He'd come to talk to her.

There was a lot they needed to talk about.

He'd followed the group of soldiers for a good hour that night, trailing after them as closely as he felt safe. He'd studied them, watched the way they moved, and there was indeed an element of military training at play. Iowa was certainly their leader, a regular Captain Cardboard, and before his eyes ordered out the capture of a Pentak demon, a poisonous, tentacle species that was harmless to humans… mostly. He'd had to tamp down a growl at their cavalier treatment of the creature, gaining a healthy respect for their modified taser guns in the process. They'd tied it securely with nets and chains once it was unconscious, and he'd stalked them back to the hatch in front of the frat house where'd they'd stuffed the thing down inside, following after and slamming the lid shut.

He hadn't stuck around after that. He'd needed to get to Willy's and find out just what it was that Quaiche knew. 'Strong' didn't even start to explain the Lulla demon's reactions to what he'd picked up at the entrance to the underground labs, and knowing that his wife was down there would certainly have him in a panic. Just his luck. He didn't doubt that this whole thing was going to be a colossal pain in the ass on top of being hazardous to his health, and now, because he'd done the stupid thing and gotten involved, he was going to have to deal with whatever emotional fallout came with it.

Making his way across town to the bar, Spike found Quaiche set up in a booth in the back with his head in his hands, pale and drawn, an open bottle of whiskey and an untouched glass on the table in front of him. Sliding onto the bench, he ignored the way the demon jumped at his appearance and reached for the lowball, downing the two fingers worth of alcohol and immediately pouring out another.

"What was that place?"

The demon's whisper was ragged, his voice so hoarse that Spike had to wonder if he'd been weeping… or screaming.

"Was hoping you could tell me mate," he answered back in a low, flat voice that gave nothing away, sipping at the second glass of whiskey. The slow burn helped to settle his hypersensitive nerves, warm and comforting in his belly as his adrenaline began to drain away, leaving him feeling anxious and over-wrought. "Seemed like you got a good look."

"Nightmares," the Lulla choked, his hands white and shaking as he gripped the edge of the table. "A dozen, more, screaming, desperate…"

"Anything else?"

Quaiche's head snapped up hard and fast and he glared at Spike with something akin to hatred burning in his dark eyes.

"That isn't enough?" he hissed, and Spike snarled, showing long, sharp teeth.

"You wanna deal with this yourself you be my bloody guest," he growled. "But there's no way I'm gonna walk into this shit storm blind. So either talk or piss off."

For a minute they glared at each other across the table, one scared and heartsick, one annoyed and fighting growing dread, both of them pissed. The Lulla was the first to drop his eyes, unable to hold the master vampire's gaze, and the show of submission seemed to help both of them calm down. It was natural, the correct order of things, and it made them both feel safer. Spike watched silently when the smaller demon reached for the empty whiskey glass, poured, and took a healthy swallow, running the inside of his wrist over his mouth.

"There are demons down there." His voice was low and rough, like shifting gravel, and Spike slouched lower in the booth, propping one boot up on the bench across from him in an effort to get comfortable. He was used to torture, but a demon like Quaiche wouldn't be, and he got the sinking feeling that this was going to take a while.

"Figured as much," he rumbled. "Followed a couple of the soldier boys. Seems they've been out collectin' for some professor or other. They hauled in a Pentak; seems they've got some guns with real bite."

The Lulla's fingers tightened around his glass, his dark eyes gleaming.

"They're torturing them down there," he bit out. "They're calling it experimentation, doing it for the good of the world." The Lulla sneered. "It's torture," he snarled. "They're the animals!"

For the next ten minutes he struggled painfully through a description of what he'd seen in the nightmares that had crashed over him at the hatch in front of the frat house. It took less time than Spike had thought it would, Quaiche rushing through it as quickly as he could, finishing the bottle of whiskey off just as quickly. When he was finished he drained the last of the amber alcohol out of the glass and dragged one hand hard over his face before dropping his head onto the table. Spike shifted uncomfortably when his shoulders began to shudder and snuffling sounds started to emanate from the cradle of his arms.

"Right," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh. Look, you should go. Try to get some sleep."

"How can I sleep with her in that place?" the demon whispered hoarsely, and Spike doubted that he expected an answer. All the better, because he didn't know what his answer would be. He'd spent a hundred nights or better lying awake in a cold bed, or hanging tattered and bloody from steel chains, unable to sleep because he knew that Dru was out there somewhere in someone else's arms. And she'd liked being hurt.

"You'd be surprised mate," he replied instead. Picking up the empty whiskey bottle, he turned it in his hand and contemplated the label. "You did a number on this stuff; if you can't sleep you'll pass out soon enough."

"I don't want to! Can't you understand that?!" the Lulla demon shouted, shoving off the table and pushing himself to his feet, his hands balling into fists. "She's my wife you soulless son of a bitch!"

Spike's eyes flared gold as he climbed slowly and smoothly to his feet, uncurling himself from the booth like the deadly predator he was. The Lulla held his ground as he went toe to toe with the Master vamp, and Spike had to give him credit for balls, but every demon in the damn place was watching now, and he had a certain image to maintain. Fisting his hands in the demon's jacket, he turned and dragged him easily across the bar, tossing him bodily through the door into the parking lot.

"Alright, listen up!" he snarled, grabbing him again and jerking him off his feet. "You're drunk, and you're wife's gone, so you get a pass for being stupid this once, but if it was anyone other than me you'd be bleedin' out right now. So I suggest you go home and lock the doors, stay in where nothin' can kidnap you."

"And what am I supposed to do then?" he asked, his hands wrapped around Spike's wrists, though he didn't attempt to get out of the vampire's grip. "What am I supposed to do then?!"

Spike snarled a sigh and dropped the Lulla back onto his feet, turning away in exasperation.

"Go home," he urged again. "I'll… I'll see what I can do. I've got a… friend that might be able to help."

"You'll help?" the demon asked, and there was caution and incredulity in his voice.

"Said I would, didn't I?" Spike snapped. "Now beat it!"

Quaiche flinched, then dipped his chin in a quick, shallow bow before dashing off into the darkness. The whisper of a silent thank you floated in on the breeze and Spike rolled his shoulders, trying to shrug it off. He didn't know what he was doing, playing at being a good guy, but it ran a strange, electric zing down that back of his spine and he didn't like it.

But he could just write it off as watching his own back, right? If these soldier boys were in the business of demon hunting, it was best to keep his ear to the ground.

And speaking of keeping an ear to the ground…

Spike walked back inside of the bar and he must've looked pretty grim because the patrons were keeping their eyes studiously downcast. Willy's gaze darted over him nervously before he put his glass and towel beneath the edge of the bar and scuttled sideways in an obvious attempt to avoid him. It was as easy as breathing to flash over to his side, to latch on to the wide collar of his wrinkled, short-sleeved button-up and hauling him half-way over the bar with a wicked snarl.

"Spike!" the bartender yelped, "Buddy, what…"

"What do you know about the lab at the college," Spike barked, showing canines that had just started to sharpen."

"Lab? Wh,what lab?" Willy chuckled nervously, tugging feverishly at Spike's wrists in a fruitless effort to free himself.

"The one under the frat house!" Spike snarled, tightening his grip on the greasy informant's collar. "The one that spits out tin soldiers like a soddin' toy factory!"

"Man I don't know anything about a lab!" Willy squeaked, his face turning red as he struggled. "All I know is that something's up. I've got customers disappearing left and right, skipping out on their tabs…"

"Which customers?"

"All of them!" the man yelped. "Vamps, werewolves, demons. There's no pattern to it, just that they're disappearing. Nobody knows where they're going, what's happening."

"And you didn't think this was something you should mention?" Spike hissed between sharp teeth.

"This is the Hellmouth man!" Willy protested. "The Slayer lives here! We all just thought she was havin' a bad month, maybe Angelus came through and pissed her off again!"

At the mention of his grandsire, of his history with Buffy that the whole bloody demonic world knew about, Spike's eyes flashed, anger coursing through his veins like liquid hate. Tightening his grip he jerked Willy forward and then shoved him back hard against the shelves, bottles clinking and rattling dangerously as he snarled and bared sharp teeth. The bartender flinched violently and turned his face away, his eyes clenched shut and his hands thrown up in surrender.

"Idiot!" Spike growled vehemently.

Shoving off the bar with both hands, he stormed out, slamming the door hard enough behind him to splinter the wooden frame.

He'd trekked over to the house on Revello Drive after that, intent on a long talk with the Slayer, and on the way over he'd done the best he could to convince himself that he wasn't going soft. He had his own dog in this fight, so what did it matter if he was helping the Lulla in the interim? Still, he found himself immensely relieved to find the Slayer's house quiet and dark when he arrived, Joyce's car gone and no one around to speak of. He'd picked the locks and slipped inside to swap out his clothes, finding his boots and his duster arranged neatly in the front hall. He'd thought briefly of leaving a note but thought better of it, and had gone back to the crypt in Restview to spend the rest of the night writing, trying to get all his thoughts down on paper in an effort to better understand.

It didn't help.

He spent the next few nights hunting in the dark, following every soldier he could find, observing them, studying their movements and their hierarchy, careful to note the use of any strategy or weapon that they used. Night after night he watched them, watched them take vampires and demons alike without discretion, and every night he swung by the Slayer's house but she was never there.

Until now.

He'd come to talk… but it was pretty obvious that that wasn't going to happen.

The Slayer was standing in the middle of her kitchen, her stance wide and solid, her fingers gripping her biceps tight as though she could hold herself together with sheer, physical strength. There was something wild in her tonight, her hazel eyes dark and shining, her long blonde hair wicked around her face, and it sparked the devil in him. There was a tension humming between them like a wire keyed up tight, but then a smile broke over her face, snapping that tension and sending a wave of warmth through his chest.

"You alright Slayer?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow in her direction. "Look like you could use a little… rough and tumble."

He'd curled his tongue behind his teeth in a teasing effort to provoke her, so he was left shocked and wide eyed by her response.

"You offering?"

Recovering quickly, his mouth curved up at the corners in an honest grin. Huh. Slayer wanted to play did she? Interesting. Sure, she looked like she was ready to pop, to flare like a match until she was all but burned away, but he didn't think that she'd give in to it so easily. She was the type to keep that side of herself well under wraps, and he had to wonder what had gone so wrong that she actually looked happy at the prospect of sparring with him.

Because that was what she meant right?

Jesus.

"Backyard?" he choked.

"Backyard."