Chapter Four
She could do it; she could do it. Just grab the lock and open it.
That's what she kept repeating in her head, over and over again, as she stared at her window, willing herself to crawl through it into the unknown. It was nighttime, and she could hear the screams outside. The longer she stayed put, the more people would die.
She was seriously putting her life in jeopardy. And for what? For people who had been dead for almost a hundred years in her time? Their fate was inevitable. She couldn't change that. She should just crawl back into her bed and tune it out.
But even as she tried to convince herself, she knew she couldn't. Not just because it went against everything the Slayer stood for but also because of who she was as a human being. Buffy, the girl inside, was stronger than just having Slayer strength. The life expectancy of a Slayer wasn't long, most didn't even reach their eighteenth birthday. And she hadn't survived this long by sheer power alone.
Look at Kendra, for example. She trained her entire life and relied solely on strength and technique. And where did that get her? Dead at the hands of Drusilla.
Buffy knew she wasn't the smartest Slayer ever—nor did she have the best technique. But what she excelled at was her ability to channel her emotions into her Slaying. Power alone wasn't enough. Kendra was more skilled in fighting techniques than she was, but in the end, that hadn't mattered. Some vampires were just as strong as Slayers. Buffy had plenty of power, but there had been moments when she had to rely on her wits, her emotions, or her ability to improvise to save her life. Sometimes, it was her gut instinct or sheer stubborn determination that guided her.
And the biggest weapon of them all: anger. Anger gave her freedom, and a Slayer needed that just as much as she needed strength. And Buffy was angry. She was angry at the strange entity that had brought her to the past, a time and place she didn't understand, where she couldn't even communicate with most people. She was angry at the world for constantly placing her in these horrible predicaments. She was angry at Spike for always being around; no matter where or when she was, he was always there. She could be in the afterlife, and that annoying bleached menace would still find a way to be present.
The shrill echoes of panic intensified around her, urging Buffy to take action. With a determined breath, she approached the window, her heart pounding in rhythm with the rising chaos outside. She unlocked the window and swung it open. Steeling herself, she stepped out into the frigid night air. The sharp, biting cold stung her face as the icy wind whipped against her cheeks, causing her to shiver involuntarily. She realized she had really taken Californian weather for granted.
She ran as fast as she could, following the screams. Her plan replayed in her mind: find Spike and offer a truce, but if Drusilla, Darla, or God forbid, Angelus showed up, she would run back to the cottage as fast as she could and pray for the best.
It sounded simple enough—if she could entice Spike enough with her offer not to kill her immediately.
Giles had shared stories of Spike's 'William the Bloody' days, but she had tuned out most of it, not wanting to hear the gruesome details. The same went for Angel; she'd rather just... not. She couldn't go back to the past and change it; what was done was done. But somehow, that wasn't the case now. She could save people—or at least some, she reckoned.
At least she had the comfort of knowing she had tried to solve this alone. Days passed as she struggled to find something to help her get home, but the thought of doing it alone was nearly overwhelming. Even worse, the idea of being entirely by herself, with no one to talk about her situation with, sent shivers down her spine. On the other hand, it was Spike, and she didn't trust him more than the length of his fangs.
They had reached a truce before, but he had bolted as soon as he saw an opportunity to escape. That truce had only been formed because he had grown frustrated with everything Angelus was, ahem, doing with Drusilla—which was just icky. She really didn't want to dwell on that. It was particularly upsetting that Angel had slept with Drusilla after being with her. The night shared between her and Angel was a moment in her life that she held dear to her heart, and she refused for it to be ripped away because of something that was out of Angel's control. Angelus and Angel were clearly not the same person.
And besides, Spike had been the one to approach her first to propose a truce, and now she was returning the favor.
When she finally reached the source of the screaming, her heart began to race. There, just a few feet ahead, was Spike, cornering a girl in the alleyway, ready to feast. And to her luck, Drusilla and Darla were nowhere to be found. The girl was speaking in Romanian, and if Buffy had to guess, she was probably pleading for her life.
"Te rog nu," the girl cried as she pressed further against the cornerstone wall. "Voi face orice—doar te rog lasă-mă să plec."
Spike let out a loud, hearty chuckle, the sound echoing in the dimly lit alley. "Ah, you poor lost little lamb," he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "If only—"
Suddenly, he fell silent. That was when Buffy knew he had sensed her presence. Realizing there was no point in hiding anymore, she stepped into the center of the alleyway to reveal herself.
Spike turned around and looked her up and down. "You must be really stupid to show up like this again."
The girl edged out of the alley and ran away. Spike didn't bother to chase her; his focus was now entirely on Buffy.
He wasn't wrong—she was pretty foolish even to consider doing something so reckless. But the truth was, she had run out of options.
She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, Spike suddenly stood before her, his golden eyes scrutinizing her face. Buffy jumped back an inch. Whoa. Had he always been that fast?
"I'm from the future," she declared, deciding it was wiser to cut straight to the chase. Knowing Spike, patience was not one of his virtues. "From the year 1999. I know the future version of you—well, kind of."
Spike arched an incredulous brow and took a measured step back, his expression a mix of curiosity and skepticism.
"All right," he smirked, "I'm listening."
Buffy exhaled slowly, relief washing over her that she had ignited his interest; now, she had to keep the momentum going.
"I was sent to the past by… well, honestly, I'm not sure exactly what it was. But you've helped me before for your own personal gain. I'm here to propose a truce… to help me find my way back home."
A low chuckle escaped Spike's lips, a sound laced with both amusement and disbelief. "A truce?" He rummaged through his pockets and produced a crumpled cigarette and a match. Striking the match against the box, he lit the cigarette with a flicker that illuminated the smirk on his face. "To get you back to your time? And just what could you possibly offer me in return?"
She hesitated, the weight of her next words pressing down like a looming storm. Was she really about to do this? The thought of Spike anywhere near her, with his fangs in her neck, gave her the heebie-jeebies. But she needed to get back home...
"My blood," she blurted out, the words tasting foreign on her tongue. "I'll give you my blood in exchange for your help."
Spike snorted dismissively, shaking his head as he regarded her with an expression of disbelief. "Your blood? You think you're so high and mighty that I would have any desire for your blood? You're off your bird."
Buffy glared at him and crossed her arms. "As a matter of fact, I do. My blood is Slayer blood, thank you very much."
A flicker appeared in Spike's eyes, and in an instant, he tossed aside his cigarette and pinned her against the wall, his hand wrapped around her throat as she desperately tried to grasp it.
"You're a Slayer, yeah?" he leaned in and grinned. "I bagged myself a Slayer last year. Wouldn't mind killing another one. I could easily end you right now and be done with it."
"You... you wouldn't," she coughed as the air in her lungs constricted. "Get... credit..."
Suddenly, the hand around her throat vanished, and she crumpled to the ground in a heap. She gasped as air rushed back into her lungs.
"Technically," she began, rubbing her throat. "I don't exist yet. It's not like you'd get credit for killing me anyway. What's the point if it's not written in the history books?"
Spike looked thoughtful, but the expression quickly faded as he smirked at her, shifting the topic. "So, a Slayer. You're pretty pathetic for one, aren't you? You're as weak as a fly."
Buffy felt a sharp sting at his words, a momentary flash of hurt crossing her face as she pushed herself off the ground, her muscles protesting with the effort. "Yeah, well, you wouldn't be saying that if I had my full Slayer strength," she replied, her voice steady despite the irritation bubbling under the surface.
He raised an eyebrow, intrigue flickering in his gaze. "Yeah?"
"My strength was drained when I was pulled through that time portal," she explained, letting out a resigned sigh. The weight of her predicament hung heavy in the air. "Or I'd be punning right about now."
Silence enveloped as they both were locked in a hesitant stare. An old tension crackled between them, thickening the air as they grappled with unspoken thoughts. Buffy couldn't help but wonder if, despite the friction, she had managed to captivate his interest enough to entice him into bargaining.
Finally, she broke the silence, her voice firm yet laced with vulnerability. "So… a truce?"
He paused, his face a mix of skepticism and curiosity. "Yeah… that..."
"Between us," she clarified, leaning slightly closer, her intent clear.
He let out a long sigh, a hint of reluctance coloring his expression.
"Trust me," she continued, exasperation edging her tone, "this wasn't exactly my first choice."
"A truce," he echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief as the gravity of her proposition sunk in. "So you can get back to your time—and Slayer blood."
Buffy could see his wheels turning, a flicker of contemplation crossing his features. After a brief pause that felt like an eternity, he finally relented, frustration and resignation intertwining in his voice. "I suppose I have nothing better to do... bloody hell, fine."
Buffy's heart raced as she realized her plan was working. She wasn't sure what he meant by not having anything better to do. Was maiming and killing the villagers not enough to quench his thirst for violence? The only thing…
"But I have one more condition," she said firmly.
He raised an eyebrow. "And that is?"
"You can't kill anyone. You don't lay a fang on anyone. You don't bite anyone. You don't even think about licking anyone. If I find you feeding, or if I discover a fresh fang track on a single throat, the deal is off, and I'll find another way to get home. No evil stuff. No exceptions."
Spike glared at her. "You have a lot of nerve for a Slayer without her powers and no bargaining chips other than her blood. And how do I know if my actions are evil or not? I don't exactly have a moral compass. I might slip up without realizing it." He arched an eyebrow and smirked.
"Any evil impulses you have, you ask me about. Your choice. Take it or leave it."
Spike furrowed his brow, contemplating her proposal as the moonlight glinted off his sharp features. "All right then. The blood of a Slayer is a powerful aphrodisiac; I won't need to feed as often if I drink it."
She leaned forward, her heart racing with hope as she held out her hand. "So, we have a truce?"
He glanced at her hand before responding, "The villagers have been raiding my home for the past week. And while I don't mind having my food delivered on a platter, it's really starting to piss me off. You can get them to stop and I won't feed on your precious humans."
Her mind raced at the mention of the villagers. Could Marius have a hand in these attacks? The thought sent a shiver down her spine, but she steeled herself. She had come this far, and no minor complication would derail her from reaching her ultimate goal.
"Understood," she replied, a newfound determination in her voice. "That shouldn't be too difficult."
"I mean it, Slayer," he pointed at her sternly. "If any of those villagers lay a hand on what's mine, the deal is off, and they're dead."
"Okay," she said, "my blood in exchange for getting them to stop raiding your home and your help in getting me back to the future." She extended her hand slightly further. "Truce?"
"We have a truce," he said, then clasped her palm in his. She studied Spike's long, pale fingers for a moment. His usual black, chipped nails were bare of nail polish. This wasn't the punk rock Spike she knew from the future; this was William the Bloody. She realized she had just made a deal with the devil, but better the devil you knew, right? But how much did she really know about this version of Spike?
As she felt an unexpected sensation ripple through her arm from his touch, a sharp gasp escaped her lips. The strange, tingling warmth spread like wildfire, a mixture of confusion and alarm coursing through her. When she dared to look up at Spike's face, she saw a similar expression of discomfort etched across his features; his brows furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. Instinctively, they both recoiled, their hands slipping away as she absently wiped her palm on the fabric of her pants, as if trying to erase the electric connection that had just sparked between them.
"Let's not get all touchy," she said, a hint of anxiety coloring her tone. "It's... kind of weird."
"Yeah," Spike replied, his voice hurried as if he were trying to convince himself as much as her. "Good idea."
Yet, just as she thought the moment had passed, he stepped forward as he reached for her neck. In a swift reflex, she sidestepped him, retreating a few steps back, her heart racing as she created distance between them. The air around them felt charged, like the calm before a storm. What point of 'no touchy' did he not understand?
"What the hell are you doing?"
Spike glared at her. "You offered your blood, you stupid bint. I'm taking what's been offered."
Buffy shook her head and raised her finger to stop him. "Oh no, not tonight. Besides," she glanced and noticed several lifeless bodies scattered around the alley, pale and drained of blood. "You've had your fill for the night," she said, disgusted. "We'll start our research tomorrow. That's when you can have my blood. I'll research, you'll research. If you slack off on the job, the truce is over. Capeesh?"
"Fine," he flexed his jaw and nodded shortly. "Tomorrow then."
For a moment, they stood in a tense silence, their eyes scanning each other's features with a mix of weariness and skepticism. If someone had told Buffy just a week ago that she would find herself thrown into the past, facing the prospect of relying on a younger version of Spike for help, she would have thought they were out of their minds. Or she would have erupted into laughter, dismissing the absurdity of the notion as nothing more than craziness.
The idea of leaning on Spike for help sent a shiver of unease running through her. She wondered how she could possibly trust him, especially now that she was stripped of her Slayer strength. This wasn't just a casual alliance; forging a truce with a master vampire who thrived on chaos and darkness was undoubtedly a horrible idea. In Buffy's experience, partnering with any evil being was like signing a contract with disaster—every instinct screamed at her to keep her guard up.
It seemed she would have to work together with him again, although she had her doubts about how helpful Spike would be. He could navigate this world and time far better than she could and had more connections to the underworld. She would also need to figure out the situation involving Drusilla and Darla, but that could wait for another time. This was the second time she had encountered Spike without his usual sidekick. Something told her he was alone in Romania, at least for now, but the question lingered: why? There was no way he would simply abandon Drusilla. The creep was obsessed with her.
One thing was sure: if Buffy was a weapon, Spike was a bomb just waiting to detonate. She just hoped that no innocent people would get caught in the crossfire.