The night is heavy and bittersweet. I walk silently and steadily, clad entirely in black leather; my legs moving me past burned out buildings, their edges charred from the bombings that Raisa and Catharine told me the Luftwaffe have inundated London with over the past few weeks. Keeping my ears pricked for the tell-tale buzz of aircraft, I ignore the sick feeling in my stomach that hasn't gone away since I saw Angel.

Glancing up at the sign that reads “Somerset Street”, I say a silent farewell to the people I've met here. I know they will wonder what happened to me, that Angel may wait for long moments by the Church, that Raisa will dismiss me as a flighty bitch who probably got herself killed, that Catharine will mourn briefly- but they will forget. I'm sure I'll remember this little jaunt into the past when I'm kicking the ass of whoever sent me here- whoever thought they could separate me from Dawn.

Dawn. The thought of her sends prickles down the backs of my legs. My gut tells me something is wrong back home and that even though I had planned to wait for Raisa and Catharine to help me break into the Watcher's Council building, I'm going to have to do it myself. I pat the side of my leg, making sure the ever present stake is secured in my boot. Stopping for a brief moment to tie back my hair in a messy knot, I edge up to the building. The shadows of the spires against the moon look like knives and I swallow, rubbing the gashes on my arms. Everything hurts in this strange new world. I have to get out.

Ascending the stairs to the main door, I test the knob. The metal is cool and bright underneath my fingers and turns without a hitch. Surprised and a little wary, I step inside quietly but there are no signs of life. Gliding through the entrance way with my back pressed to the wall, I quickly begin to move across the vast marble lobby, my steps light and purposeful.

I sense the breath, smell the sweat a split second before I hear the;

“GRAB HER!”

Whirling, I make out a fist coming towards my head and duck, lashing out with a low kick to the knees. My assailant buckles briefly, his eyes a leaf green through the mask protecting his face. They lock with mine for a moment until his partner grabs me from behind, steadying my arms behind his back as he brings a cloth to my face. The sickly sweet stench of the chloroform invades my nostrils and I cough, flipping up and out of the hold, landing behind them both.

“Who in the hell are you?” I snarl.

Both lunge at me and I return their punches with my own, ignoring the sharp heat of pain as they re-open my wounds. Backing me up against the start of the stairs, the one with the green eyes cracks me across the face and I slip, the floor sliding up to meet me. As the edge of the marble stair slams into my back, I cry out briefly, crawling away, in the direction of the door.

“We have you now, Slayer,” one of the men growls with an unfamiliar accent.

“You think that was enough to take me out?” Jumping to my feet, albeit with a groan of pain, I launch a series of punches and kicks against them, my feet and fists moving in a dance all their own. “Oh, boys, you've really never met a pissed off Slayer before. Actually, you just haven't met *me* before.”

As they both fall to their knees, I smile. “See you soon.”

Launching myself out the double doors, I half-run, half-fall down the steps, limping along the side of the street to fall on the doorstep of the abandoned apartment building next door. Wheezing slightly, I press a hand to my back, feeling the muscles and bones underneath my flesh knitting themselves back together. Jesus. I haven't felt this way since— since I slipped on tiles to get away from the sting of Spike's grasping hands and felt the bathtub against my back. Tears burn in my eyes as blood drips down my cheek from the deep cut near my temple.

“What's that I smell?”

Chills sweep through my body at the familiar, mocking tone.

“Could it be the blood of a Slayer? So juicy and vulnerable—like a lamb waitin' to be plucked out of a flock.”

“Spike,” I say quietly, not looking up.

“You remembered?” his tone is surprised, but switches quickly to exultant. “Must've made quite an impression, on you, Buffy.”

“You remembered to,” I snap back, standing and staring straight into his eyes.

He stands, a few feet away from me, clad in dirty black pants and a sleeveless black shirt. Noticing the kohl lining his eyes, I smother a smirk. Something tells me Spike used to play for the other team in his early years as a vampire.

“Not every day I meet a Slayer as ripe as you, Goldilocks,” he drawls, hooking his thumb into the belt-loops of his pants, revealing a strip of pale skin. “You're a sight prettier than the last one. She had a stick permanently embedded up her arse. Made it a bit difficult to have a decent fight with her.”

“What happened to her?” I ask bluntly.

“Killed the bitch.”

“Liar,” I reply calmly.

He blinks. “What?”

“I said, you're a liar,” I repeat. “You haven't killed a Slayer since the Boxer Rebellion. Your first and only. You may have lost your virginity, Spike, but you're nowhere near a pro.”

Barking with laughter, he howls, “That's bloody rich! Been doin' your homework on me?!”

“Not exactly,” I hedge.

Taking a step closer, he sends me an insinuating glance. “No? Doesn't get you hot under all that leather to be close to a fight you might not win? Cause if you've been readin--”

“I will win,” I cut him off smoothly. “Always do.”

“A bit smug, aren't we, Slayer?”

“With good reason.”

He begins to circle me and I follow him, our gazes never wavering.

“Haven't heard anything about you,” he cocks his head to one side.

“Also with good reason.”

“Mind tellin' me what in the fuck that would be, then?”

“I'd rather fight.”

Taking a cigarette from his back pocket and a pack of matches, he leans down and strikes it against the stone road. I smell the sulphur as he places the lit smoke between his lips and raises his eyebrows.

“You could've kicked me just then.”

“I could have.” I hope he doesn't notice my hands shaking. I can feel little prickles of electricity alighting inside my fingertips as I struggle not to touch him. For what reason, I don't know. Feel that he's ok? Hit him and hold him and – Jesus, I realize this isn't the Spike that I know. I feel like that should make more of a difference. It should.

“Why didn't you?”

“Maybe I like an equal fight,” I reply. “Were you trying to bring the easy for me? Because I don't need it.”

“Didn't think you did, Slayer,” he answers, drawing the smoke deep into his dead lungs and then dropping the cigarette, crushing it beneath his boot. “All right, we'll fight.”

He punches me across the cheek so quickly that I don't have time to duck. Rocking back slightly, I notice his surprise that I didn't go flying into the street behind me and grin.

“You're way out of your league,” I sneer, spinning around and sending a roundhouse kick straight to his ribs. We parry and thrust, the motion of our hands dizzying. Keeping up with me, barely, his fighting gets rougher and sloppier as I become more and more winded, my back throbbing with the force of a thousand suns.

“Gettin' weak, Slayer?” he taunts.

“No weaker than you,” I growl, blocking his fist with mine and cracking his nose with the heel of my palm.

“Vampires don't get weak, luv,” he cackles, seizing my wrist. I feel the tips of his silver fangs brush against the soft, inner flesh and punch his stomach, watching him soar backwards, landing in a heap.

“No? You're beneath me, Spike. I won't even fight with you.”

My stomach hurts as I say the words. I won't let this come to a point where I might have to use the stake in my boot. I just won't. He looks up at me, his eyes bright.

“Cecily?” the name is a whisper, almost a breath.

“Who?”

Rising up in a flash, he grabs me and pushes me down, straddling my waist and slamming my head against the stone. “You bloody whore! Now you really are beneath me, aren't you? Does it feel good?”

Dizzily, I look at him, his face sliding in and out of focus.

“Don't do this,” I whisper.

“Sorry, luv, gonna have to make this your first loss.”

“You're going to love me someday… William. Don't do this.”

Rearing backwards, his eyes search mine. “Who—“

“Look down.”

Seeing the stake I have pointed over his heart, he shakes his head. “Who'n the bleedin' hell are you?”

Pushing him off me with one hand, I stand, keeping the stake trained on him. “The girl who's letting you go. Isn't that enough of a good for the night?”

“You're probably some descendant of Cecily's, meant to torment me,” he says piteously. “Why didn't you just stake me, Slayer, instead of tryin' to play mind games?”

“Cue the world's smallest violin,” I respond, my hands on my hips. Attempting to disregard the shooting aches emanating from my back, I watch as he arises, taking another cigarette out and lighting it. “Besides, aren't you the master of manipulation?”

Cupping one hand around the smoke, he drags deeply. “Why in the fuck do you think you know me so well?”

“Like you said- did my homework. I never let myself be surprised.”

“What would you do if I lunged at you right now, pet?” he asks silkily.

“Stake you. Get gone.”

“Isn't over,” he spins away. “I'm gonna keep coming. Count on that.”

“Until you have one good day?”

“One good lay, more like,” he throws over his shoulder. “Trust me Slayer, I'm far from a virgin.”

Seeing him disappear from view, I sink down onto the cobble-stone, my knees giving out. The throbbing from my kidneys is nearly unrelenting. Coughing slightly, I feel the trickle of coppery blood from between my lips and wince. Oh, shit. Wearily, I lean my head back and stare at the stars.

I wonder, right now, what Dawn is doing?

Swallowing back the tears, I wonder if she's staring at these same stars. After all, aren't I just gazing at the memory of the light—at fire that burned out long ago but hasn't been extinguished to me? I'm being maudlin. Must stop it and find a way out of this. Those guys at the Watcher's Council building were ready for me—they knew I was coming. Why?

“Buffy.”

Glancing up at the shocked whisper, I take in Angel's worried face and shrug, flinching as I do so.

“I got in a little fight.”

“When you didn't show up—I got—well, we're not supposed to leave, but I… I thought I should try and find you.”

Touched despite myself, I reply; “It's no big.”

“Then why are you sitting in the middle of the road?” he asks gently.

“Good point. Help me up?”

Lacing his fingers through mine, he supports my waist as I slowly rise.

“Vampire?”

“Yes,” I answer. “Not one I couldn't handle, though. Just got a little rough.”

“You staked him?”

“Of course,” I lie, smiling faintly. “But he got in a few good moves beforehand.”

“I can see that. Can you walk?”

Faltering slightly, I recoil as my knees crumple. “I—“

“Come here,” he murmurs, drawing me against his chest and hooking his thumbs behind my knees. “Let's sit over there for a while.” Picking me up in his arms, he carries me over to the steps I collapsed upon earlier and sets me down carefully, coming to a rest beside me.

“Better?”

“Much,” I rejoin gratefully. “You make a very good friend.”

“Pardon?” he looks startled and I smile.

“Your earlier comment.”

“Oh,” embarrassed, he bows his head. “I'm not really your contact—the Resistance forbids a vampire having that kind of contact with a Slayer. Raisa and Catharine tend to ignore that. I'm more—someone to train you. Help you.”

“Like a friend would do,” I remark. “And, excuse me, but what kind of bias is that? Aren't you trying to help? Isn't that the most important thing?”

His head jerks up and his dark eyes burn into mine. “You're the first person to think so.”

“No I'm not,” I tease. “Catharine thinks you're helpful as well as dreamy.”

If he could blush, I know he would be now. “She's a nice lady.”

“But not your type?”

“I don't have a type.”

“You don't date?”

“You're very blunt,” he observes.

“Bothering you?”

“No,” he denies softly. “I just find it interesting.”

“Oh, really?” I tilt my head and then realize with a sense of horror, that I'm flirting. Flirting with the past-version of my current ex-lover. I've lost it.

He doesn't seem to notice and nods. “Wars tend to make people less wordy. It's as if people stop talking to save themselves.”

“Whoever says the least wins?”

“Exactly,” he half-smiles. “Though I guess some talk more than enough for the rest of us.”

“Like Raisa? She sure has a chip on her shoulder,” I grouse, massaging my back tentatively.

“She's angry,” Angel says pensively, leaning back on his elbows. “I don't think she had a very happy childhood. Leaving Russia so early on and now the pressure of waiting for something…”

“I wonder if she resents Catharine,” I muse, my eyes studying the tape threading the windows of the building across from us. Although its meant as a deflector, it looks like a giant dartboard, just waiting for someone to shoot holes in it. “After all, she's not waiting.”

“Yes she is,” he comments. “She's waiting for the war to be over.”

“The stint in the German Army really affected her, huh?”

He looks at me. “What do you think?”

“I'm a fan of moving the fuck on,” I quip. “So I think she should pull herself out of this and feel better because she got out alive.”

Regarding me for a moment until I begin to shift uneasily, he finally says coolly, “You don't let anything touch you, do you?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he answers, “that you let things slide. Catharine's not like that. She was hurt by the betrayal.”

“It was cold of her Watcher to do that,” I concede.

“He wasn't just her Watcher,” Angel interjects. “He was her lover.”

“Oh,” I reply, my breath hitching. “Oh. How do you know?”

“That doesn't matter,” he shakes his head. “I'm only telling you because I think it may help you understand her a bit better. She loses herself in books and dreams because life's dealt her such a difficult hand. She's not as strong as some people.”

“You're saying I'm just punishing her because she's not as strong as me?”

“When did I say that?”

“You didn't have to,” I snap. “Maybe I do push things away. But isn't that better than wallowing in misery? Slayers don't get very long lives.”

“Point taken,” he says wryly.

Wilting, I send him a sheepish glance. “Sorry. I think I'm being touchy-Buffy tonight. I don't like vampires almost beating me in fights. Makes me edgy.”

“Understandable. I think I was being a bit pushy anyway. Especially considering you're wounded.”

“These are nothing,” I assure him. “Almost can't feel them.”

Raising an eyebrow, he gives me a doubtful look. “Really? Let's put it this way- a punch in the back right now would get me- a retaliatory swing, or staked?”

“You'd be a pile of dust,” I wiggle my nose at him. “Keep that in mind. You can never be too careful around me.”

“I don't doubt that,” he says softly and our eyes meet.

Uneasy, I look away first and begin to stand gingerly. Cupping his palm around my elbow, he helps me up.

“What's the mission, by the way?”

“It's a train. Meet me at the corner of Kensington tomorrow at midnight. Bring Raisa and Catharine. I'll explain on the way.”

Nodding, I begin to walk and we take it step by step back to the door of Raisa and Catharine's apartment.

“This is very nice of you.”

“A gentleman always sees a lady to the door,” he jokes lightly.

“Ah, but you're a vampire,” I tease.

“And you're a Slayer,” he shrugs, smiling slightly. “We don't really mix, do we?”

“I've heard that one before.”

“Have you?”

Touching his chest unthinkingly, I murmur, “But there's a soul in there. It's different.”

He's so still. “There's also a heart that doesn't beat.”

“Does that matter? If you can still… feel, I mean.”

He catches my hand in his, the sticky coolness of his palm like a breath before he releases my fingers. “I try not to feel. It's better that way.”

“I get it.”

And I do. God, how can it still hurt?

“Good night, Buffy.”

“See you tomorrow, Angel.”

Leaning against the door, I imagine I can still feel his eyes on me, still feel his chest against my cheek… still feel how safe I believe I am in his presence. That's Angel. But it's not Angel and I have to get home to Dawn and that's Spike but it's not Spike and God, I just have to find a way back to Dawn. If I can't get into the Watcher's Council building without getting attacked, what options do I have left? Take Raisa and Catharine and get them killed so I can escape? Tell Angel and make him help me? What if I die here… and everyone succumbs to the First? What if I die here, and Dawn's left alone?

Sliding to the floor, I press my face to the door and hug my screaming bones, aching in their cage.

I slip into sleep, dreaming vaguely of home. Of my Mother and Spike, drinking marshmallow hot chocolate, of Dawn eating anchovy pizza and singing a little song, of Willow touching Tara's grave…

… of Angel. Angel and Cordelia, beautiful on top of lilac sheets, their bodies moving as one.

A whisper. “Buffy?”

“BUFFY!”

My head falls back with a crash. Groaning in pain, I sit up, my joints cracking.

“Raisa? What in the hell? Never wake me up like that again.”

“Why weren't you inside?” she retorts, standing in the doorway like an avenging angel, her hair streaming over her shoulders in messy swirls. “And what in the fuck happened to you?”

Swiping a self-conscious hand over my blood caked forehead, I dismiss; “Oh, nothing—“

“Never mind. We have a problem.”

“What?”

Suddenly her lip quivers.

“What?” I ask, jerked into a panic.

“Catharine's missing.”

To be Continued...