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Part Five, Aftermath



Moving on a battery of pure adrenaline, she tosses the computer light onto the bed, reaches up, snaps off one of the wooden bedposts, and is atop Spike within seconds, knees on either side of his waist and wood. . . real, honest-to-goodness wood pressed over his heart.



He doesn’t make a sound. . . not even a grunt at the sudden presence of her weight on him.



So, she fills the silence with her own carefully-controlled voice, “You better have a damned good explanation for what’s going on, or your heart’s gonna meet the pointy end of this bedpost.” She’s so angry that she’s trembling, and she’s a little surprised that she means every word she just said.



The quiet resumes, raising a niggling doubt in the back of her mind.



“Spike?” she asks, her tone a curious mixture of hardness and concern.



“In a bit too much pain for much explaining right now, pet,” he whispers, voice so weak that Buffy’s heart aches without her permission.



She slides to the right, landing on the comforter beside him, legs tucked against his mid-section. Her fumbling fingers fold over the computer light, and blue streams over his form. Bruises paint his pale skin in dark circles, and his lip is swollen and bleeding. One section of his shirt is blood-soaked and dented in as if someone used a heavy object to smash in his ribcage.



Her mind flashes to the last time she saw him this thrashed. The First Evil had tortured him for hours as she worked to rescue him by killing the Turok-Han. She had been pretty beat up herself. Recovery had been slow. . . for both of them, but they had muddled through together. . . like always.



This time, she can’t quite get past his earlier actions. The wound on her neck throbs with its own memories, and she scoots over so that she’s no longer in contact with him.



“Try to explain.” She cares about how hurt he is, but she can still be angry. She has a right to be.



He coughs as he tries to speak, “Did you get my message?”



That’s not what she expects him to say. “What message?”



His finger taps at the computer in her hand. “On here.”



She frowns. “I couldn’t figure anything out on it. It just lights up and beeps at me.”



“The beeping.”



“What about it?” She glances down at the screen and fumbles with the buttons. Nothing.



He sighs as if she should understand him, and he swallows. “Morse code.”



Andrew had explained something about all the features of the computers but she doesn’t remember a Morse code feature. “Oh.”



“The plan.”



“What plan?” She’s confused now, so she states what she knows for sure, allowing an edge of hurt to curl over the words, “You bit me. You handed me over to Drusilla. You betrayed me.”



Even in the dim light, sorrow glints in his eyes at her accusation. “I handed myself over to Dru.”



“She did this to you?”



A half-chuckle, half-cough escapes his throat. “Who else, pet?”



His eyes drift closed as if the exertion of laughing sapped his remaining energy. Buffy can’t bring herself to hit him when he is so hurt, so she lightly pinches a patch of flesh that isn’t bruise-covered.



“Hey,” she says, increasing her volume.



His body gives a little jerk, and he inhales sharply, blinking.



“No sleeping yet. Finish your explanation.” She releases her grip on the wood staff. He doesn’t have the energy to harm her. Plus, she is starting to believe that he has something more in mind for her. . . for them.



“Right. Give me a minute.” He re-closes his eyes as a wave of pain washes over his features. She reacts without thinking, taking his hand in hers and allowing him to squeeze as a distraction.



Buffy loses track of the seconds that pass before he continues, “Made a trade. When I was looking for you, fell into a trap. There are catacombs below the city. Bunch of vamps came to check their trap. Dru was one of them. Said she expected my return to Prague, so she set traps. She wanted a trade.”



“What kind of trade?” Skepticism is healthy.



“This.” His hand goes limp against her palm, and she adds pressure to rouse him again. His response is weaker than before, but he keeps talking, “Had to prove that my word was good. Daft bird doesn’t trust me anymore. Not that I blame her. It’s why she wanted to torture me. . . after I tied her up that last time. . . in Sunnydale.”



Buffy ignores his reference to the past. She has to know, “And the biting me thing?”



“A way to seal the deal. If she saw me bite you. . . if she got to taste you, then, she’d know I’d meet the terms of the agreement.”



“Deal sealed with Slayer’s blood,” she says flatly. Part of her feels violated that he would make such a deal without explaining things to her. . . without offering her a choice. Part of her also feels disappointed that the only reason he got so close her physically was because he’d made a deal. “That was low, Spike.” Understatement of the year.



He runs a thumb over her knuckles. “I’m so sorry, pet. Really. It was the only way. We were almost out of time, and she wouldn’t let me out of the trap unless I met her terms.”



“Sooo, in exchange for beating you up, getting to taste me, and being thrown in here, we get what? To be on Candid Camera in the corner over there?” She inclines her head in the direction of the camera she found earlier.



Lacking the energy to laugh again, he gives her a half-smile. “Not a camera, pet.”



She squints into the darkness, making out the vague outline of the non-camera. “What is it then?”



“Our way out of here. We get our freedom. That box isn’t a camera. It’s a transmitter. It’s connected to the underground system. We can contact help. Operating system’s in the wall over there.” He brings his head up, nodding in the direction of the television-shaped frame. “Then, she’ll let us go.”



“It can’t be that simple. . . . And how can I believe you?”



Spike’s head falls back into place. “It isn’t simple. We get to make contact, rest up, and get out of here, but she’s not stopping her followers from chasing after us.” He hides his eyes from her. “As far as trusting me, pet. I can’t answer that one for you.”



He sounds so tired, so defeated that she realizes she does believe him. And with that trust, dread fills Buffy’s stomach, making her feel nauseated. “We’ll never make it. Under ideal conditions, we might. . . I might now. But you. . . after what she did to you. . .”



His next words are adamant, “That’s why you’ll leave me behind if it comes to that. What you got there,” he pats the pouch at her waist, “is worth saving.”



Despite what he’s done, her fierce stubbornness surges. “I won’t leave you behind. Not again.”



“We’ll see, pet, we’ll see.” The last words are so soft that Buffy barely hears them.



“Spike?” She caresses his cheek with her free hand.



“Can’t talk anymore. Sleep.” He turns toward her on his side so that his damaged ribs are above the rest of his body. Moving his arm beneath his head, he shivers.



Buffy doesn’t say a word but positions her backside against his underbelly and brings his arm over her hip to keep him warm. She’s tired, too. Within seconds, she’s asleep.





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