A deep breath, rattling past her ribs with the force of it. Okay, Buffy. Think. Immediate consequences? He's too weak to hurt anybody, and right here where she could watch him. Sure, she wasn’t up to full strength yet but he was far from it, laughably far. So no danger. He wasn’t saying any more, just sitting there in this stick-straight way you could tell hurt a lot. So no information. Nothing, then. Nothing to worry about, not right now.

Okay, so, plenty to worry about. But nothing to do. She could grab the phone, wake Giles up, but he’d freak, and poke and prod and try to figure this all out. Without books, without Spike’s testimony… And she was so tired. So very tired, and it would still be gone tomorrow.

Not thinking about it. Things to do. God, so many of them.

She picked up the phone, fingers hovering by the keypad. She could never remember his number. 411, then. And, hey, bonus. The little voice always sounded so damn happy. At least somebody was. “Los Angeles,” she said. “Angel Investigations.”

God, you think they might pick up the damn phone. You know, just in case it’s the Apocalypse calling.

“Hello?” Finally. A woman’s voice. A little familiar, maybe.

“Hey. Can I speak to Angel, please?”

The silence is longer than it ought to be, awkward. “It’s Buffy. Listen, I...”

An audible breath. “Oh. Buffy.” Then there’s a lot of rustling, a lot of shouting. Somebody keeps saying her name. And then, she can hear jostling and rattling, like the receiver’s being tossed around. “Angel? Hello?”

“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

It’s kinda unjustified, but hard not to feel a little bit irritated. I’m Not at the Bottom of a Big Pit! Ask Me How! “Yeah. No biggie.”

“We’re moving.”

He sounded so sorry, it’s impossible not to let her grumpiness go and just let it happen. Delicious, the surge of warmth and nervousness that hits her whenever she’s talking to him. Not that she does, much. Usually, he’s just there, huge and comforting when you need him to be. By her mother’s grave, right before the world ends. It’s weird, really weird, to hear him talk about normal things like moving.

“Buffy? You there?”

“Yeah, sorry. We, um...” She should have thought about this more, thought about what to say. Don’t want to burden him with the specifics. It’s her Apocalypse, this one. Angel is… Angel. Not the cavalry. “It’s sort of a long story. But Giles says we need to get to England, really fast, and we’ve got Spike. He thought you might know how to get a plane...”

“Can’t you just stuff him in the cargo hold?”

Jealous vampire crap. She couldn’t help smiling, just a little. “Really, really can’t.” He saved the world, she almost said, but it stuck in her mouth. No details. Right. “Are there vamp-friendly planes? You know, fly the unfriendly skies?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever…” His voice trailed off, then was back, unnaturally cheerful for Angel. “Actually, I’ll get you a plane.”

It was embarrassing, how good it felt that he was gonna take care of it. Somebody was gonna get something done, just for her. Somebody, doing something, so she could just sit. Oh, oh, Angel. Still, can’t let him rescue her, not entirely. “Well, um, Giles said money’s no problem, so you can bill it...”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Giles...he has access to all the Council’s funding now. I don’t want you to have to…”

“Trust me, Buffy. No trouble at all.” Weird. Not that he was on the verge of bankruptcy or anything, but his little office... And a plane to England…

“Thanks,” she said, awkward silence settling around her. God, you’d think you’d have something to say. Hey, Angel, guess what I did today; beat the source of all evil! You know, the one that tried to make you kill yourself that one time. And with something you gave me, thank God for you. Except it burned him up but he’s de-burned somehow and... Yeah, better to stick with the awkward.

Even Angel could only hold the meaningful pause for so long. “I, ah, need to go help with boxes.”

“Oh, okay. We’re in this little town…” She snatched the hotel pad. “Mission Hill. At the Come On Inn.”

“Do you know the number?” Stupid little pad, with its total absence of useful information. It wasn’t on the phone, either. “It’s all right. I’ll find it, call you with the details.”

“Okay. Thanks, Angel. Just…thanks.”

“Buffy?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re all right?”

A bright smile, hard and fake, as though he could hear it over the phone. “I beat the big bad, didn’t I?”

“You always do.” And poof! Gone with the awkward! No need to dish the details because he just knew.

“Angel?” Nothing to say, really. Or too much. Or something. “Um... Call me when you get your new number, okay?”

“All right.” A heavy silence. You could see it, his meaningful expression, even through the phone line. “Goodbye, Buffy.”

“Bye, Angel.”

She plunked the receiver down, warm and drained all at once. Now that it was over, now that he wasn’t sopping up all her attention, the back of her neck was pricking with Spike’s presence. He’s there, there at her, back, soulless and there. God. Just a minute, just a minute to close her eyes, take a breath, take her...

“Poof to the bloody rescue, then?”

Ooo-kay. Breaktime over. “Angel is sending a plane, yes.”

A snort. She turned just in time to see his wince. “Don’t mind me. Only back from the bloody dead.”

A flush of heat across her face. “Well, you weren’t exactly Mr. Chatty.”

“Can’t imagine why,” he muttered, glaring down at his bloodied chest.

Buffy worked to swallow around the sudden block in her throat. Still there - those horrible cuts - even if they were only whispers now. “Do you need something?” He was looking at her again, in that way that made her skin prickle. Her eyes dropped, seized on the empty glass he was toying with. “More water, maybe?”

“Pretty sure I’ve had better than water, recently.” He nodded at her bandage.

Stupid, stupid reaction, but she just froze, stared at him. For him, but maybe everything was different, maybe, and… His mouth curled, a vicious half-sneer. “Let me guess. Wish you could take it all back. Too good for a soulless thing.”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was too quiet, and kind of scratchy. So much for the firm and confident she’d been hoping for.

His face softened. “Bit of a shock, yeah, for both of us.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple too sharp under his skin. “How long was I gone?”

The way he looked now, so soft, so quiet, just letting everything slide for her. Spike. Spike, really alive, really here… God, but his soul wasn’t. “Just this morning.”

“Never did learn to leave you time to miss me.” His chuckle morphed into a pained cough, his hands clutching ribs then flying off again.

Nothing to do, not for broken ribs. Just suffer through them, let them heal, but it felt awful, wrong somehow to just sit there and watch him. Even if he was… No matter what she was supposed to do now. “Can I get you anything?” He shook his head, still sputtering a little.

She snatched the cup from where it had fallen beside him and strode to the bathroom to fill it. Something to do, anyway. He still didn’t look right, too skinny and brittle, like he’d shatter if you tapped him.

He was still when she came back into the room, took the cup from her without comment. Sitting there, sipping away, so meek… Like nothing had changed, but everything had and… And she was really earning her dumb blonde stripes tonight. The shock of it all, the soul thing, and the threat had gotten shoved to the back of her mind. Whatever brought him here might be coming back, coming for any of them... Her muscles tightened a little further. Were muscles like rubber bands, pull them just a little bit too tight and then SNAP?

“What’s this, Slayer?” She looked up to find his eyes steady on her.

“How did you get here?” There. Finally, her voice was strong and steady.

“Dunno, pet. One minute I’m impersonating a Roman candle...” She dropped his gaze, staring at her hands. Not now, not to think of that now, not to talk about it... A rustle, his voice gets gentler, quieter. “Next thing I know, I’m more than half-starved, lying on a bloody hotel mattress with one hell of a high zinging through me and me too weak to do anything with it.”

“Where were you, in between?” Stupid voice, all watery like that.

“Wasn’ anywhere. Just…gone, I guess.”

“Do you remember...”

“Bloody hell, woman. I’m telling you, don’t remember a thing.”

“But how did you lose…” He was glaring at her, shaking almost, eyes blazing. Terrifying, somehow, even weak and bloody on her hotel bed. It was stupid, this sudden fear, the stuttering. She tightened her jaw. “What happened to the soul?”

He straightened again, thrust his chin out. It was clearly costing him. “Dunno what happened.” Each word too clear, like she was an idiot. “Just know it’s gone.”

Stupid shoulders, slumping like that without permission. God, she was tired.

“You’re beat, Slayer.” He braced his arms against the bed, levering himself around until his boots brushed the floor. He rocked a little, blew a frustrated puff of air out his nose. “Give us a hand up.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“You can’t sleep in that chair, pet. I’ll take the floor, yeah. It’ll hurt either way.”

God, it wasn’t fair. This was him, her Spike, just like he had been yesterday. Almost visceral, the memory of him, her Spike, offering to curl up in the comfy chair and keep watch over her all night just because she needed it, needed someone to stay there. Her Spike. But. And what a “but” it was. Hard to tell, so hard, when you looked at him. Would he... Would this soul thing bring back the sex fiend, wake her up with another ugly struggle and... God. But he was...had been...different. So different. Was it all the soul?

Too much to think about, too hard when there he was, small and bloody on the edge of the bed. “Keep the bed.” Buffy scuffed a shoe on the carpet. “I can’t sleep, anyway.”

Spike shook his head. He must’ve healed some; he’d barely flinched. “You’re dead on your feet.”

She shrugged uncomfortably. Whatever brought Spike here might be back, might be anything… “I have to keep watch.”

“Against what?” She answered with another shrug. “An’ you’ve never seen a spy flick? Put a chair under the doorknob, yeah, and something that’ll crash down if the window opens. Buy you a few seconds if someone comes in. And you might be rested enough to do something about it.”

“That’ll never work.”

“Been raising hell for a hundred plus years. Wouldn’t tell you to do it if I didn’t know it worked.”

She closed her eyes for a minute, considered it. She was so tired. So hard to open her eyes, even now, even standing up. And it wouldn’t be that hard to prop a couple of empty Diet Coke cans on the window.

Spike was blessedly silent as she dragged the comfy chair over to the door. Just her luck. Of course it would be too tall to fit under the doorknob comfortably. Of course it would have to be tilted at an impossible angle, the stuffed top of the backrest too puffy to get caught by the doorknob. She settled for just pushing the chair against the door. That would make some noise, right?

The mechanical work was absorbing, enough to keep Spike shoved to the back of her mind. Enough to worry about without him, when cans needed balancing on top of pizza boxes and windows needed securing. Not so easy to ignore him sprawled in the bed, all cut up. The floor, he said. He’ll sleep on the floor.

Buffy grabbed her coat off the tabletop. Nothing odd about it. It wouldn’t mean anything, didn’t have to mean anything. He was hurt, she was achingly tired. It was a big bed, a queen, big enough to fit them, big enough to leave space between. Not a big deal, not unless she kept thinking about it and… She squeezed between the bed and the wall, slid onto the mattress.

“Lie down, Spike.” She didn’t dare look at him. His face... What if it was different? What if that look he got every time she lay down next to him was gone? What would he do if he thought she was coming on to him? What if...

You could almost hear him thinking. What does this mean, Slayer? “It just means I’m tired and you’re hurt,” she muttered. A snort and some rustling. Maybe he was already asleep?

Okay, her jacket was a really rotten blanket. But, not bloody. Bonus. She felt naked without covers, but maybe it would be better to roll it up, use it as a pillow...

Something soft pressed into her face. “Not so much of an invalid I can’t give you a bloody pillow.”

Even now, so aware of her. Just like before, just like when he had it... Just like when he’d stalked her, stole her clothes. Too much, now, too complicated when she was this tired and there was a pillow to be snuggled. So soft. Mmmmm. Sleepy goodness. Her eyes were already falling shut, lead-heavy. Sleep good.

~~~~~~
Here endeth Section 1. I feel like I abused people's WIP goodwill, but I (a) testify that this was due to the law school admissions drama/starting law school set of circumstances nd (b) those were weird, and made me weird, and are essentially guaranteed to be unrepeated. Chapter six is more than half done. I hope to get it done within a week, week-and-a-half at most to sort of make up for my negligence. So have no fear.

I was nervous about this chapter, and so my beta-reader cup runneth over. As always, thanks of the highest order are due to gillo, who is generally the nicest person you'll meet but who always kicks me into shape with great force and efficacy. This fic would be terrible without her. Also, highest order thanks to just_sue, who rocks my life generally and this chapter especially. boschette, light of my fandom life, was also good enough to look at this and give me her thoughts. Thanks, y'all.