"But the facts aren't goin' to change, luv," he murmurs on the exhale, voice dropping lower still. "No matter how many times we run through this plan of yours, Wolfram and Hart is still goin' to plan on usin' you. We're still gonna be stuck here in the belly of the beast. We're still only goin' to have one real lead on a way out."

I stare at him, blinking dumbly. Unable to look away, mesmerized. Completely and wholly taken in by him, by what he's saying to me.

I feel the way he's looking at me in every nerve on my body.

I needed this.

I needed him to tell me to suck it up. To do what needs to be done. Not that the plan is a good one, or that he knows it'll work, or even that he isn't worried. I wanted him to tell me that none of that matters, because it's this plan, this crappy, half-assed, wildest of the wild leaps of faith plan is the only option we have.

Besides that, I suddenly have this overwhelming feeling that this little not-a-plan of mine is going to work.

"So," Spike says finally, eyes blazing in contradiction to the softness of his voice, "Are you ready, or not?"

The words as I'll ever be are the first to spring to mind.

But that isn't what I say.

Instead, I nod, straightening my back. "I'm ready."

"Good," Spike murmurs, slowly removing his hand from my face, brushing the pad of his thumb once more over my cheek as he does.

Then he turns away from me to face the imposing doorway, rolling his shoulders back and leaning his head to the side, stretching his neck.

"Because that door's about to open."

I whip my head toward him, eyes going wide all over again.

"How do you—"

Spike taps his ear meaningfully, but doesn't look at me. He keeps his eyes riveted on the door. I turn toward it, too, waiting for the tell tale shuddering sound of the lock sliding back. The eerie clicking sound I've come in such a short time to associate with badness.

It's only been about 12 hours total, maybe 24 at most.

"Buffy," Spike says, and I barely hear him, he's speaking so softly now. I turn my face toward him, frowning. A small smile curves the corner of his lip, but he still doesn't look at me. "I love you."

I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. My heart skips a beat, constricts in my chest.

And then the door starts to groan.

I start to panic all over again, but not for the same reasons as before. Am I making a mistake, not telling him? Isn't this usually when the confessions happen? Before facing odds that are pretty much the definition of insurmountable.

Am I breaking some cardinal rule if I don't say it now?

And oh, God, what if this is a mistake? What if something goes wrong? If I never get the chance to say it. To say all the things I want to.

My lips start to move before my brain finishes thinking through it.

"Spike, I-"

"Save it," he tells me, cutting me off mid-sentence. His eyes shift toward mine, and I swear they're twinkling. "Save it for after."

But what if there is no after?

I don't have time to unpack that thought, because the sound of metal scraping on cement fills the vault-like room a second later, the door sliding open to reveal Gunn, again in the center, flanked by the same two big guards from before.

Here goes nothing.

The three guards must sense something is different right off the bat, because all three of them reach back, I'm guessing into their pockets.

I'm also guessing that what they're reaching for are weapons.

And before I have a chance to think about what the first steps of the plan are, Spike takes off. Like a shot, quicker than I've ever seen anyone, anything, move. Ever. He runs straight into the guard on the left hand side of Gunn, a stockier looking guy with cropped, brown hair, and tackles him to the ground.

This isn't right.

It's the only thought my scattered brain can make sense of as I watch. This isn't the plan. Not the way we'd talked about it.

I don't have a chance to really think about what we have talked about, though, because Gunn's pulling a stake out of his pocket and turning to the struggling pair on the ground.

I react on instinct.

Taking off at a dead sprint, I cross the room in record time, colliding hard into the side of the larger man and sending us both flying back into the corridor wall. My hand shoots out, grabbing him around the wrist and twisting. Not hard. Not that hard. Just hard enough to maybe sprain it, make him drop the pointy wooden weapon. It clatters to the ground at my feet, and I step on it, trapping it underneath my shoe.

"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it, then bring my elbow up, smashing it into the side of his jaw and sending his head careening back into the wall. His body goes limp beneath the pressure I'm putting on it, and I prop my hands underneath his arms and guide him gently down to the ground. He'll have a hell of a headache later, but I'm fairly sure I haven't done any serious damage.

I turn around just in time to see the third guard flying at me, crackling mini taser in hand. Quicker then I think possible, I whirl out of his reach and his fist slams into the wall, hard, his back now to me. I take the opportunity to use the trick Spike taught me. Spinning around, dropping down low and shooting my leg out to catch him at the ankles.

He crashes onto his back with a loud grunt, a thud, and I grab him around the throat, pressing him into the wall and holding him there.

He stares at me, his eyes wide. And I recognize them, the look he's giving me.

This is the same guard from before, in Holland's office. The one I'd grabbed around the neck in almost exactly this same way.

The one, I'm pretty certain, is afraid of me.

Good.

"Well, that was a giggle." Spike dusts himself off, steps up beside me. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing my new friend. "What about this one, then?"

"This one," I say, letting a falsely sweet smile split my face as I press him a little harder into the wall, "was just about to tell me where Dad is."

The guard looks at me, casts a cursory glance at Spike, over my shoulder, then back down again. "You know I can't tell you that."

Figured as much.

"Yeah?" I exert a little more pressure on his neck, grabbing for his hand, twisting his wrist around the same way I'd done Gunn's earlier. "I think you can."

I'm not sure what I think will be so convincing about it. I know I'm not twisting it with my full strength. I'm not even sure if I'm hurting him that much.

I'm not sure I'm ready to do that just yet.

It's one thing to fight the guards, to get them out of our way. Knocking them unconscious…it's necessary.

And even then, I hadn't really relished doing it to Gunn a moment ago. Using my strength to cause someone else pain, even if he does work for Wolfram and Hart…it feels ishy.

"You think a sprained wrist is going to make me turn on Wolfram and Hart?" the guard asks, setting his lips in a grim, half smile.

I frown at him.

I guess I shouldn't have worried.

Beside me, Spike laughs. It's a cold, cruel sound. The kind of laugh I haven't heard from him in what feels like forever.

It makes me shiver.

"Oh, I see," He murmurs, and then I hear it, the shifting of bone. I turn my eyes toward him, not surprised to see that he's vamped out.

He leers at the guard around his fangs.

"Listen friend, the lady here..." he pauses, casting an affectionate glance my way, "she's too soft and sweet to do any real damage. Me on the other hand? Well," he cocks his head to the side, "I live for that sort of thing."

There's a brief flash of panic over the man's face, which he quickly tries to cover.

"Go ahead," the guard sneers. "I'm not scared of blood suckers like you."

You'd think it was exactly the answer Spike had wanted to hear. He grins, folding his arms over his chest and leaning slightly forward.

"That a fact?" He asks, flicking the tip of his tongue out to slide over the pointed tip of one fang. He narrows his eyes, drops his voice to a low, dangerous rumble and says, "Maybe you should be."

I feel my shoulders tense up.

As reluctant as I am to hurt the guard myself, I'm not in a place where I'm ready to let Spike hurt him, either. I haven't reached that place yet.

Not yet.

I turn my eyes back to him, narrowing them, daring to twist his wrist just a little bit harder.

He winces.

"Just...tell me what I want to know," I say, clenching my jaw.

But his lips are clamped shut, and he doesn't make a move to answer me. If he was afraid of me before, he isn't now.

Either that, or he's more afraid of someone, or something, else.

"Buffy," Spike growls, a low warning in his chest. He glances up, seeing something that makes his eyes flash with urgency. "Don't have time for this, kitten."

I turn my head around, looking up toward where his eyes are focused, and I see it. Barely visible, blending almost seamlessly into the wall. A surveillance camera.

Of course.

I turn my gaze back to Spike, considering how much time we have. It probably isn't much. Assuming Wolfram and Hart have an entire surveillance room, cameras set up all over the building, then it's only a matter of time before—

The lights flicker, shuddering off, backup generators flicking on casting the entire hallway in a dim, iridescent light. A second later, the alarm sounds.

So, no time, then.

And suddenly, I've reached that place.

"Have at it," I say quickly to Spike, gesturing toward the guard with my hand, and stepping aside.

My vampire immediately steps in, gripping the guard by the front of his shirt and shaking him, slamming him hard enough into the wall to send plaster flying. Finn's eyes visibly widen with panic.

"Right then," Spike says breezily, fangs flashing. "The lady's father. Where is he?"

But the guard is still holding fast, trying to put on a brave face. "I can't tell—"

Spike growls, opening his mouth and lunging for the guard's throat. His fangs are mere centimeters away from breaking the skin when the guard cries out, wincing, shrinking farther back into the wall and as far away from the vampire as he can.

"Okay!" He shouts, squeezing his eyes shut. "Okay."

Not scared of bloodsuckers, huh?

Spike shifts back, closing his mouth and looking in all honesty a little on the disappointed side. He keeps his hands twisted tightly in the guard's t-shirt, though. Keeps him pressed back into the wall.

I fold my arms over my chest.

"Where is he?" I ask, more urgently this time, the alarm sounding in my ears and making my head pound.

The guard opens his eyes again, looking pointedly away from Spike's menacing glare and over toward me. "First floor, around the corner. Third set of doors on the right."

Only three sets of stairs and three sets of doors away.

"You're sure?" I ask, taking a step back, preparing to take off down the hallway toward the doors.

He opens his mouth to respond to me, but Spike's hand flies up to his throat, cutting him off before he can even begin to speak. "You better be more than sure, mate."

His eyes go comically wide as he sputters, nodding his head frantically. Spike grins again, yellow eyes narrowing to wicked slits. It's the first time I've ever seen him look so completely menacing. And then, quick as lightning, he's knocking him back into the wall, the same way I had with Gunn moments ago. The guard groans and goes limp, and Spike lets go of his throat, letting him drop to the ground in a heap.

We pause just long enough for a meaningful look, and then we take off, shooting down the hallway. Spike follows me through the double doors and up the three flights of stairs, out onto the first floor landing.

Directly into a wall of black-clad, armed guards.

There are six of them, it looks like. Two rows of three.

And behind them, from over their shoulders, I can see it. The corner, the one I need to get around in order to find the room Dad's locked in. The two of us stand there, side by side, staring at the wall of guards blocking our path.

My hands twitch.

I feel Spike vibrating beside me, tingling in my fingertips, down my spine. Like little electric shocks rolling off him. I can feel his anticipation, how ready he is for a fight. Can practically taste the blood lust burning in the back of my own throat.

I shift my eyes toward him, trying my hardest to convey what I'm thinking to him as quickly as I can. His eyes widen slightly.

And then I take off, diving straight for the gap I've spotted between two of the guards in the front line. I dodge several blows, weaving between their shoulders and spinning out of the big, meaty hands that reach for me. I clear the human blockade and make a break for the corner, rounding it more quickly than I could have thought.

The whole thing takes fifteen, maybe thirty seconds at most.

I guess preternatural strength isn't the only thing I'm sharing with Spike.

I scramble around the corner and scan the corridor, counting off the doors until I reach the third set on the right, immediately lunging forward and grabbing hold of the double set of door knobs and twisting, hard.

They don't budge.

Of course they don't.

Locked.

I whip my eyes back toward the direction I've just come from and see Spike, rounding the corner, simultaneously dodging blows from two different guards.

"It's locked!" I shout over the blaring of the alarm, hearing in my ears how stupid it sounds even as I say it.

I watch as Spike whirls around and lands a nasty sounding kick to the side of one guard's face. I watch as he flies back, slamming into the wall, slumping to the ground in an unconscious heap.

Seems to be happening a lot.

"Well then," Spike says matter-of-factly, hazarding a glance over his shoulder at me, "kick it in."

I frown, turning back to the wide, thick wooden doors in front of me. They're as tall as the ceiling, and look majorly solid.

Kick it in.

"Sure," I mutter sarcastically, "why didn't I think of that."

There's a loud noise from down the hall, and I turn and look just as four more armed guards come barreling into view.

Spike sees them at the same time I do.

He grabs hold of the guard he's been fighting and launches him into the air, straight into the gang of incoming men. He manages to knock three down, but a third dives around, skirting his collapsed comrades. He lunges, grabbing Spike by the lapels and shoving him back into another set of wooden doors.

I see the stake in his hand at almost the exact time as Spike does, and I shout a warning to him just as he ducks down quickly, narrowly avoiding it as the guard slams it down with enough force that it lodges in the doorframe.

"Any time you wanna get movin' here, pet." He growls out, jumping back to a full standing position. He aims a vicious head butt at the guard in front of him, sending the man staggering backward. "Fine by me."

Oh.

Right.

I turn back to the face the doors in front of me and, emboldened by the little display I've just seen, the sounds of Spike's fight going on behind me, I bend my knee up into my chest and kick out as hard as I can.

My heel comes down hard, directly over the set of doorknobs, and the big wooden doors split open with a loud cracking sound. The left side door smashes into the wall and ricochets back around, hanging limply.

The right side door comes off its hinges all together.

I stand there, blinking.

On the other side of the door, Dad's standing there, arms thrown over his head in a protective stance. I watch, still a little stunned, as he slowly lowers his arms and looks out at me. His eyes go from me, to the ruined wooden doors, to the scattered puffs of plaster on the floor, then back up to me.

"Whoa," he says, staring at me.

"Was kind of thinking that, yeah," I say back. Then, remembering what we're doing here, "Are you ready to go?"

He nods.

I'm about to step into the room when there's a loud scream from behind me. A blurry black mass comes careening over my shoulder and into the room, skidding over the conference table and landing with a thud on the ground.

A second later, Spike appears. He looks a little worse for wear, but I don't see anything to be immediately concerned about.

He leans his elbow against the broken doorframe, his chest heaving in and out.

"Hate to break up the party," he says, smirking at me, bringing his free hand up to wipe the trail of blood away from his nose, "but d'you lot think we could go ahead and get the bloody hell out of here?" He turns his eyes toward my dad, inclining his head. "Hank."

I look at Spike, then back to Dad who's staring a little on the blank side.

As of right now, there aren't any more guards coming down our hallway. But the alarm hasn't stopped ringing, and again, it's only a matter of time.

We still don't even know how to get to the lobby, let alone if that exit's still even there.

"Good idea," I say, stepping into the room and grabbing my dad by the arm.

The three of us step out into the hallway, glancing first to one side and then the other. We could go either way.

I look at Dad, dropping his arm.

"Which way?" I ask, shouting over the alarm.

"That way," he shouts back, pointing around Spike's shoulder to our left.

Just as a fresh wave of black-clad men come thundering around the corner.

Beside me, Spike groans. I hear him mutter under his breath, "Bloody perfect."

I reach for my dad again, grab him around the arm and yank him backward so that Spike and I form a shield in front of him.

"Stay behind me," I tell him forcefully, turning back around to face the incoming men.

Dad comes up beside me instantly, looking like he's about to protest when one of the guards reaches us, lunging for me. I smack his arm away with one hand, curl the other into a fist and smash it into the bridge of his nose. He flies back, literally leaves the ground, sailing over the heads of the other guards and landing several feet away.

Dad's mouth snaps shut and he steps back behind me.

I glance over at Spike. He winks at me.

Then he quickly ducks, dodging an uppercut I hadn't even seen coming. He kicks out automatically and connecting into the guard's chest just as I throw a jab, cross combination at the one now reaching for me.

My fingers are itching, aching slightly, but in a good way. A way that makes me want more. More of the burning in my veins that I'm beginning to recognize. The heady heat that steals through my muscles, lights my nerves on fire. The blood boiling tingliness I'm beginning to crave. Every time my fist connects with a jaw, or foot connects with a stomach, it spurs me onward. Flying blindly forward, spinning and weaving and dodging in near perfect time with the vampire beside me.

Until suddenly we're standing at the end of the hallway, black-clad bodies scattered all around us on either side.

I look over at Spike again, just as he's turning to look at me. His chest is heaving, eyes blazing. Bright and dark at the same time. He stares back at me, and I recognize the expression on his face.

Hunger.

And the pull I feel toward him is nearly overwhelming.

Until behind me, Dad says something. I shake my head and the haze surrounding me clears.

"What?" I ask, turning around to look at him.

"It's this way," he says, probably repeating himself as he ducks around me and heads for a set of doors I would have sworn wasn't there before.

This place is like a rat's maze.

The three of us burst through the doors, out into a long hallway. We run straight down this hallway, to a bank of elevators, through another set of doors, and out into yet another hallway.

I send up a silent thank you to whoever's listening that Dad's here. Otherwise, there's no way we'd ever find our way through all of this.

But this one is different. There are huge windows; nearly floor to ceiling, spilling dappled light all over a big, open lobby. There's an ornate tile pattern on the floor, and a wide, very pretty carpeted staircase leading down to it.

"Where's this closet, then?" Spike asks as the three of us come to a halt, looking out over the banister of the stair rail.

"It's over there," Dad says, pointing in the direction off to the side of a bank of elevators on the lobby floor. I follow the line of his finger and realize we can't get to where he's pointing unless we go through sunlight.

A lot of sunlight.

The entire lobby is bathed in it, from one end to the other.

I turn wide, panicked eyes toward Spike. He looks back at me.

"I'll be fine, luv," he says quietly.

"Okay," I say, turning back to Dad. "Let's go."

The doors crash open behind us, and the three of us whip our heads toward the sound simultaneously in time to see several more guards filing in through the direction we've just come.

Straight for us.

"Yeah, let's," Spike agrees, grabbing for my hand. We lunge for the staircase, practically tripping over each other as we run down toward the tiled floor. Once we reach it, Spike comes to a screeching halt, his feet inches away from the first rays of sunlight.

I stop with him, tell Dad to keep running. I turn back toward my vampire, watching as he struggles to pull his duster off. I realize what he's doing and immediately reach to help him, yanking it off his arms, helping him pull it up over his head.

"Come on!" Dad shouts, and I look up to see him waving us forward. I look back to Spike, making sure he's fully covered. He nods at me, and we take off again, running full tilt into the sunlight, barreling toward the door my dad's already pulling open.

And then it happens. I hear it before I see it, the zipping sound, whirring just inches past my ear, through the leather of Spike's coat and lodging in his back.

An arrow.

A wooden arrow.

Fear. Gripping, ice cold panic floods my chest, cooling the fire that's been burning in my veins as I stare at him, waiting for the keening sound, for Spike to evaporate into dust beside.

But he doesn't.

The duster, I realize. Spike's holding it over his head, out a little ways from his body to block the sun from his face.

The position's stopped the arrow from going through to his heart.

It doesn't mean it's stopped it from hitting him at all.

He roars, staggering forward and I immediately reach for him, looping my arm around his waist to keep him upright. I twist my head around, looking for the source. There, standing on the top of the staircase and looking down at me with cold eyes is Holland, crossbow in hand.

He's holding it at his side. Not aiming it again.

I don't know why.

I don't care.

I turn back toward my Dad and, dragging Spike beside me, launch both of us forward, out of the sunlight and into the safety of the closet interior. We fall to the ground in a heap, and Dad slams the door shut behind us, twists the little flimsy little doorknob lock closed.

"Don't think that'll hold 'em, mate," Spike says breathily, wincing as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. I sit up, too, my eyes locked on my vampire's face.

I don't know why I think that any second I'll see him explode into little pieces.

"It doesn't have to hold them." Dad's not looking at either of us as he speaks. He's frantically searching, knocking down rolls of toilet paper and paper towels and all sorts of cleaning equipment as he searches for something. "At least, not long. Just until I can find it."

I reluctantly drag my eyes away from Spike, over to my dad.

"Find what?" I ask, voice shaking as I try and catch my breath.

There's a pause, the only sounds in the room are our breathing, mingling distantly with the shouts from behind the other side of the door. It's all echoing, too loud in my ears.

My eyes go back to Spike. He looks paler than normal.

"This," Dad says suddenly, drawing my eyes back to him as he reaches behind a stack of old waste baskets and pulls on a little lever.

It looks just like part of the shelving system.

You'd never be able to see it if you didn't know it was there.

There's a little creaking sound, and I watch as a piece of the wall breaks apart, shifts backward, opening up into what looks like a little dark tunnel.

"Right then," Spike says, and our eyes meet again. He smiles at me weakly. "Not so bloody terrible after all."

I hurriedly shove myself to my feet, turning around and offering my hand down to him. He takes it, wincing again as the effort of getting to his feet makes the arrow shift deeper into his back.

Panic grips me again.

"Spike," I say, automatically reaching for him. But he shakes his head, putting his hand out in a stopping motion.

"I'm fine, Buffy." He rolls his shoulders back, making a concerted effort not to wince. "No time."

And he's right. There isn't time. I can hear the hollering growing louder, the sound of footsteps pounding across the tile, coming toward us.

I nod. "We have to go."

Dad leads the way into the cramped tunnel. Spike and I follow, folding ourselves in as small as we can to fit through the door, pressing ourselves up against the walls as best we can to create more space.

Once we're inside, Dad presses a small, hidden button on the side of the wall, beside the opening. I watch as the little trap door slides forward again, shutting us into the small, dark tunnel.

As soon as it clicks shut, another trap door opens. This time, below our feet.

There isn't even time for me to scream.

Without warning, the three of us are dropping. Free falling through the air. It only takes a few seconds, and then we're landing with a wet splash into what I can only assume is sewer water. The three of us look at each other, stunned. I can barely make out their faces; it's so dark down here. Almost pitch black.

And it smells awful.

But we did it, I realize. The tight knot in my stomach, the one that's been growing bigger and bigger by the second ever since first meeting with Dad, begins to loosen just a little.

And in the moment I'm too happy, too completely and totally relieved, that I don't stop to think about whether or not they'll come after us. Whether or not getting out should have been more difficult than it was.

That doesn't matter right now. We made it out.

I glance back and forth between my Dad and Spike, listening to our breathing, echoing off the walls in the dark, dank space. None of us move for a minute. None of us speak.

The same question kind of seems to be floating around between us, all three of us, unspoken.

We made it out.

Now what?