.

.

In the end, working in the crappy part of town had its advantages. It took Buffy less than a block to find an abandoned store whose back door had been kicked down and left open to the elements and the street addicts and the alley cats. The inside smelled more vile than any demon lair she'd ever had the misfortune to stumble upon, but she hoped it would put Furry off their scent for at least a little while.

Finding blood was the last thing she wanted to do, but her need for answers propelled her onwards when all she wanted was to lie down and Rip Van Winkle the rest of her existence away. Buffy barricaded Spike inside as best she could and set out as soon as the sun rose the next morning, looking for some place that catered to both their nutritional needs.

She made her way back to where she'd encountered Spike the night before, half-remembering a deli that she thought would fill the ticket in the vicinity. It was still early, the streets only starting to show signs of life, when she stumbled upon a corpse. The clothes triggered a sense of familiarity despite the savaged state of the body, and when she squatted down to take a closer look at woman's face, she confirmed that it was Spike's victim – the victim who had been plenty alive when Buffy had seen her last.

Hands shaking – no matter how many times she encountered death, she didn't think she would ever get used to it – she backed away quickly, looking left and right to see if anybody else had noticed the body or her presence. Buffy didn't want to get dragged into yet another crime scene investigation; there was a good chance she was still on Sunnydale's Most Wanted list, and Los Angeles wasn't far enough away for her to risk it. There was nothing she could do for the woman now, and someone else would find her soon enough.

That someone else could deal with the cops. It was Buffy's job to deal with the thing that had done this.

She hurried around the corner, thinking hard, connections snapping into place. The woman had had Spike's scent on her... and something with massive claws had killed her. Buffy couldn't be certain that the gouges were Furry's handiwork, but she couldn't be certain they weren't. Either way it was evidence, however tenuous, that Spike might not have been feeding her a load of baloney in order to save his own skin.

Buffy still didn't trust him, but the discovery of the now-dead woman was enough to convince her she'd done the right thing in keeping him alive.

For now.

The deli was where she'd remembered it, with discreet Open 24 Hours and Special Orders Welcome! signs displayed in the bottom right corner of the storefront window. The wizened woman at the counter didn't blink when she made her request, to Buffy's relief. She didn't have the mental energy to concoct an explanation for why she needed so much fresh animal blood.

When the attendant returned with her order, Buffy eyed the sack reluctantly, tightening her grip on her hard-earned cash while the woman waited impassively for her hand over the creased bills. With the memory of the mauled corpse fresh in her mind, and the thought that she didn't want to suffer the same fate, she eventually stretched out her hand and made the exchange.

Buffy gnawed her bagel as she made the return trip, forcing down nourishment despite the queasiness in the pit in her stomach, and forcing one exhausted foot in front of the other.

Back at their hideout, she righted a chair and sat down heavily. Spike lay in a crumpled heap where she'd left him, looking as dead as it was possible for a vampire to be without turning to dust. Buffy still wanted nothing more than to lie down and pass out, but she'd already gone through all the trouble of first saving Spike's ass, and then finding him something to eat. Sleep could wait a few minutes more.

She took one of the Styrofoam tubs from the bag and squatted next to Spike, and slowly trickled the pig's blood down his gashed throat. Buffy kept her gaze averted despite the mess she knew she was making of it, desperate not to throw up from the sight or the smell. She'd thought about trying to clean Spike up some, or maybe bandage his more gaping wounds, but both were beyond her at the moment. Supplies were nonexistent, and she was so exhausted she thought she might actually sleep soundly for the first time in a week. She was pretty sure vampires couldn't catch infections like regular people, so she made do with positioning him as comfortably as she could before securing his arms to a pipe jutting up from behind a demolished section of drywall, just in case he woke up and decided to finish what he'd started in the alley. With the last of her energy, she crawled over to the cleanest spot she could find and curled up to sleep.

.

.

The dreams came anyway, and Buffy woke wearier than ever. Too sore to move, she stared dully at Spike's waxy, immobile face and tried to find the energy to care about, well, anything. If Spike's assassin demon came bursting through her makeshift barricade right then, she was pretty certain she wouldn't – couldn't – move a muscle in self-defense.

A glance at her watch told her she was due for her shift in an hour, but even if she didn't have a mangled vampire to babysit, there was no way she could manage eight hours of waitressing hell. Not post-ripping something in her shoulder and then sleeping on a cold, filthy floor, and all that after her mad nocturnal dash carrying the literal equivalent of dead weight. Her Slayer constitution only went so far.

With a groan, Buffy rolled to her back and stared at the drooping, stained acoustic tiles overhead. There went that job. And paycheque. "Stupid Spike…" she muttered.

Stupid Spike let out a horrific, gurgling gasp that sent Buffy bolt upright with a wild-eyed gasp of her own. She turned to find him staring at her with pure panic, head jiggling precariously atop his neck as he tried desperately to speak.

"Shh, Spike, shh," she said, hurrying over to him despite the protests of her aching body. She palmed his cheeks, stilling his frantic movements before he managed to accidentally self-decapitate.

Though Buffy loathed the cold-blooded murderer beneath her hands with every ounce of her soul, she couldn't help but be affected by his stark expression of utter terror. What would it be like to wake up in such a state, unable to speak, undoubtedly in horrific pain, and restrained on top of it all? She couldn't imagine.

"Shh," she said again. "You're safe."

Spike stared up at her with a mute plea, which Buffy took to mean he had questions he wanted answered, so she filled him in on what had happened. As she spoke, he relaxed marginally, recovering his calm enough to lay still and allow his body to continue its unnatural regeneration. Which, honestly, was much too slow for her liking. Probably his as well.

"I'm going to give you some more blood, okay?"

He didn't give her any answer, not that he could. She reached for and uncapped the carton of pig's blood she'd left by the wall, grimacing at the odor and the slimy, semi-congealed appearance. "Ugh," she said.

From the face he made, it was obvious Spike agreed.

"Beggars can't be choosers. I'll get you some fresh stuff later, but it's this or nothing for now." Ignoring the unmistakable look he aimed at her neck, she upended the carton into his mouth, trying and failing to create a slow, steady stream. Dark, chunky fluid glopped into his mouth, then oozed right back out of his gaping neck.

Spike gurgled, flecks of blood flying everywhere.

Buffy bolted.

When she came back, breath sour and stomach still clenched, he'd closed his eyes and was once again as still as death. The dark, sticky blood pooled beneath his head and neck did little to dispel the impression of a corpse, and Buffy shivered at the sight.

"Spike?" she whispered.

Nothing.

Kneeling by his side, she repositioned his head as best she could, half-wondering in the back of her mind just how the whole magical regeneration thing worked. Did flesh need to be touching flesh for it to knit back together? Could he mend wrong, and if he did, would it be like a broken bone that needed to be re-broken to set right?

She supposed she'd find out.

The tiny part of her that hadn't yet completely given up on life thought that maybe she ought to takes notes so that when – if, the remaining, far less hopeful part of her part of her mind corrected – if she ever saw Giles again, she could share them with him. He'd be fascinated, probably even jealous he hadn't been here to observe firsthand. She shook her head, smiling despite the constriction in her heart. Watchers were the ultimate in weird.

Buffy fed Spike the rest of the blood, looking away as she had the first time and hoping that enough was being absorbed, however that worked, to make a difference. If Giles were here –

But he wasn't. He wasn't here to answer any questions for her, and while Buffy knew he was only a phone call away, it was a phone call that was never going to happen. No matter how much she missed him. Her watcher had been tortured and lost the woman he loved, all because she'd been stupid enough to fall in love with a monster with a jack-in-the-box soul. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into the palms of her hands until that pain pushed away the other in her heart.

She didn't deserve Giles. Didn't deserve any of them. She'd left her sacred calling behind, and along with it her support system, and that was that. She'd just have to make do on her own. It was better this way, anyhow. If she screwed up, the only life at stake was her own.

Well, and Spike's, but no loss there.

Seeing as she wasn't ready to get dead yet, at least not this way, Buffy climbed to her feet. She figured the demon had hunkered down for the day, as they tended to do, but would be after them again come nightfall. That left her a handful of hours to head back to the YWCA and collect the few things she'd stored there, as well as more blood for Spike and food for herself, before another fun fight-or-flight-filled night.

At the Y, she took advantage of the showers, gratefully discarding her filthy, bloodstained uniform for comfortable old sweats. Tacky and cheap polyester just wasn't made for the Slayer lifestyle. Her uniform was significantly worse for the wear, and the manager had made it clear that any additional uniforms would be coming out of her own pocket. Not that it was likely they'd take her back after she missed her shift anyway, she thought, dropping it in the trashcan on her way out. Fired before she'd even received her nametag, how pathetic was that?

Duffel bag over her good shoulder and all stocked up on food and first aid supplies, including double-strength Tylenol for herself, Buffy made her way back to the abandoned store under the late afternoon sun.

The stench of their temporary shelter, a hundred-fold worse after the clean sunshine-filled air, made her eyes water. Spike was still out cold, and in the boarded-up gloom, it was hard to tell if his wounds had healed any.

Buffy examined him, and wondered why the demon had been after Spike in the first place. And where was Drusilla? Would she have to be on guard against her as well? The questions circled in her mind, with no answers forthcoming until Spike could give them.

Since it didn't look like that would be any time soon, Buffy settled for doing what she could to patch him up in the meantime. If they had to run, he was going to need some help keeping his insides on the inside.

She started by cutting away the remainder of his right pant leg. The pale flesh of his calf had been gouged away, and Buffy bandaged it up. Neither of his legs appeared to be broken at least, which made her running away plan more viable. The material over his upper left thigh was stiff and crusty with blood, but a cautious prod didn't indicate enough damage to require her care, thankfully. Getting off the rest of Spike's pants wasn't high on her to-do list, or on her to-do list at all.

Next came his abdomen, which she'd been doing her level best not to think about or look at. With a grimace, she pulled away the tatters of his black shirt, picking out whatever bits of fabric she could without poking around in Spike's guts. Since she had no clue what parts were supposed to be where in there, she had to hope that whatever magic kept vampires alive would sort it out. Buffy slipped her hand beneath Spike, bringing the bandage under his back and then over his belly, again and again, creating a second skin. When she finished, she looked up at Spike's face and found him staring at her with palpable hunger.

Buffy had unbound him while she was gone, in case he'd needed to defend himself, but the look in his eyes had her glad she'd re-tied him to the pipe when she'd returned. She had no doubt that he'd have gone for her throat by now if he could've.

She suppressed her shiver, and held up a roll of duct tape. "This is going around your neck. To…" She flapped her hand at his oozing wound, hesitating. "Keep your head from falling off," she said. No point in sugarcoating it.

Spike managed to look both distressed and affronted at the same time.

"Do I need to… straighten things? In there?" she said. "Or will they heal up on their own? I mean, I think it would be kinda funny if your pipes got crossed, but since I need answers from you…"

He only glared in response, and Buffy sighed.

"All right, let's try this: blink once for yes, and twice for no. Got it?" Spike blinked once, which she took to mean he did, so she said, "Do I have to make sure everything's lined up, or will the duct tape be good enough?"

Spike rolled his eyes, and Buffy frowned. Oh, right. One question at a time. "Can I just duct tape you up?"

He hesitated, then blinked once.

"Oh, thank god," Buffy muttered. She worked the edge of the duct tape loose, then paused, staring blankly at Spike's neck and thinking about just how deeply weird her life was. She was pretty sure she had to be the first person in the history of the universe to ever duct tape a vampire's head back onto his neck. If the duct tape company had a prize for most creative uses for their product, Buffy figured she'd take first place, no problem. "Okay, I'm just going to… do this."

She worked quickly, ignoring the unnatural way Spike's neck moved beneath her fingers. Some of his hair got caught in the tape, and Buffy found herself apologizing before remembering that she really didn't care about an evil vampire's comfort. When it was done, she sat back on her heels and examined her handiwork. It would hold, hopefully. Bonus points for how undignified it looked, which was never of the bad when it came to mortal enemies. She managed a ghost of smile before it slipped away, too difficult to sustain.

Spike was less pleased, his expression promising messy retribution. Buffy got up to rummage in her duffel bag, then squatted back down by his side. She held up a cross in one hand, and a stake in the other. "I'm going to undo your hands, but if you even think about trying to eat me," she said in her best Slayer voice, waving both items for emphasis.

He raised an eyebrow, and smirked.

"What?" She thought back over what she had said. "Ew. Gross, Spike," she said, but it didn't stop the heat she could feel rising in her cheeks, and Buffy was extra not-gentle in untying his hands. She should have just left the stupid jerk-faced vampire to his dusty ending, but no, she'd had to go and save him. Buffy smacked him across the head – and hey, duct tape doing its job just fine! – and backed away with a scowl.

Spike lowered his arms carefully, wincing, then raised a hand to his now silver-girdled throat before slowly sitting up with an inaudible groan.

She waited to be sure he wasn't going to make any sudden moves, then reached for the deli bag and held up a fresh carton of blood. "Do you need my help?" When he blinked twice, she handed it to him, followed by a straw.

Without working throat muscles, Spike had a difficult time swallowing, but at least the duct tape kept most of what he managed to get down from leaking right back out again. When Buffy was sure he had it under control, she started in with her questions.

"How long is it going to take that demon to find us – wait," she said, and rephrased. "Do we have to worry about it finding us tonight?"

Spike shrugged, cautiously, and grimaced at the pain.

"Some help you are. Do you know why it's after you?" He blinked, and she said, "Are you blinking yes, or just blinking?"

He blinked again, deliberately slowly.

"Okay… how about this. Show of fingers, how many days did it take the demon to find you after whatever it was you did to earn yourself a decapitation?"

Without moving his arm, he extended two fingers. Buffy pursed her lips. Two days was not promising. "And Drusilla? She around somewhere?"

Spike looked over her shoulder and scowled. When he continued to not answer, Buffy grabbed his blood away. Droplets fell from the end of the straw dangling from his mouth, leaving crimson spots on his bandaged abdomen. Spike made a grab for the carton, then fell back with a silent yowl of pain.

"You are two seconds away from a dusty ending," Buffy said, brandishing her stake. "The only reason you're still alive and slurping up the last of my cash is because I want answers, got it? So answer me: do I need to be on the lookout for your crazy girlfriend, Spike? 'Cause I let you walk with her once, but if she comes after me, it won't happen again. And don't think I haven't noticed that you haven't left the country yet, either."

They traded glares for several long seconds. "Get chatty, or I get stabby. Is Drusilla going to be a problem for me, yes or no?"

Finally, Spike blinked no, leaving Buffy to wonder just where Drusilla had gone. Assuming he'd told the truth. But he had no way of answering that for now, so she moved on to more pertinent questions.

They worked through her list, Buffy discovering that, yes, Spike did know how to kill the demon, and that, yes, the good old-fashioned stab-it-until-it-was-dead approach would suffice. Even better, it wasn't a threat to the general populace, only to its intended target, which meant that she wouldn't have to go out of her way to hunt it down. Buffy managed to determine that Spike had pissed some other demon off, though the details were fuzzy, and that, yes, he was still planning to leave the country, just as soon as he dealt with this. And, no, there was no point in running far away, because Furry would follow to the very ends of the earth and beyond, and wouldn't stop until either Spike and all those the demon associated with him were dead, or it was.

"And how long until you talk? Or better yet, fight?" Buffy said.

Spike shrugged one shoulder again, carefully.

"I'm out of cash, so… I don't know how we're going to get you more blood."

Again, he looked at her neck. Buffy raised her stake, and he rolled his eyes, then rubbed his fingers through the blood on the floor.

"Ew. Don't worry, you're not that desperate yet," she said, holding the carton back out to him.

He ignored, her, still working his fingers through the mess, and Buffy realized he was writing something. She leaned over to see that he had written 'need HUMAN blood', with 'human' all in caps, and now he was underlining it repeatedly. When she began to protest, he scratched out 'heal quicker'. Then he underlined 'quicker', and looked up to see if she had gotten his point.

Buffy sat back, chewing her lip. Was he telling the truth? Probably, though she didn't know for sure. Angel –

Oh, god. Angel.

Her stomach clenched, and her eyes began to burn. Buffy swallow, determined not to cry. She squeezed her eyes shut, just for a moment, and forced herself back in control. Spike might be injured, but she could not show any weakness around him, not even for a second.

Buffy breathed in for a count of five, and then back out again.

So, fine. Repression. She was good at that, had had lots of practice. She could think of Angel and not –

She engaged in another round of breathing. Of clamping down, of going numb. Buffy tested out his name again – Angel – and was okay. For the time being.

Back to the matter at hand. Angel wasn't around to ask. Neither was Giles. She didn't even have any books for research, so she might as well take Spike's word for it. It still didn't solve the problem of how to get blood for him, though.

"Okay, you need human blood. Since there's zero percent chance you're getting it on tap… I guess I could... liberate... a few bags from the hospital or the Red Cross?" she said, remembering the time she and An-

No thinking about that –

– all the times she'd stopped vampires from stealing the blood being delivered to the hospital.

"Or we could buy blood?" she said, thinking of Willie's. "Assuming that, one, I had the cash for it, and, two, you know where a demon bar that sells blood is."

Spike blinked twice.

"No, you don't know where a bar is, or… whatever," she said. She didn't have money to buy blood, which meant either stealing some from a demon bar, or stealing it from a hospital. At the end of the day, there wasn't much difference between the two choices considering that a demon bar's methods of obtaining human blood weren't likely to be any more savory than her stealing it from the hospital. "Take-out baggies o'blood will work, though?"

This time he blinked once, though he didn't look pleased with the idea.

She wasn't either, but getting Spike back to fighting trim now rather than later meant choosing expedience over the high moral ground. Maybe she could find some blood that was about to expire, or something. Hopefully.

Noting the deepening gloom, Buffy said, "Night's falling, which means your demon friend will be on the hunt soon. We're not going to have much time left to get you healed. Are you up for going with me to get blood?"

Spike moved slowly, testing out his injuries, before finally slumping backwards and blinking out a no.

That suited Buffy just fine. The less time she spent with him, the better. In fact, she thought, once she'd barricaded him in and was on her way, now that she had her questions sort of answered, there was no need to go back, was there? It wasn't as though Spike was going to be any kind of an asset in a fight for who knew how long. She was better off taking her chances with Furry alone.

Too bad she hadn't thought of that before she'd gone and left most of her stuff behind with him.

.