"I'm sorry," she said when he came into the room. He looked more tired than she had ever seen him.

"'bout what," he asked opening the wardrobe and removing some clothes and a towel.

“I dunno, last night … everything.”

“Everything, huh, that’s a big ball of shite to be carrying around like some bleedin’ bitty dung beetle, innit Slayer.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said more or less into the wardrobe there wasn’t the slightest hint of humor in his voice.

“Spike, what’s…”

“Just waiting for you to finish the thought, Pet,” His reply was aimed up the side of the wardrobe door ending with a cut-off glance at the portraits above.

“What , the apology? I meant it. I am sor…”

He scoffed and turned to face her. “Every time you say you’re sorry it’s followed by ‘but Spike’, no, no… ‘but William, I can’t keep doing this- its killing me’,” he mimicked her voice, “… and you storm off leaving me picking’ up and untangling my own innards from where they fell out at. Not doing it again, Slayer. Not. So don’t even say it.”

“I’m…” she didn’t say it, couldn’t say it again. She shook and hung her head. So this is what it feels like, getting staked through the heart. Damn stupid Vampire has a point, no getting around that. All she could do was nod understanding at her own part in the making of this mess.

“Isn’t this were you growl at me to ‘get out’,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Yeah. Usually.” His wasn’t much better than hers.

“So?”

“Don’t want you to go.” Their eyes met in that way that Buffy’s had only ever done with his, and his alone; over a distance, yet right there with him.

“Look, I need a shower.” It was Spike who broke away from the fast becoming languid gaze first.” It’s Saturday, it's a patrol night. I ‘m starting to smell like a froloftz; can’t have the baddies’ tipped off ‘fore we get to them.

“You want company,” she said, “with the … patrolling?” Helping him with the shower part sounded better to her, but since they were sorta still fighting with each other, she decided against mentioning it.

“Guess so,” he said grabbing the mesh bag of toiletries and starting for the door.

Buffy wasn’t sure if she nodded or not. She just stared as she watched him go out the door.

They walked in silence, side by side, for quite some time before either of them said anything.

"Quiet night," Buffy eventually commented.

He looked all around, and she was sure he was going to completely ignore her before he finally said, "Yeah, it is."

"Is it always this quiet," she asked desperate to end the uncommunicativeness that had developed between, "...cause, if it is..."

"No."

She wondered if this was going to go on all night with the short, brusque replies.

Spike looked all around again before he spoke and Buffy was starting to think he was getting paranoid about something. She looked around, as well, to see if she could sense anything, but she could not, just a few stale demon smells, the creatures of the night had been out alright but apparently they decided to turn in early.

"No," he said again. "That’s Cisco. He’s about four, or so, blocks ahead of us and a block over. He's sort of clearing the way. Not on purpose, he just has a considerable reputation among the local beasties. No, there's something else, don't know what."

"I can't feel anything," she said then realized her words were a little ambiguous given their current personal situation. "Wrong," she added hurriedly, "here, I mean."

"You wouldn't, its subtle-like, no offence, Pet, but you wouldn't notice it if you didn't know the area, know the feel of it."

"Have you felt it before or just tonight," she asked.

"Before."

"For how long?”

"Tonight? Just the past few..." From the look she was giving him, he reasoned that was not what she meant, "...uh, over the past few years, now and then."

"Just here," she probed, "...or elsewhere?"

"Here and...other places," he said.

Buffy glared at him for not elucidating further.

"Here lately, Los Angeles when I was there," he shook his head. “Sunnydale...maybe," he said quickly, "...really can't tell."

"Sunnydale? Is it the First," she asked. Father Sebastian's conversation earlier only enhanced her concerns that that chapter may not be closed. "I mean, we didn't kill it, couldn't be killed, but I don't think it could have regrouped that much this soon, could it?"

"Said it 'wasn't time for me yet'...don't really know what it uses for a timepiece, Love, could of been gettin’ off too easy, could still be trying to pull my strings. I dunno. That wasn't the only thing swimmin' round in my head then. No, it feels different, not so much in my noggin, but...outside it," he said. "Sometimes, back then," he started then hesitated, "...it felt like I was being followed, being watched, thought it might have been Wood."

"Coulda been," Buffy said. Los Angeles, Sunnydale...could still be.

"No wasn't, well, most of the time anyway, it wasn't him...no, this doesn't feel...human. It's something else."

"Is it after us or..." she asked figuring that was probably a rhetorical question.

"Dunno, can't tell. Wager we'll find out when it wants us too. Buffy," he said actually looking at her instead of through her for the first time since this morning, "...don't get all paranoid cause I'm having' a wiggins. It's nothing, really, whatever it was, it's gone now. Don’t fret it. Pet"

No matter what it was, Spike seemed to have shaken it off and now that he was talking to her again Buffy wasn't going to press the issue, she changed the subject.

"What is with Cisco anyway," she found it hard to call him that, "...I mean, priests usually aren't demon hunters, unless they're like the exorcist or something, his head doesn't spin the whole way around does it? Cause Exorcist 360, always creepy," she shuddered.

"No," Spike had to laugh. "I don't think so, doesn’t go the whole 'round, anyway. Don't be fooled by his day job, he wasn't always a priest, used to be a pro if I understand right."

"Professional? Demon hunter?"

"Among other things."

"Thought I was...er, Slayers were," she corrected herself, "... the only 'professional' demon hunters, I mean, most of the other ones are only out for vengeance, right?

He shrugged. "Tangled with a few that weren't," he said, "...but most of them were, one way or another, tied up with the Council."

The streetlight was out in the alley they had turned into leaving only the moonlight filtering in from between the buildings in sporadic rays. Buffy was startled when Cisco crept up on them without her hearing, jumping when he touched her shoulder.

"Anything," he asked stepping back into one of the shafts of moonlight as Buffy spun around to confront the figure clad in black leather behind her.

The leather was well worn, but not shabby, and it fit him close revealing an amazingly athletic build. She had seen him in his day guise, black cassock to the floor and white collar; now in form fitting leather he looked to be a different person. He was stealthy, almost cat-like; he looked like he belonged stalking demons; he looked dangerous.

“No mate, nothing.” Spike said from his position in the darkness. Buffy noted he didn’t mention the ‘wiggins’ thing at all; she would have to ask why later.

“How did you… She asked she could see Spike smirking just on the edge of the moon light; at least that was better than sulking,” …do that. I am losing my touch. You knew he was back there didn’t you?” She directed the last question to Spike.

He gave a little half shrug half waggle and looked at the walls around them.

“I think Spike could smell me, my blood; vampire senses and all,” Cisco added,”…and I’ve got lots of practice being … stealthy, “he said cryptically.

“Vampire smelliness, still eew, and I didn’t know that stealthy went along with priest-y.” Buffy replied.

“Doesn’t; goes along with being Order of Ta...”

The screams cut him short and all three took off in their direction.

Rudy, Wax and the rest of the cellar dweller crowd, nine in all, were there; apparently honing in on two bunches of kids, teen agers or a little older, mixed genders, either making out or fighting or a little of both from the looks of ‘em. Bits of rusted rebar broken from the crumbling building walls, and old chain were no match for fangs. Rudy had the leader of one gang, the strongest looking male, anyway, by the hair, spiked purple Mohawk, with fangs sunk deep.

“Just hate to interrupt dinner,” Buffy said with her best Slayer voice. Tossing and catching her stake a few times in her hand, as they skidded to a stop in the blind’s entranceway.

“Well, well, well,” Rudy said letting lavender locks slump to the ground, dazed but not drained. “Looks like it gonna be a real good night.” His eyes blazing golden fixed on Buffy. “Looks like I’m gonna get me a Slayer.” He lunged.

“Over-dramatic poofter!” Spike said as the stake pulled out of Rudy’s back and he dissolved to dust a yard before his target. The fracas was on; the fang gang dropping their snacks, who promptly scurried, dragging their wounded along with them, and moved on the three of them in full game face.

Rudy would not be missed, his hold over the others, especially Wax and Jake was tenuous at best; but who ever won in this would become the new leader of the rag tag band of vamps, so the battle was on.

Spike shifted to game face as well.

Wax swung hard at him with the rebar, catching him in mid-forearm.

Spike heard the bone snap, it was weakened along the cut-line where Miss Psycho Slayerette had hacked the arm off years ago and though it had healed, then and since, it was never as strong as it should be. It now hung at an odd angle, splintered ends of ulna and radius, both, protruding from the riven and ragged-edged skin.

He winced, the pain wasn’t a concern, yet; it wouldn’t hit for a few minutes at least, and then only after the adrenaline of the battle subsided, but the arm would be useless for the rest of the fight. With a spinning kick, Spike detached the rebar from Wax’s hand and it went clattering into a pile of rubbish cans in the corner of the dead-end alleyway.

The kick to his mid-section sent Wax reeling back against the bricks of the building and Spike seized the opportunity to grab him by the neck with his one good hand, fingers penetrating sinew as he lifted him up off his feet and pinned him there.

Had Wax been a more seasoned fighter, or just a bit more intelligent, Spike might have been in trouble with the injured arm, but since he had just proven that he was the stupid git that Spike had always thought he was; Spike took a deserved moment to let him stew there suspended and turned his gaze to check on the others.

Buffy, he was certain, was holding her own; Rudy had been the only one of the batch that would have given her any trouble in his own right and he was dust. Cisco, on the other hand, while a highly skilled and adept fighter, was mortal with no super strength and no special healing abilities, and as such, was always vulnerable in a tussle. Spike caught him from the corner of his eye and was glad to see he had taken on the girls of the gang; they were all younger and therefore weaker than the remaining males, as long as they didn’t tire him out, with his human stamina, he’d be alright. Buffy was going at Jake and Sami simultaneously, using a busted-off push broom handle as a short staff.

Twirl, whirl, parry and thrust: the choreographed dance of The Slayer.

God, love to watch her do this, he thought as he held Wax by the neck at arm’s length, though the thought of her getting hurt terrified him to the core…still, a bloody thing a grace it is, Slayer, in full form.

She wasn’t in trouble, he knew it; these were young ones and not too smart at that and she was dustin’ ‘em with good dispatch if this was all that was left of them. He had always tried not to interfere when she fought, didn’t want to screw her up, make her slip, that’d be dangerous. Like he used to, he kept an eye and let her have at it; but God, he loved to watch.

He was lost in her dance: the composition of it, the economy of energy, the poetry of motion.

When he heard it he almost didn’t know what it was, just that it was coming fast and straight at her.

Nuff playing with this fuckin’ fledge, he closed the fingers around Wax’s neck til they met and let him drop; only dust hit the ground as he turned and dived.

It whirred past his ear as he reached her, catching him in the back of his shoulder as he tackled her down. The second one followed hard on the heels of the first, grazing Buffy’s arm as she fell, ripped from the battle with Jake by Spike’s lunge. The quail that sliced her arm hit home in the vamp, showering both her and Spike with dust as they hit the pavement.

Cisco had heard them too; they were a sound he was familiar with, crossbow, compression powered: deadly and accurate. He dusted Lace as he watched his friend and the Slayer’s impromptu duck and cover from the crossbow assault and the shower of vamp dust that followed. Sasha turned and went running, at least she’s smart enough to save it for another day, he thought. He took a much needed deep breath of air and moved on Sami, who was about to pounce on the Spike and Buffy pile before they could recover from the tumble of avoiding the crossbow quails. One good stab was all it took; his aim was true getting the heart from the back.

“Spike! Your arm!” Buffy shouted, rotating it just enough to see the extent of the damage which was also just enough to send the latent pain of it shooting up Spike’s arm.

“Good God Woman!” he grimaced, shaking off her hold on the injured arm and really looking at it for the first time, it was dangling there by virtue of skin. It was the timing of the rapidly receding adrenaline rush in his system more than the sight of the arm that sent the first wave of nausea through him.

“Your shoulder!” She grabbed at the metal shank protruding at a sharp angle from his back and tried yanking it out, but it snagged on shattered bone and would not give.

“Bloody Hell!” he shouted stifling the wave of pain and its accompanying queasiness. “Not enough somebody’s trying to kill us, you gotta try n’ finish the job!

“Sorry,” she fawned over him. “I want it out of you,” she frowned apologetically.

“I do too, Love,” he stammered, ”…but it ain’t coming out that way.”

“It’s probably barbed like this one,” Cisco interjected, he picked up the quail that had dusted Jake and showed it in example, “…just break it off. We’ll dig it out at the Mission. We need to get out of here.”

“Can’t,” Buffy said, “…Slayer’s strong, metal’s stronger.”

Her words baffled him. He looked at the quail in his hand, it was definitely made of wood; ash it looked like, or else it couldn’t have dusted Jake. Closer inspection revealed tiny grooves leading to vestibules buried in the shaft; this quail was doped. Poison.

He dropped to his knees behind Spike to check the one protruding from his shoulder blade. It had pierced the bone and was definitely stuck there and it also had the tiny grooves in its shaft, the difference between the two being this one was blued steel; pulling it out would tear up the shoulder pretty badly, in addition to requiring more strength than either he or the Slayer had. Still, it had to come out and soon before whatever was in the vestibules had a chance to work its way into Spike’s system. He sighed heavily and rocked back on his heels, looking for his field satchel. “We’ll push it through then,” he said spying the satchel a few yards away.

Buffy tried her best not to hurt Spike again as she attempted to comfort him, there wasn’t much she could do except hold his hand, the good one, to her surprise he was holding hers back.

“Your arm’s bleedin’ too, Love, “he nodded toward the already clotted trickle that streaked her arm, “…looks deep.”

She glanced at it, wishing that she hadn’t because the minute she saw it, it began to sting like a mother. “Flesh wound just grazed me.”