Chapter 16:

Buffy stood under the showerhead, its stuttering low-pressure spray far from relaxing. Not that it mattered. She just wanted to feel clean again, and feared she never would.

She was covered in him. His hands, his lips, that tongue. They'd fucked as if it were sport. He'd been relentless. Pain/pleasure/pain, he'd overwhelmed her senses. It was a bombardment, and she'd yielded completely. Like Dorothy stepping into Oz, she'd heard in Sensurround, seen in Technicolor. By the end of it there was nothing she had managed to hold back from him. She'd never been so brazen.

She'd never felt so wanted.

All the filthy ways he'd praised her, his voice a husky hum that set her skin buzzing. And her name, once spoken, was repeated like a mantra, with such ardor that she could have come simply from the sound of it.

Goddamn him.

This shower was as much a stall tactic as it was a necessity. After they'd fallen away from one another, battered and spent, her mind quickened as her heartrate slowed. She'd left the bed, averting her eyes as Spike lounged naked and shameless, lit cigarette in hand. He'd been quiet during her retreat to the bathroom, but she'd felt him tracking her. Like prey.

Reluctantly, Buffy turned off the water and grabbed a towel that may have been soft once, long ago. She was sick of staying in these shitholes, obligatory though they were. Cash only and no questions asked. No cops either, should anyone happen to recognize William the Bloody.

She stepped toward the door, then hesitated, her hand shaking while it lingered near the knob. Things were uncomplicated here. Alone. She had no idea what the fuck she was going to say to him. She had no idea what the fuck she was doing. She opened the door.

Spike was gone, along with the clothes he'd been wearing. Buffy stared at the empty bed, the disheveled sheets upon which she had willingly been devoured by a murderer, a psychopath, and—how could she?—a patient.


The whiskey tasted like petrol, but it would get him just as drunk as top shelf, so fuck it. Spike perched on a stool near the back of the bar, holding his third glass. The place was a true dive, but of course that's why he'd chosen it. Also needed to be somewhere Elizabeth wasn't.

Buffy. Fucking hell.

She'd been a sight. Her level of disinhibition was unexpected. He'd assumed she'd have to be coached in savagery, but she was a natural. Matched him blow for blow, then threw in a few of her own. It was madness, and bloody exquisite. Afterward, he'd watched her darkness dissipate, leaving her shy as a schoolgirl.

He pictured all the ways he could rid her of that modesty, and how quickly.

He'd wasted too much time punishing her.

A blind furor had ignited within him the moment she scarpered; he'd warmed himself by it, let it sustain him while in Sunnydale, then fuel his escape. Muted now, but still present, his anger was interred in the same black heart that fancied screwing with her head, manipulating her emotions. Pursue, withdraw, charm, menace—an endless dance. His feelings for her were genuine, yet impure. He adored her, and resented her for it. They both knew he was not a good man.

"You really aren't."

Spike glanced over his shoulder. Tall, dark, shaved head, perfectly manicured goatee, gold earring. Robin Wood.

"Oh, balls," Spike muttered. "It's come to this, has it?"

"Very careless, Spike," Wood replied, po-faced as always.

"Bugger off, before you ruin the start to a perfectly good bender."

"You'll be spotted."

"Half these punters have records; the others are lucky they haven't been nicked. Toss in an active warrant or two: no one sees, and no one tells." Spike drained his glass and signaled for another. "Only problem is they serve nothing better than rotgut. But I'm no snob."

A barmaid poured his drink, slid it to him. "Ta," he said, then gestured in Wood's direction. "And one for this geezer."

The poor girl looked around bemusedly. "No, of course not," Spike said, placing several bills on the bar top. "The wanker's teetotal."

She tucked the money into her bra and turned away, still puzzled but tipped well enough not to care.

"Why do you pull stupid shit like that? Are you actively trying to get caught?"

Spike raised his glass to the man who wasn't beside him. "Havin' a bit of fun. For her, it's another night in a den of drunken fools. She's seen stranger things."

"What are you still doing here?" Wood asked. Demanded, rather.

"Not even tipsy yet."

"Stop fucking around. You know what I'm talking about."

"Got sidetracked. We scrapped," Spike said, "then we shagged. Equally aggressive."

"I can see. You look like you went through a fucking windshield."

"It'll heal. She's in worse shape than I look. I just had the good sense to avoid her face." He took a generous swallow of liquor. "Anyway, it didn't put her off."

Wood sighed. "Where is she?"

"Grappling with her conscience. Figured I'd leave her to it."

"And if she bolts?"

"She won't." As he said it, he knew it to be true.

"Then take her and go. I don't want you here."

Spike patted himself down, searching for smokes. "Turning over in your grave, principal?"

"Something like that."

"No peace when I'm around. Hardly a unique problem, mate."

Wood pointed to Spike's eyebrow. "I give you that scar?" he asked, sounding a jot too pleased with himself.

"Brass knuckles tend to leave a mark." Spike lit a cigarette, dragged deeply. "But then, so do fangs."

A touch to the side of the neck, the jagged outline of a bite. "It itches."

Spike knocked back what was left of his drink, then stood to leave. He gave Wood a slight nod. "Means it's healing."


She heard him approaching. Fully dressed and packed, Buffy sat wringing the straps of her duffel bag. Spike had been gone for hours. It occurred to her now that she'd never considered leaving him. She ran through her reasons—their deal, her safety, the fact that he'd most certainly hunt her down. Still, there was no ignoring the way her breath caught when she recognized the sound of his boots on the stairs.

She did her best to appear composed as he strode through the door. Underneath the familiar scent of tobacco and leather was the sharp tang of cheap whiskey.

He took her bag, picked up his own. "C'mon, pet. We've got ground to cover."

"You've been drinking."

He said, "Not nearly enough," and herded her out of the room, into the car. His tone left no space for argument. She didn't press him.

He was silent as he drove, chain-smoking and flicking the smoldering butts out the window. His mood hung heavy around him; it worried her. He wasn't the brooding type.

"Do you mind if I turn on the radio?" she asked, more to gauge his response than anything else.

"Whatever blows your skirt up, luv," he replied humorlessly, eyes straight ahead, using the cherry of one cigarette to light the next.

"Spike," she said, attempting to be cautious, "what's wrong?"

"Difficult question. Boring as well. Pass."

How many times had they been here before? "Did something happen while you were out?"

"Only in my head."

Buffy suspected he meant that literally. "Have you been experiencing symptoms?" She had no clue if he was taking medication. Hadn't thought to ask, considering. "Alcohol can exacerbate—"

"Leave off, will you?" he snapped, "I had a few down the pub. Quite a few less than I'd like. Wasn't the problem."

"I wasn't lecturing you. I'm saying given the circumstances, it's understandable that you'd…that things would resurface." She was out of practice navigating this particular minefield with him.

"The way I figure, once you've fucked the patient that's pretty much it for therapizin', Doctor."

Oh-ho. Well, at least that was more like him. Throwing her guilt in her face, simply because he could. Baiting her for a fight. He'd always preferred sparring to introspection. The man could be such an asshole, and it was clear he wanted her to tell him so, but she knew this game well and refused to play.

She withdrew. "Alright, Spike."

He resumed his silence for several miles, then sighed, exhaling smoke. "That was cruel of me," he said, sounding surprisingly contrite. "We can talk, but ask for something simpler, yeah?"

When she didn't respond, he prompted, "Buffy? Go on, then."

The thrill of hearing him use her call name had yet to fade. She hoped the feeling would pass before he began exploiting it. If he hadn't already, which was just as likely.

She thought for a moment, trying to find something he wouldn't consider loaded. "Ok…how did you escape Sunnydale?" Quickly, she added, "And don't say you just 'walked'."

"Suppose I can tell you, now we're chums," he said lightly. She was relieved to see an improvement in his mood.

"Well, that," she added, "and you love to brag."

"Bonus," he said, tossing his most recent cigarette. "Went like this: little over a month ago, I started playing up to the orderlies. No more rows, no taking the mick, nothing. I was a fucking boy scout."

"My sympathies. Must have been very difficult for you," she teased.

"Ha bloody ha. May I continue?"

"Please do."

"Right. So, I'm laying it on thick for a couple weeks, and they start to cut me some slack. Released from isolation, granted yard time. Most importantly, given back my clothes."

"Your street clothes?" she asked, somewhat incredulous.

"Yeah, the daft gits. Even my leather, though I couldn't wear it. Their incompetence did have its limits."

Buffy glanced at his platinum hair. "Tell me they weren't reckless enough to allow a patient to access hydrogen peroxide," Buffy said, "Especially a violent offender."

" 'Course not, but I'd gotten used to that in the clink." Spike said. "You remember." A statement, not a question.

She remembered. He was just as handsome with dark hair.

Spike grabbed his pack of Marlboros, saw it was empty, and tossed it over his back. "There should still be a few left. Do us a favor?"

Buffy twisted in her seat to reach his carton. Grabbing a fresh box, she packed the tobacco the way she'd seen him do, removed the cellophane, opened the box top, and positioned a cigarette slightly higher than the rest. It wasn't until he accepted the pack and drew the cigarette out with his teeth that she registered what she'd done.

"Thanks," Spike said, retrieving his Zippo from its place on the dashboard.

Had he not noticed? How could he not have noticed? Until now, he'd steered the car with one knee while prepping a new pack. She'd never done it for him, and he'd never asked her to.

The gesture had been reflexive. She'd known what he wanted and how he wanted it, so she'd given it to him without a thought. It was small, but intimate—a normal woman riding next to her man.

She watched Spike light up, anxiety edging in on her. Something was shifting between them; something that went beyond lust. She couldn't bring herself to ask if he felt it as well, so she said, "What did you do next?" as steadily as she could manage.

"Every day in the yard I watched the staff. Took note of the most negligent and bided my time."

"What was your plan for getting beyond the gate?"

"That's the best part," Spike said, "All the exits were mechanized. During the day, locks were only activated if someone wearing a functioning patient ID bracelet went near 'em. Otherwise, you passed on through, no problem."

"Those things are heat sealed, and even the most ineffective staff wouldn't give you sharp objects."

"You're right, but I brought my own." Spike said, flashing fang. "Not like they could file down my teeth."

She had overlooked it at the time, but Buffy recalled seeing the broken bracelet in his lockbox. "You do think of everything."

"Told you as much." Spike said with a mischievous grin. "I waited until I saw an opportunity in the yard. Only one bloke for the lot of us out there, and he was the laziest. I'd already stashed my necessities in the garden shed; as soon as some nutter caused a disturbance, I grabbed my gear, removed the poxy bracelet, and just took a—" He considered for a moment, and said, "bowl of chalk."

"Huh?"

"Walk, luv." He said, wearing his best smug expression.

Buffy shook her head. "One: that's cheating," she said, "Two: again, I say, huh?"

"Rhyming slang."

"You're making that up."

"Nope. It's an old one."

"Explain how that makes any kind of sense."

Spike shrugged, "Fuck if I remember. Some are more complicated than others. Look it up."

"I would, but my phone is on the side of a highway in Kansas."

Another grin, this time somewhat lascivious. "You'll just have to trust me, then."

Buffy opened her mouth—quip at the ready—then halted, sobering.

"I'll never trust you, Spike." As she said it, she knew it to be true.

It saddened her. Not the fact itself, but how strongly she wished it were false. Mercifully, Spike chose not to respond. Buffy turned her face to the window so he wouldn't see the sudden appearance of tears in her eyes.