They're running in circles. The first time this bit of unpleasant truth occurs to him, he pushes it aside and simply refocuses his efforts, sharpening his naturally sharp senses in a hell-bent attempt to catch just a hint, the faintest sigh or rustle or whiff of salt that would lead them to Bit and Willow. Nothing. Then—and the second time he can't deny it and it seems unwise to try—they're back where they started, again. Buffy doesn't notice. Her panic is building, he can smell it like pennies, like blood; he can almost hear the buzz of it emanating from her pores like steam from a kettle. He's struck simultaneously by the strange beauty of it and the crush of guilt, the still-new weight of responsibility that the soul has fastened around his neck.

He reaches out to catch her arm, and she shakes him off with such force that his well-honed instincts snap him into offensive mode. But her eyes hit him then, harder than any fighting blow. Clear and sharp, glistening in the light from—wherever the hell the light around here is coming from. So instead of the reflexive backhand he means to deliver, he reaches again, purposefully, and grabs her by both elbows, snatching a sharp little gasp from her as he jerks her forward. No time for gentle, and she'd steamroller him if he tried. The force in her responds only to force, and then she listens.

"We're not getting anywhere, Buffy. Been through here twice already. We've got to stop and get our bearings."

"Stop? Are you kidding?"

"Not really in a sporting mood, pet."

"Well that makes two of us. And I'm not feeling all that chatty right now either, so move your ass or stay here and get your bearings while I go and find them."

He adjusts his grip on her before she can pull away. "I'm saying—the place is changing on us, Buffy. Don't you feel it? It's—smaller. Like we're shut off from the rest of it somehow. An' I'd wager Dawn and Willow are on the other side. We can't help them if we're stuck here running around like rats in a bloody maze."

He sees his logic hit the mark, and releases her. Takes a step back, even, so she can process and accept. Waits as she turns her back on him, draws breath so deep it strains her lungs, and screams Dawn's name into the silence. The cry echoes back and back and back, ricocheting off stone and brick and dark, assuming a chilling, empty quality by the end of its play. Spike closes his eyes.

She turns back to him, and he sees cracks in her armor that once would have enticed him. "We can't just— We've got to— Spike…"

He sets his jaw. "We will."

xXxXx

So apparently the plan is to talk her to death. And he—it?—isn't far from success, if that's the goal. It's a slow torture, captive audience that she is, as he pokes and prods her with words, testing her psyche for signs of tenderness, bruising, scars to tear open along their fault lines. She clings stubbornly to her composure and reminds herself repeatedly that this isn't really him. She tries to drown out the sound of his voice with the soothing white noise of her thoughts. He seeps in through the cracks.

Mom. (not yours, though, and gone gone gone)

Buffy. (resents you just like the rest of them, how she's always having to save you when you don't even belong; saved you against their will, she did, and they'll always hate you for what death did to her, the way it changed her from the girl they loved)

Willow. (would've killed you if she'd got the chance; you bother her deeper 'cause she can feel the connections, all of them, the flowers pushing straight through the earth to the other side, it's all about root systems, she thinks, and you're not a part of it. Not connected to anything or anyone and you know it)

Tara. (wasn't quite gone when you found her, could've saved her instead of cowering in the corner like a frightened child. Could've but didn't, and she's maybe the only one who ever really gave a fuck about you, so what a way to treat her when she needed your help)

Spike. (…)

Dawn jerks her lolling head up to shoot an acid glare at the thing wearing his face and the smile she gets in return is mocking, self-satisfied, evil beyond evil. It occurs to her vaguely that anger is the best remedy for fear.

"This isn't working. Whatever you're trying to do. You're not telling me anything I don't know, that I haven't come to terms with by now. If you're trying to get inside my head you'd better try something other than evil amateur psychology." She summons Buffy's courage, Buffy's confident swagger, squares her shoulders, and forces a steady challenge: "Go ahead and kill me, if you're gonna. Save us both some time." On the tail of that, she chides herself, Damn it, Dawn! Dumbest stalling tactic EVER.

He sidles over from the pacing path he's been wearing into the dirty stone floor as he chips away at her defenses. He's so close that she would feel his breath on her cheek if he were breathing. "No, love," he purrs. "'S not my job. I'm just laying the groundwork." She flinches angrily away as he lifts a hand and rakes it through her tangled hair.

"Don't touch me," she growls.

The stolen laugh is brittle, and haunting because she knows it by heart.

xXxXx

Willow's muscles have seized up and her feet, gone numb from the pounding rhythm of her steps, don't even feel like a part of her. There's a hot needle stabbing into her side in time with her rapid, ragged breathing. She would be surprised to notice that there are tear tracks on her cheeks. She doesn't. The toe of one shoe scuffs the pavement and she goes sprawling, scraping both palms raw as she uses them to break the fall. Strands of copper hair stick to her sweaty face, her wet cheeks, as she struggles to her knees and yells hoarsely down the alleyway.

"Wait! Please, wait!" Drawing air so deeply into her lungs that they seem ready to burst, she tries again: "TARA!"

The desperation she hears in the wail is like a shot of cold water in the face. Blinking, she pushes up to her knees and takes a look around, for the first time actually noting her surroundings. Noting the darkness, pressing in on all sides. And the stillness, lying over everything like a heavy transparent blanket. And the solitude. Dawn.

She fears the non-answer before it comes. "Dawnie?" Desperation is still there, but with a new focus, sharp with the clarity of reason. She has been lured away, blindly following a promise of impossibility, and all the while Dawn …

Casting just one glance back over her shoulder, just one because hope dies last, Willow begins to run in the opposite direction, panic devouring physical pain.

xXxXx

To be continued …