This Wanton World by Eurydice

Chapters 5 & 6

Chapter 5: Rage in Darkness at My Side

His head felt like someone had stabbed thousands of red-hot needles into his brain through every open orifice, his eyes stinging, his ears ringing, his mouth an eruption of pulsing ulcers. Giles clung to the wall of the building, his nails grappling with the coarse texture as the rain made it slick and dangerous, and silently cursed the name of Ethan Rayne. It wasn't the first time he'd done so. It was, however, the first time he'd done it in over two decades.

If he'd known that it would be Ethan he'd find, he would've been more properly prepared for the spell. There had been hints that the Slayer wasn't traveling alone, but they had been only that. Hints. Nothing to be taken seriously by either the Council or himself. Why would they think anyone could be more powerful than a rogue Slayer, making deals with the devil himself?

That arrogance could very well prove their downfall. In spite of the beating he'd taken, Ethan had still summoned enough strength to cast the confusion spell and escape. That did not bode well for his capabilities when he was in full form.

As Giles waited out the effects of the spell, more thoughts began to swirl and solidify deep in the recesses of his mind. Dangerous thoughts. Traitorous thoughts. Thoughts that would see him thrown off the Council if they were to come to light.

Of course, hiring a vampire as renowned as William the Bloody could do the same thing, but for whatever reason, Giles was less fearful of that knowledge. What terrified him currently was the possibility that he'd been wrong. That they'd all been wrong.

If Ethan had some sort of partnership with the Slayer, could it be possible that the acts the Council had recorded were not entirely her doing? Giles thought yes. Travers and the others might not be aware of the depths of Ethan's efforts, but experience gave Ripper an edge they didn't have. He'd appreciated firsthand what it was like to plumb the chaos Ethan created; he'd drowned in its scarlet eddies more than once. Nobody else on this destructive rock had ever been as intoxicated by the power Ethan Rayne wielded as Giles.

Some of the vertigo began to fade as a counter to that statement started to congeal.

Nobody, perhaps, except Buffy Summers.

Fear gripped his gut just as the worst of the confusion spell wore off. His hair was plastered to his head from the rain, and vagrant drops slithered beneath his collar to chill him even further, but those were palatable compared to the dread that drove him back to his feet. If Ethan got to the Slayer, and if they were really in as close an affiliation as Giles suspected, things could get very sticky for him here in Los Angeles. He needed to warn Spike about the added player to the mix. The vampire was prepared for a brawl; he would be caught completely unawares by Ethan's magic.

Stumbling to the end of the alley, Giles stopped short when he saw the limousine pulling away from the curb, its blackened windows preventing him from seeing its occupants. He had little doubt about who was inside, though. It reeked of Ethan's style.

He sagged against the corner of the club, his head bowed as he attempted to recall everything he'd managed to drag from his old acquaintance. It hadn't been much; for some unfathomable reason, Ethan had proven tight-lipped about specifics regarding the Slayer. If Giles didn't know better, he would've said Ethan was protecting the young woman, though the absurdity of that almost made him laugh out loud. Buffy Summers needed protection from no man.

The sound of approaching footsteps made him look up, and there, emerging from the midnight rain, was the very object of his ruminations. She looked a bit worse for wear, golden hair now glued in wet lanks to her cheeks, her perfect make-up smeared just enough to give her the appearance of a madwoman. The red leather skirt she wore was torn along one toned thigh, and the halter top had gone sheer from the rain, leaving her hardened nipples all too visible to anyone who cared to look. Even like this, though, Giles couldn't help but stare. Fury made her even more beautiful.

Recognition flared in her bright eyes, and he saw her lips move, but what she said was lost to him as she flew forward and slammed him into the wall.

"What did you do to him?" she demanded. Her forearm was pressed against his windpipe, and one tiny hand was shoved into his solar plexus, keeping him in place as effectively as if it was a straight pin and he a butterfly.

"I don't..." he rasped, but the lack of air made it difficult to respond.

"Don't even try to lie to me. I know who you are. He tried to tell me you weren't one of them, but I knew." She shoved again, and the back of Giles' head hit hard enough into the wall to make him see stars. "Now tell me. Where are they taking him?"

It was then that the flash of white out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Risking a glance sideways, Giles saw the grinning countenance of the reason he'd come back to the club in the first place, and his eyes widened.

"I don't think he knows, pet," Spike said casually. Too casually. As if he and the Slayer were... friends .

"Like hell," Buffy growled. "There's no way his showing up is just a coincidence."

"He's...right." Giles tried to swallow, hoping that it would make it easier to speak, but the effort made his throat lock even further. "I have...no idea...where Ethan is."

Her lips thinned. "Then how did you know it was Ethan I was talking about?" she asked, her voice dangerously low.

He was saved from answering by Spike's hand wrapping around Buffy's bicep.

"This wanker's not why you're here," he said.

Her eyes never wavered from Giles' face. "I thought I was here to beat something up," she said. "A Watcher out to get me and Ethan sounds as good a choice as any."

With a familiarity that bordered on possessive, Spike leaned in, his mouth just millimeters from Buffy's ear as he murmured, "He's not the one who put the ring on your finger, though, now is he?"

He had no idea what was going on, but with the vampire's closer proximity, it focused Giles' attention on the fresh bite mark on the Slayer's neck. Spike had sought her out after all, had fought her, had even got a taste. But...why had he not finished the job? And why were they now acting as if they'd known each other for years?

The sudden release of her grip had Giles crumpling to the ground, gasping for breath and choking on the rain that he accidentally swallowed as he did so. Spots of black and gold danced before his eyes, but before he could say anything, he heard the hard click of the Slayer's shoes on the pavement and then the slamming of the nightclub door.

Black boots took the place of the strappy sandals. "No wonder you need me," Spike drawled. "That was bloody pathetic."

Giles was hauled to his feet, and then quickly dropped to slump against the wall. Spike was already turning away, following in the Slayer's footsteps, before he could speak up.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on here?" Giles called after him.

"Nah," Spike replied, and tossed back a smirk as he pulled open the club door. "It's more fun watchin' you twist in the wind."

He had no choice but to go after the pair. If he wanted answers, they wouldn't come via more traditional methods. He should've realized that already.

*************

The sight that greeted him was better than watching her take down the Fyarls.

Stopping just inside the main room, Spike leaned against the wall, digging around in his coat pocket for his fags and lighter as he watched the Slayer slam the other vamp's head through the rungs of one of the bar stools. Javier was bleeding from a long gash down the side of his neck, and his left arm hung uselessly at his side, white bone poking through the thinner skin of his wrist where she'd broken it. The Slayer, however, was untouched.

"You...fucking...asshole!" she said, punctuating each word with a blow to his face. Javier's lip split, the blood spraying across her knuckles, but she continued, oblivious to the new stains. "Nobody...does that...to me. Understand? Nobody!"

The Watcher's limping shuffle came up behind Spike, and he held out his arm to block the path into the main room. "Pull up a chair," he said around the cigarette in his mouth. "Something tells me this is goin' to be one hell of a show."

"What on earth is she doing?" the Watcher breathed.

"Lettin' off a little steam."

A table smashed under Javier's weight when the Slayer threw him against it.

"Why isn't she killing him?"

Spike exhaled, the smoke curling around his head. His body was thrumming from the adrenaline of her fight, his cock hard as he watched her skirt ride up and expose the lower curve of her bare ass. Tilting his head in order to get a better view, he replied, "Don't know. Don't care."

"We have to stop this."

When he felt the Watcher start to move forward again, Spike grabbed his wrist and yanked, forcing the man to the floor. "This is the Slayer's fight," he said, squeezing just hard enough to make Ripper wince. "You won't be muckin' it up for her, or I just might let her finish up what she started on you out there."

Though he saw the disbelief in the Watcher's eyes, Spike let him go, too eager to turn his attention back to the fray. "Damn," he muttered when he saw the Slayer straddling the downed vampire. "You made me miss the best part."

"Stop!" Javier spluttered. His mouth was in ribbons, his words more of a gurgle than anything else. "Whatever it is you want, tell me. I'll get it for you. Just stop! C'mon, Buffy! After everything---."

"Shut up!" she spat. "You think you have rights in this? Newsflash. You're a vampire. I'm the Slayer. There's only one way for this to end, and trust me, it's not going to feel very good. For you, that is."

Her fist slammed into his jaw again. This time, Spike winced in sympathy when he saw one of the demon's fangs break loose and fall out of his mouth. That one had to hurt.

"Fine," Javier said. "Kill me." He didn't even cringe when she grabbed a broken table leg from the floor nearby. "But you do that, and you'll never know what happened to your Watcher."

Her arm stopped in mid-arc, and Spike saw the pain glittering in her eyes. "What did you just say?" she whispered.

Javier laughed, a wet, burbling sound. "Did you really think you could get away with stealing Jutta's Ring without pissing its owners off? You and Ethan are two of a kind, you bitch. So sure of your own longevity. Thinking nobody can touch you, even when you lay yourself open like a Christmas turkey. He got what he had coming to him, and so will---."

The stake moved faster than Spike could see, Javier's dust swirling around the Slayer's legs as she collapsed to the floor. Her head remained bowed, her lithe body suddenly seeming very small in the near-empty club, and her shoulders shook from sobs Spike was certain only he could hear.

"What on earth just happened here?" Ripper murmured at his side.

Spike flicked away his cigarette butt and pushed away from the wall. "Grief therapy."

She didn't move as he approached, and he slowed his step as the yards narrowed to feet. His eyes darted over the knobs of her spine, the beads of rain that clung to her back where her shirt exposed it, and then settled on the stake that she still clutched with white-knuckled ferocity. "Slayer?" Spike asked warily. He wasn't entirely certain that she wouldn't turn like a she-devil on him. That wasn't a fight he was prepared to have just yet.

"They've got him." Her voice was a ragged sway in the air, the words barely formed. "He told me they'd never know, but...they got him anyway."

"Who's that, pet?"

She lifted her head. The tears were already drying. Only the iron will he'd seen in her earlier remained.

"Whoever it was Ethan stole Jutta's Ring from," she replied. Slowly, she rose to her feet, and though she weaved slightly as she did so, her chin stayed high and strong.

"Thought it was you who did the stealing," Spike said.

"Semantics. It was always about what Ethan wanted, not me."

She seemed to become aware of the stake she still held in her hand, and her eyes dropped to stare at it, as if not believing that she could wield such a weapon. While Spike watched, she glanced up at him through her lashes for a moment that stretched to the point of discomfort.

Then, she tossed the stake away.

"I need a ride," she said, and her voice was already stronger, reflecting the growing resolve emanating from her flesh.

Spike cocked his head, his tongue tapping against the back of his front teeth as he regarded her. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he said carefully, "I have a car."

"There'll be a fight. Lots of danger. And knowing the kind of people Ethan usually pisses off, that's probably mortal danger."

This time, he grinned. "My favorite kind."

"You cross me, Spike, and I'll dust you."

"You can try ."

Her lips twitched, and for a second, he thought she was going to smile. She shook it off, however, and shifted her attention to straightening her disheveled clothing, inadvertently drawing Spike's attention to the ripe breasts he'd been palming less than an hour earlier.

"At least I get to change," he heard her mutter.

"Listen, Slayer..." He waited to continue until she glanced up at him. "You sure this is what you want? This is the same bloke who..." He remembered the other man standing behind him, and chose the better part of valor. This time. "...made you want to forget not too long ago. Seems to me---."

"I'm not asking you to come with me because of your Mensa card," she snapped. "So stop thinking about what doesn't really concern you. If you can't do that, I'll find someone else to help me out. You're not the only one in this city with a car, you know."

She didn't wait for a response, marching past him to face the Watcher who still hovered near the entrance. "You," she demanded. "What's your name?"

He had to give Ripper credit. He faced her like a pro.

"Giles."

"And you know Ethan." Not a question. Statement of fact. "Are you a Watcher, too?"

"I was. My Slayer died a number of years ago."

That seemed to startle her, like she hadn't considered that there could be other Slayers in the world beside her. "Give me one good reason why I don't kill you, here and now."

"Actually, I can give you two." He took a step closer, his eyes flashing. "One, you know I'm not a threat to you. Killing me would be a waste of your time and resources, and it would appear that both are of the essence to you right now."

Her hands balled into fists at her sides. "And the second reason?"

"Nobody knows Ethan Rayne like I do. If you truly wish to get him back---alive---I'm the best ally you'll ever find."

She weighed his words with a seriousness that surprised Spike. For a second, he worried about being left behind, but then she spoke up again, and his insides untwisted from the knots they'd been forming.

"Fine," Buffy said tightly. She jerked her thumb back to Spike. "You ride in front with him. I can keep an eye on both of you that way."

"Of course."

The three were nearly out the door when the Slayer stopped in her tracks and turned to face the two Englishmen.

"I'm Buffy, by the way," she said to Ripper.

"I know."

A snort of disgust accompanied the angry whirl on her heel. "Jesus," she complained, shoving the door open so violently that one of its hinges fell off onto the sidewalk, "is there anybody in this town who doesn't know who I am?"

*************

"Buffy..."

Every muscle burned, every inch of his skin felt like it had been lacerated with the finest of leather cords. His wrists were already rubbing raw from where the manacles worried his flesh, and his head throbbed from the inside out.

And still, he tried.

Over, and over, and over again, Ethan attempted to establish his connection with Buffy. Even after Wolfram and Hart's mindreaders declared it impossible to break through the barriers he'd long ago put into place in the advent of such an attack, Ethan was desperate to find out what exactly had happened to his Slayer. She lived, of that he was certain. Javier had been incensed that she'd escaped the set-up he'd had for her. But why she would now be able to resist the call of his will, Ethan had no idea.

He wasn't ready to accept the most logical of answers. It was impossible to consider that she would remove the ring of her own volition.

Ripper's presence wasn't even a blip in comparison to Buffy's disappearance. As long as Ethan was in Wolfram and Hart's custody, he was safe from whatever vengeance his old friend was here to exact. Granted, he wasn't too keen on being on the receiving end of Lilah Morgan's preferred torture devices, but at least her punishment was that of duty.

Ripper's would be personal.

And when he was done with Ethan, he would go after Buffy.

Perhaps ignoring Ripper's presence wasn't his best decision after all. Without Ethan there, there was no telling what Giles would do or say to her, whether he'd attempt to draw her back into the Council fold or whether he'd try to use her as a weapon against all Ethan had accomplished over the past eight years.

He sighed. He felt rather like Damocles at the moment.

He just wasn't sure yet who was wielding the sword.

 

Chapter 6: The Scream of the Butterfly

He waited until the Slayer disappeared inside the tall apartment building before turning to face the vampire behind the wheel.

"What in bloody hell is going on here?" Giles demanded.

Spike sprawled back in the seat, taking a deep drag on the cigarette he'd just lit up. "You heard the girl," he said. "We're off to save the wizard."

"I know that part." His jaw hurt from how tightly he was clenching it. "I was referring to your sudden rapport with the Slayer. I hired you to kill her, not become her bosom buddy."

"Oh, but have you seen her bosom?" The grin he shot was Giles was sheer lechery. "'Course, you have. No way you weren't starin' at her tits when she was pinning you to the wall. You're a pathetic prat, but you're not blind. I'll bet you even got a hard-on for her, thinking of all that soft Slayer flesh---."

"Enough!" Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Giles stared out the window, watching the rain run in rivulets down its exterior. His breath steamed the glass, obscuring his view, but he refused to turn his attention back to Spike. With each passing day, he hated their unfortunate alliance even more.

"Why didn't you kill her when you had the opportunity?" he asked instead. He had to focus. The situation was far more grim than the Council could've ever envisioned, and if he lost sight of the mission at this point, his entire purpose for being in California would be decimated.

"Wouldn't have been a fair fight," came the nonchalant reply.

Giles' head whipped back around, and he gawped at Spike in disbelief. "You must be joking. I saw the way she fought the bartender. If anything, you're the one who's likely to be handicapped in that particular confrontation."

"You saw the raw, uncensored Slayer," Spike said. "The one I saved was under the influence, and it was a tad more than just the drugs."

"More than...wait. Did you say... saved ?"

He listened to the tale of watching the Slayer on the dance floor, how Spike had followed her afterward, and how he'd interrupted the brawl in order to have the kill for himself. The details were spare, the telling casual, but the tone of respect that undercoated the words was undeniable.

Giles narrowed his eyes in speculation. There was more that Spike wasn't sharing.

"What happened when you got her away from La Muerte Pequeña?" he queried. "And why did you bring her back?"

Rolling down his window just enough to toss his cigarette, Spike kept his eyes on the apartment building visible through the windshield as he replied. "Slayer needed to beat the hell out of something. I tagged along for the show."

"Why?"

"'Cause that Watcher of hers is a twisted fuck who thinks he can put a leash on a Slayer. Not that I don't admire his creativity, but he's a fool if he thought he could keep it up without losing at least one of his balls. Not with this one." He glanced at Giles out of the corner of his eye. "But you knew who she was talkin' about. He an old friend of yours, maybe? And don't try lyin' to me. You called him by name."

Spike wasn't going to get his answers so easily. "What do you mean by a leash?" Giles asked. "Was Ethan drugging her?"

"Nah, that was Javier's daft plan. Stupid git."

Digging into his jeans, Spike pulled out a small ring, and in the fluorescence of the streetlights, Giles recognized it as the one he'd seen on Buffy's finger earlier that night. When he tried to reach for it, however, Spike closed his hand and shoved the ring back into his pocket.

"Don't think so," he said. "Slayer might not appreciate another Watcher tryin' to yank her chain."

"And yet, she allows you to safeguard it in her stead."

"Well, can't say that I gave her much of a choice about it either."

They lapsed into silence. There was more in what Spike wasn't sharing than in what he had, fodder for darkening what was already a bleak commission. Memories of how ruthless Ethan had been in their youth mingled with Giles' conjecture about the present, and the Escher canvas it created made promises of nightmares for days to come.

His flesh felt like stone. Doors opened and closed before him with random deliberation, but the power to choose the proper path slipped through his unfeeling fingers. This was more than he'd prepared for. This was---.

"Snap out of it, Ripper."

He forced his muscles to comply with his command, lifting his eyes to see Spike gazing at him in thinly veiled disgust.

"You saw a lot worse in those files the Council had," Spike continued. "Hell, the pictures you showed me from when the Slayer was in Tijuana made that business back at the club look like a tea party."

"I'm beginning to think that perhaps it wasn't entirely the Slayer's doing," Giles admitted. "If what you say is true, it doesn't seem...right to exact punishment for crimes that were not her responsibility. Ethan's culpability merits discipline as well."

Spike snorted. "Well, if you have delusions of your Council ridin' in with some grand tribunal to set him to rights, you'll probably have to stand in line. Why is it you think she's so fired up about finding him? There'll be no more fellowship of that ring, you can be bloody sure."

That possibility had yet to occur to Giles, and his blood chilled as he contemplated what sort of revenge the Slayer would have for Ethan. For a moment, his palms tingled in anticipation of joining in, but he quickly balled his hands into fists to stifle the desire, hiding them from Spike's probing gaze by stuffing them into his lap.

"So...why is it you're helping her?" Back to the interrogation. In the absence of having Ethan or the Slayer present, Giles had little recourse but to attempt to get the answers from Spike.

"You're kidding, right?" He jerked a thumb toward the apartment building. "You saw her fight. Poetry in motion, she is. You think there's any way I'm not goin' to have a ringside seat for the grand finale? This has been the best bloody fun I've had in years."

"Killing the Slayer is not supposed to be fun ."

"Speak for yourself, mate."

Giles frowned when Spike opened his door and started to climb out into the rain. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked.

"Twenty questions with you, or a wound-up Slayer lookin' to let loose a little steam?" He grinned, a macabre leer made even more eerie by the rain dripping down his cheeks. "Not even a contest."

Giles had never heard a car door slammed quite so gleefully before.

*************

She broke the lock on the apartment door in order to get in. She had a key. She just didn't want to use it. That would be admitting that this was her home, too.

Crossing the threshold was another matter. It took Buffy more than five minutes to quell the butterflies in her stomach enough to take the first step, and then another five to close the floodgates on the memories that came rushing back.

"Do we really need a place this big?" she asked, her fingers trailing over the back of the leather sectional in the middle of the room. Her footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. "I thought you said we weren't going to be here that long."

"I fail to understand why that means we should be uncomfortable." Cornering her against the couch, Ethan rested his hand over hers, guiding her strokes of the soft leather. "Don't we deserve the best? Besides..." He laced their fingers together and lifted her hand to press a kiss to her palm. "...I owe it to my Slayer to banish her personal demons when I can. How better than with utter decadence?"

The doors to both bedrooms stood open, and the cloying smell of perfume that wasn't hers lingered in the air. Buffy had to resort to short, shallow breaths in order not to start retching on the spot, but when she moved a few feet into the apartment, the perfume dissipated, to be replaced by the muskier scents of Ethan's cologne and body wash. He must've taken a shower before he'd left, she realized, and her eyes strayed to the bathroom. The edges of the door still gleamed from moisture that clung to the wood.

He was covered in blood, his face barely discernible beneath the scarlet streaks that ran from beneath his hairline, down his cheeks, around his neck to pool in the dirt below him.

"Tell me...you ripped out his...tongue," Ethan rasped. Spasms wracked his chest, and he began coughing, trying to roll onto his side to spit out the blood that now filled his mouth. Buffy slid her arm beneath his back, helping him effortlessly, and pressed the jacket she'd discarded earlier to the open wound moving him exposed.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she raged. Anger was easier. If she was angry, the images of him stepping between her and the spiny demon, of the demon's sword suddenly protruding from Ethan's stomach, weren't quite so vivid.

"Obviously, I wasn't," he managed with a weak smile. "An error in judgment. And you...haven't answered my question."

"He's dead." He didn't need to know the gory details; though he loved the idea of torture, she knew Ethan's stomach usually had other notions.

Turning her head to scan the Mexican horizon, Buffy squinted into the rising sun, barely able to make out the approaching jeep. "The cavalry's on its way. Just hold on."

"The horses aren't...white, I hope. That would be...remarkably trite."

In spite of her fear, the corner of Buffy's mouth lifted. "Next time you suggest a vacation in Tijuana," she said, "I'm tying you up and shipping you to Hawaii."

Another cough, though this one wasn't nearly so wet. It was followed by a brittle grin. "Promises, promises..."

He made her swear not to pry into his Watcher stuff. No matter where in the world they were, there was always a drawer that Ethan kept locked, and she knew without having to be told that this was where he stored details he didn't want her to have to shoulder. Buffy walked unerringly to the desk. This was where she'd find out the specifics of Jutta's Ring. She was certain this was where she could learn who it was Ethan had threatened this time.

Even through the press of bodies on the dance floor, she felt his eyes boring into her. Slowly, Buffy twisted in the arms of the college guy who'd spent the night buying her drinks, and saw Ethan standing at the end of the bar. He was unsmiling, his eyes glittering in the dim light. It could've been a trick of the disco ball, but Buffy knew better.

She broke away without a word, weaving through the crowd until she stood in front of him. Her lips parted, and the explanation she had ready bubbled forth, but nothing changed in the frost of his gaze. He just turned on his heel in the middle of her speech and headed for the front door. He didn't even look back to check to see if Buffy was following.

She was, of course. She knew she'd disappointed him by sneaking out of the apartment for a little fun; it was not a mistake she'd make again for a very long time.

What she didn't expect to find were all the photographs. Snapshots of her life over the past eight years. Candids. Long distance pictures. A string of shots from when she'd been goofing off in Atlantic City.

Something inside Buffy started to flutter. She'd thought Ethan was in New York then. How could he have gotten these photos of her?

The fluttering turned into a gale when she got to the nude pictures. Even Playboy would think they were too explicit.

And even with the ring off her finger, she couldn't remember when half of them were taken. She wasn't entirely sure which half upset her the most.

*************

All he had to do to find the Slayer was follow his nose. Twelve floors up, Spike stepped from the elevator and immediately heard a crash come from the far end of the hall. A sliver of light slashed across the carpeted floor from the open door, and he hurried his pace when another clatter resonated through the building.

He heard her before he saw her. Wracking sobs were muffled by the continued smashing of flesh against wood, and the scent of blood floated back to greet him like an old friend. By the time Spike reached the apartment, the noise and smells were making him dizzy with desire, but everything froze when he saw the tableau through the opening of the door.

The living room was a shambles. A leather sectional was overturned, foam padding strewn across the floor like it had been gutted by an amateur. Near the doorway, a heavy mahogany desk was smashed into pieces, legs broken into jagged pieces, papers and books and envelopes scattered every which way. One scrap near the doorway caught his attention. It revealed a younger Slayer stretched like a whore over the end of a large bed, the tips of her golden hair trailing across the floor, her jaw slack and her eyes empty. If it had been any other person, Spike would've dismissed it as simple porn. Knowing what he knew now about the ring and her Watcher, he realized it was really much more than that.

The Slayer was in the midst of the chaos, looking around the room as if in search of something more to destroy. Her hands were ribboned in scarlet, blood seeping from paper cuts and gouges. Fear radiated from her flesh like a narcotic to the brain.

"Slayer!" Spike called out automatically. He launched forward, only to bounce back against the invisible barrier of the threshold, and stumbled to catch himself from falling.

When he looked into the apartment again, though, he saw that she hadn't moved. She didn't even seem aware that he was standing there. She was lost in her own little world.

"Slayer!" he tried again.

Still, no response.

All Spike could do was watch as she turned in circles, surveying the room with a wild child's gaze. He began to match her movements, pacing back and forth before the open door, his eyes never leaving her inside the apartment.

Coming back to the supposed scene of her Watcher's crimes had subverted what progress she'd made since losing the ring. Her strength was working against her, driving her to crush every revenant within her grasp, blinding her to the will she possessed to take what had happened to her and move beyond it. Spike knew it was there. He'd seen it in her eyes once she was free of her Watcher's spell.

Bracing his hands on either side of the jamb, he leaned as close as the barrier would allow him. "Slayer," he said, pitching his voice lower to attempt to gain her attention that way. Nothing in her changed, and he was about to try again when a different possibility suddenly suggested itself.

"Buffy?" Spike said.

That worked. She froze in her circuit and turned her head slowly to gaze at him.

Their eyes locked. "Buffy," he said again. "What're you doin'?"

"I...he had these..." Now that she wasn't moving, the blood from her hands was dripping onto the floor, splattering against her toes. She was oblivious to it all.

"He's not here," Spike said. "Remember? We just came back to suss out where they took him."

"Wolfram and Hart. That's who...it was in his desk." Her gaze left his and slid to the broken pieces of wood that lay scattered near the door. "He had pictures . So many of them, and I...I don't even know when he could've taken them all. Why would he do that? He said he loved me. He said...he said it was just the two of us, that nobody else cared about..."

She was starting to lose it again, her hands shaking as she lifted one to push back the hair that had fallen across her cheek. A bloody palm smeared a line of warpaint over her jaw.

"Invite me in, Buffy," Spike coaxed. "I can't help you if I'm stuck out here. You've got to say the magic words."

"You don't want to help," she muttered. Crouching down amidst the rubble, she picked up a broken leg of the desk, nestling it in her hand as if was carved just for her. "Nobody can help me but me. I know that now---."

The makeshift stake made him nervous, but he didn't move from his spot. Keeping his voice level, he said, "Well, that doesn't make any bleedin' sense, now does it? If I wasn't interested in helping, why in hell did I save you from Fangy Gonzales? And why would I have brought you back here? Think about it, Buffy. Be smart. I know you are."

He was so good at the lies, the convincing words that had drawn more than one victim into his arms. They were even better when they were laced with truth.

"You helped because you want me for yourself. That's what you said."

"True, but doesn't that already put me a step ahead of your Watcher? Haven't pretended to be anything I'm not, Buffy." He paused. "And I didn't just take without askin', either. Didn't do anything you didn't want. Now. Invite me in."

He saw her muscles tense around the stake, knuckles as colorless as her face was flushed. The rise and fall of her chest matched the throb of her pulse as it echoed throughout the room, but all he was concerned with was whether or not he'd just made a bad situation even worse.

"Come in, Spike."

Someone human probably wouldn't have heard it. Didn't matter. The barrier gave way just as effectively as if she'd shouted it from the rooftop.

She didn't move as he stepped carefully through the rubble, his boots heedless of where they tore at the photographs strewn across the floor. He reached her side and knelt down, hands curling around her biceps to pull her up and away from the memories still rampaging around her.

"C'mon, pet," he said quietly. "Let's get you cleaned up."

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