Chapter 19:

"Care to be a bit more specific?" Spike asked.

Buffy thought it best to wade into the shallow end. She still couldn't be sure he was actually going to play fair. "How did you meet?"

"Some book release party crawling with pretentious stuffed-shirt types. Was there to do a write-up for a lit mag. Not my crowd."

"Was it hers?"

"It was her sodding birthright. Old money. Still an' all, she was a thrill-seeking fitbird, eager to slum it with the bad boy type. A clichéd fantasy, but I was willing to indulge her. Should've left it at that."

"You married rather quickly."

He shrugged. "We were young."

"What went wrong?"

"Fucking tourist, wasn't she? Vacationing on the dark side. Once the novelty wore off, found she couldn't sustain a marriage on fucks and fringe culture alone. Unfortunately, by then I was already hers, and she was…" he paused, seeming to choose his next word carefully, "unfaithful."

"I've always suspected infidelity was the motive."

"Infidelity is the word. But she didn't die for what she'd done."

Spike looked pensive, flicking ash from the tip of his cigarette, rounding the cherry on the edge of one boot.

"It's fine if you don't want to continue," Buffy said softly. It most assuredly wasn't fine, but she knew better than to push him.

"Told you I would, didn't I?" he replied neutrally. "We had a row, the last in a series of increasingly incendiary arguments. Said I was beneath her, and bloody well meant it."

"You couldn't abide blasphemy. Not from her. Death alone wasn't enough." Buffy intentionally kept her tone equable, devoid of judgement. "Crucifixion was the only appropriate penalty."

"Second Coming's not much for turning the other cheek." Spike took a long drag on his cigarette, rounded his mouth and blew a few smoke rings. "Fire 'n brimstone was in order."

"And the next victim? The prostitute…Darla? What did she do to warrant it?"

"Not a thing. None of 'em did. Never claimed otherwise."

The other five weren't 'kills", they were—

"Sacrifices," she murmured, more to herself than him.

"Cecily woke the demon. It had to be fed."

"You only needed their blood; why make them endure the rest?"

"They were nearly gone when I hung 'em up. Didn't suffer long. Those crosses weren't punishments; they were altars."

The world is full of martyrs. Just begging to die for a cause.

"The bodies were offerings? To whom?"

"To Him. For what I'd done." Spike cast his eyes to the ceiling as if trying to recall something. "Leviticus 17:10: I will set my face against any Israelite or any foreigner residing among them who eats blood, and I will cut them off from the people. For the life of a creature is in the blood, and I have given it to you to make atonement for yourselves on the altar; it is the blood that makes atonement for one's life."

"Atonement? You?"

"Well, more like appeasement, but even I can't change scripture."

"What's the distinction?"

"Atonement requires repentance. This was mollification. Belonging to the Trinity doesn't make me immune to His wrath. 'Course, it wasn't only to save m'self. For their sacrifice, reckoned they deserved at least the fate of Dismas."

The penitent thief, crucified to the right of Jesus, asking to be remembered in Christ's kingdom.

"I'm surprised you cared what became of their souls. You've never expressed remorse."

"I'm not expressing it now. I recognize the difference between what is deemed right and wrong. I even do right, when it suits me. But I don't feel it. All the ways you've tried to fix me won't change what's inside. This is it, Buffy. This is me."

"I understand that."

"Maybe. You don't accept it, though, and I need you to. Can you?"

She wasn't certain why he would ask this of her, and she had no response for it.

He stood, dropped his cigarette butt on the floor, stepped on it. "I suppose we'll find out soon enough."

"Spike?"

"Hm?"

"Do you feel love?"

"I do."

"Did you love her?"

"I did."

"Do…" Buffy stared into her lap, afraid to pose the question, afraid to see his face while she did. "Do you love me?"

She heard him approaching, saw the scuffed toes of his boots stop in front of her, the hem of his duster sway. Shyly, she tilted her head back to look at him standing above her.

"Waste of a question when you already know the answer," he said, then bent to kiss her—gently, languidly, demanding nothing more.

They separated at the sound of a fist banging against metal. Buffy glanced at the door, then back at Spike. "How does this end?" she asked.

Spike gave her a small smile, winked. "Session's over, Doctor." Grabbing the gun from the table, he crossed the room in long strides.

The pounding intensified, rattling the warehouse door. "Buffy!"

"Ease up, Liam." Spike said as he retracted the bolt lock.

"Fuck you! Where's Buffy?!"

Coming up behind Spike, Buffy placed a hand on his shoulder. "Get back," she whispered. She couldn't guarantee Angel had come alone, or unarmed. "Let me."

Without argument, Spike walked to the office area and sat on the tabletop, placing the pistol next to him.

"Angel, I'm here," Buffy said. "I'm going to open the door. He'll stay back, but you have to keep calm." No response. "Angel?"

"Yes," he said finally, the strain evident in his voice. "I get it."

Buffy took a deep steadying breath, grabbed the chain pulley and began raising the door; Angel ducked through the gap as soon as he could fit, swept Buffy into his arms and spun her around. He set her down and held her tightly. Over her husband's shoulder, Buffy caught sight of Spike, his stony expression, and felt the color rush to her cheeks.

After a final squeeze, Angel held her out at arm's length, kind brown eyes brimming with love, concern. He searched her face; her blush deepened at the thought of all the ways she'd betrayed him. Just as his gaze became unbearable, he spoke. "Did he hurt you?"

"No more'n necessary," Spike answered for her. "You should see the other guy." He gestured to his face, the bruises fading but still noticeable. "Quite the fighter, our girl."

"She's not your girl, you goddamn psycho." Angel stepped forward and put Buffy behind him, shielding her. "Try me again and see what kind of fighter I am when I haven't been fucking sucker-punched."

Spike hopped off the table, started to advance, "With pleasure, you great poof."

Buffy quickly moved between them, one hand on her husband's chest. "Angel, don't," she said, then to Spike, "Back. Off." Both men halted, albeit reluctantly. "Now that we've dispensed with the dick measuring—Shut up, Spike," she hurriedly cut off whatever lewd comment he was about to make, "can we give it a rest?"

Angel glared; Spike sneered; no one moved. Buffy caught Spike's eye and mouthed, please.

Jaw muscle visibly twitching, Spike returned to his perch on the table's edge. After lighting another cigarette, he nodded to the chairs in front of him and said, "Take a seat, mate," the or else implied by the hand resting casually on the gun at his side.

Begrudgingly, Angel sat. Spike picked up the roll of duct tape and handed it to Buffy, "Do the honors?"

When she hesitated, Angel said, "It's ok, baby. I know you have to. Go ahead."

Slowly she taped each of Angel's wrists to an arm of the chair. She felt detached from her body, separated from the hands she watched bind her husband at the behest of a killer. A killer who loved her. A killer she—no, she wasn't ready to admit that to anyone, least of all herself.

"I have a hunch he'll need a gag as well," Spike said, interrupting her thoughts.

"His nose is broken." Even her voice sounded foreign to her. "He needs to breathe."

"That's debatable," Spike replied sardonically. "Best hope he keeps his fucking gob shut."

"So, what's next?" she asked, attempting to sound confident. "Obviously you're not planning to just let us leave."

"No, not just." Spike flicked his still-smoldering cigarette right past the skin of Angel's face. A taunt and a test, Buffy knew. Thankfully, Angel remained silent, though if looks could kill...

You asked me how this ends?" Spike continued. "We all have our prices to pay." He picked up his dagger, unfolded it. "Time's come to settle up."

"Don't you fucking touch her—!"

"Oi!" Spike shouted, turning his attention to Buffy, his stare pinning her like a butterfly to a spreading board. "I won't tell him again."

Angel's unflappable courage was one of the things she'd admired most about him. She'd always felt safe under his protection. He would never back down from danger, especially where she was concerned. But then, neither would Spike.

"It's ok," she said to Spike in her most soothing therapist's tone. "Explain it to me."

After a beat, Spike said, "Death isn't your price. I told you that's not what this is about."

"Buffy, go. Run. The door's still open. You can't believe a word he says. Please, get out of here."

In an instant, Spike was on his feet and using the butt of the gun to strike Angel's temple. Buffy stood stupefied for a protracted moment before kneeling at her husband's side. He was unconscious but breathing, his pulse steady. Aghast, Buffy stared up at Spike. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.

"I did warn him, luv," Spike offered.

She couldn't argue with that, but it didn't make her feel any better.