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Spike glared at the bars that surrounded him on three sides. The fourth was a solid stone wall, with a narrow shelf upon which lay a thin mattress. He looked down at the iron bands on his wrists that chained him to a staple in the floor, giving him just enough leeway to sit or lie on the “bed”. The only other thing in the room was a camera mounted high, near the ceiling. He knew only too well that any vamp that had been imprisoned in this cell, hadn’t survived the experience. He remembered the awful “operating theatre” he’d woken up in, with the photographs of all those other vamps. It was too much like the bloody Initiative, or that mad millionaire’s for his peace of mind. Talk about history repeating itself. History could go and bugger itself for all he cared.

Things had been happening so fast recently, that he’d had no time to think. Now he had too much time, he found that he was swamped with thoughts and feelings.

About Buffy, she’d seemed almost friendly today. He’d expected her to punch him on the nose (or worse) or at least yell at him. But she’d asked him quite calmly what had happened, and hadn’t blamed him at all. He shook his head, she’d acted as if she liked him – which he knew was just a pipe dream on his part.

About Hilda – was she going to be Okay? He’d had some experience of magic in his long life, but never as powerful as this. Would Hilda recover, or would she stay in her coma? He had used his not inconsiderable powers of persuasion on her to make her take him home. He shifted uncomfortably, chains clanking, was it all his fault? It was all too confusing for someone who had no moral compass.

About the other witches – why the hell were they still attacking him? He could feel the spell skittering about in the back of his mind, still active, but muffled by the protection that Hilda had given him.

You’re a bloody master vampire - top of the sodding food chain - what the hell are you doing caged up like a lab rat? And feelings for humans? Where had that come from? He blamed the sodding chip. When he’d been chained up before, it had been for the purposes of coercion or punishment, and was usually accompanied by extreme pain, which he’d used to help him concentrate – on escape. But he was here voluntarily.

Sullenly, he’d allowed them to rope his arms behind his back and bundle him into the car for the humiliating journey back to this hellhole. He started to work himself up into an unrighteous fury. He should have buggered off when everything first started to go pear-shaped. Instead he’d allowed that bloody witch to persuade him to stay – and now look at the crap he was in.
Spike could stand up – just – but he couldn’t pace and for a creature with excess energy it was torture in itself. Growling low in his chest, he pulled on the chains for the hundredth time. Had they forgotten him? He’d been chained up for hours, getting hungrier by the minute. At last he heard footsteps approaching.

He looked up to see the Slayer peering at him through the bars. “Oh great, come to see the monster in its cage have you?” he snarled.

She unlocked the door and entered, “Nooo. Actually, I came to bring you this.” She offered him a mug.

Even the aroma of pig’s blood smelled delicious to him at that point. He made to take it from her, but was brought short by the chain.

“Oh, bloody, buggering hell!” He snarled, sliding down to crouch on the floor. He was surprised when she hunkered down by his side, offering him the mug again. He was even more surprised when she calmly watched him drink, with not the faintest expression of disgust.

“Ta, luv.” He handed her back the mug.

“Do you want some more?”

“That’s taken the edge off, but it’s probably as well that I’m not up to full strength at the moment, thanks all the same.”

He couldn’t meet her eyes. Suddenly finding the manacles fascinating, he examined them minutely, to give him time to recover from her sudden presence. Her scent surrounded him in a miasma of promise and rejection. He could sense her breathing, which seemed over fast, and the blood pumping round her delicious body. He fought the impulse to touch her, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth.

She showed no inclination to leave, and he was uncomfortably aware of her arm pressing against his, and his body’s reaction. He shifted slightly and wrapped his arms round his knees as far as the chains would let him.

He’s flinching away from me, Buffy thought dismally. She was sure that he’d sooner have received his meal from the witch.

“Um, Giles has gone to do some research.” Buffy said, desperately trying to break the uncomfortable silence. “The prof thinks that, although Hilda is still unconscious, it’s more like sleep than, uh, well unconsciousness.”

He looked up then, his eyes feverish, “She gonna be okay?”

“He thinks that she’ll be fine.” She smiled brilliantly at him. “Are you okay?”

Spike looked at her in amazement – this was the furthest from okay than he’d ever been, but he found he couldn’t be angry with her for showing concern. Instead, he did the only thing he could think of. He threw his head back and roared – with laughter.

Stung, Buffy was about to storm out of the room. Then she looked at him rocking and shaking with merriment. It was a true, wholehearted laugh, not the high pitched chuckle that she’d heard before, and she felt herself relax and join in.

Suddenly, Spike fell silent. “Get out.” He whispered.

Still laughing, Buffy said “Huh?”

“Slayer. Get OUT!” In a blur, his face changed and he lunged for her.

Held immobile by shock, it wasn’t until his fangs pierced her throat, that self-preservation took over and she punched at him desperately. Then, appallingly, his snarls turned to screams and he fell back clawing at his head. She saw him drop convulsing on the floor, blood pouring from his nose and ears.





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