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Buffy hung limply in her chains. It had been five days since she’d freed Cecily and sacrificed herself. After the third day, she’d given up any hope of rescue. Either the girl hadn’t told them, or they didn’t think she was worth the risk. Now, battered and beaten, she was close to breaking point.

After the last few weeks with Spike and the Scoobies, the sudden return of her pain was more than devastating. The tortures she’d been subjected to in her last years of captivity were milder and milder as they became bored of her; fresh means of making her pay had been contrived after her unexpected escape.

She lifted her head weakly at the sound of the door opening, suddenly feeling icily cold when she heard the rattle of Angelus’ toys against their tray. The door slammed behind him and he moved into her line of sight. Before, when she’d had the strength, she’d fought and taunted him. Now, she just wanted it to end.

“Hey Buff, you’re not looking so good. How about a drink of water?”

Her eyes widened, stinging as the air hit their dry surfaces. He’d only done this once before, but the remembered pain was enough to make her whimper quietly. She’d woken the first time to find herself naked and chained to the wall, barely able to touch the floor. When a cup of water had pressed against her lips, she’d automatically swallowed a trickle.

Instantly her throat was on fire with the most searing agony she’d ever felt. Her hands had fought frantically to clutch her stomach and chest to no avail as the holy water dribbled down. Her whole body shuddered with painful spasms, his roar of laughter going unheard as she screamed, making the pain of her raw throat increase tenfold.

As he approached with a cup held firmly in his hand, she tried to struggle, but she was too weak. Stilling, she watched him approach, squinting to keep him in focus. She had to get the timing perfect. As he raised the glass to her lips, she snapped her head forwards, slamming her shoulders into him.

She felt and heard the wrenching pop of her arm dislocating, but ignored the pain and watched him rise to his feet, his face suddenly contorted into a savage smile. He turned his back to her, sauntering over to his tray of toys as she groaned, feeling the sting of the spilled holy water as it sent fiery pain racing along her nerves.

A hand gripped her chin and she felt the bones of her jaw creak in protest. Looking up into coldly insane eyes, she whimpered again. In one hand her sire held a long-bladed knife with a wickedly serrated edge. In the other a cattle prod hissed and sparked in promise.

“Not thirsty then, Buff? Alright, let’s play.”

****

Five days. That was how long it had been since Buffy attacked Cecily and ran away. He was still in shock; some part of him refused to believe that she’d do such a thing. Even he, however, had to acknowledge the evidence. Buffy was missing, and Cecily bore all the marks of a vampire attack.

By mutual agreement, nobody had gone into the vampiress’ room to clean out her things. On the morning of the fifth day, though, the Slayer decided it was time to bite the bullet. Rising silently in the early morning, he stood outside her door for a long moment, remembering how she’d looked when she first came out, dressed to go to the Bronze.

It was shocking how much he missed her. He hadn’t realised how he looked forward to seeing her every morning, how her quietly affectionate smiles had brightened his day. He missed watching her sleep those nights when he had to sneak into her room to check she was still here, missed the adorable pout she used when she couldn’t get her way.

Taking a deep, steadying breath and ignoring the curious ache in his chest, he stepped into her room. Her special scent immediately assaulted him, vanilla, flowers and something uniquely Buffy. His eyes closed against the angry tears that stung his eyes at her betrayal; she’d played him for a fool.

Pushing his emotions down until he felt numb and cold, he began methodically packing away her possessions, surprised at the sheer volume of things she’d left behind. It wasn’t until he reached her desk that he had to stop and bite back his temper again. There was a picture Willow had taken a few nights before her escape on the desk. She was sitting next to him, both of them grinning at something he’d forgotten, one of his arms wrapped around her shoulders.

Slamming a fist down on the photograph, he felt one eyebrow quirk as he caught sight of the slip of paper underneath it. He lifted it, noting that it was written in Buffy’s messy scrawl, though the writing was shakier than normal, as if she’d been in a hurry and scared. As he started to read, he had to sit down on the bed, suddenly gasping for air.

Spike

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. I hope I managed to return Cecily safely to you. I wanted you to know that I’m not sorry I got taken again. I know her dying would hurt you, and I couldn’t bear to let that happen if I could stop it. Last night Darla kidnapped her and Angelus told me that if I wanted her back, I had to go and get her. I can’t say anything to anyone, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but he would’ve killed her. I’ve gone to the mansion, and as I’ve obviously not made it out, I wanted you to know I don’t regret it. I hope you are happy with her. Nobody deserves it more than you. Say goodbye to the Scoobs for me.

Love, Buffy

Wood was woken by Spike’s agonised roar. He leaped out of bed, rushing into the living room, followed by the rest of the gang, who’d taken to sleeping at his house since Buffy’s betrayal. He found his Slayer sitting slumped on the couch, his knuckles white as he clutched a piece of paper in his hand.

Blue eyes rose slowly, narrowed to dangerous slits and burning with rage. They locked on Cecily, and suddenly the Slayer was on his feet, slamming her into the wall. She screamed and thrashed as a shocked Wood tugged futilely on her captor’s arm, yelling at him furiously.

“What the hell are you doing? Have you lost it?”

In reply, Spike released Cecily suddenly. The girl slid to the floor, sobbing with self-pity and rubbing her sore arms where they’d bruised from the intensity of Spike’s grip. Turning, his face white with frenzied anger, the Slayer pushed the note into his Watcher’s hand. There was silence as he read, his dark face somehow paling as he collapsed onto the couch.

“Dear Lord.”

Spike turned, glaring at Cecily, his voice a venom-laden hiss. “You have some explaining to do. Now.”





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